I'm crabby this morning. Today I've got another appointment with Dr. Clomid. No, that's not really his name, but that's what we talk about, so that's what I call him in my mind. I guess it's a bit of a dangerous thing in terms of appropriateness, because one of these days it's just going to pop right out of my mouth, and I'll be embarrassed. ...On the topic of Clomid, I'm going on a little mini rant. I know it is difficult to always know what to say to a woman friend about miscarriage. I get it. I feel weird a lot of the time, too. If you feel that uncomfortable, save that woman who is already going through enough, and don't say a fricking word. Especially if what is going to come out of your mouth is advice about what your woman friend might have done wrong in the first place, or advice about getting it right this time. You see, your advice will be the last thing she thinks about at night and the first thing she thinks about when she wakes up to in the morning. That sucks. And, it will almost certainly guarantee that it will make her even more irritable than the Clomid already is. I know that lots of you are reading this right now thinking, was it me that caused this, am I to blame? And the answer is probably not. Mostly what I hear from you is love and patience and hope, especially when my own hope is a smidge down in the dumps. Thank you for that, and thanks for loving me even when I'm crabby.

This, on the other hand, cracks me up.