DH I have just returned from our annual trip to a holiday cottage in Dorset with my parents. It was four, sweet days of being cosseted in my family’s papoose; four, sweet days of museli and fresh fruit breakfasts at 9am, pitta pockets for lunch at 1pm and hearty dinners based around steak or roast chicken and plenty of seasonal veg at 7pm. With a healthy dose of Katherine Hepburn romantic comedies, ping pong and some long blustery walks thrown in for good measure.

Babies did not feature at all, unless you count a conversation about how parents manage not to lose them in those pits full of coloured plastic balls and the loud beep beep text announcing the arrival of our friend’s baby (it read; “We have a wonderful announcement;the birth of the most beautiful / special / delightful baby like, ever” or something like that – honestly, you’d think someone might want to buck the trend of predictably frothy text message announcements by sending,“child finally born; was getting bored waiting around; looks like a baby; birth utterly horrific; mother in tears and wanting divorce for physical pain caused;non-plussed by whole event otherwise; hard times ahead” instead). Oh yes, and there was also my quiet and private remembrance that this time last year I was worrying whether my new baby would allow a holiday like this next year. Well of course it was.

Nevertheless, the holiday was peaceful, enjoyable and very reassuring.

The return to London with its crap weather, ocean of bills and work deadlines was always going to be a baptism of fire but something far greater bothered me.

The extra hour of daylight.

Four days ago the clocks went forward and British Summer Time officially began. That was fine while we were on holiday and in the reassuring bossom of my family – it was an extra summery hour for a pre-dinner gin. But back in London, I am like a grumpy child whose routine had been tipped on its head. I’ve taken great comfort in the sun going down as the marker for where my day ends and my night begins; so many winter nights have been characterised by escaping the clutches of baby obsessed friends into the arms of my husband and a wintery sausage and lentil stew at home. I enjoyed being hidden in the darkness, under cover, where, somehow, your secrets are your own.

But there’s something about the summer – there’s more light for people to see you with, more liveable, breathable summer hours for people to want to talk to you at barbecues and in pub gardens, more opportunity to be asked the question “so how’s it going” between the sympathetic raised eyebrows of friends we haven’t seen since last Autumn and who nothing of our baby making life other than we’ve been trying for what seems like an age.

I know people love the Summer. But with all its spontaneous, social, lack of routine fun, I am dreading it.

It was with this lack of order and routine in mind, that DH and I clashed swords this afternoon, on the subject of how best to chase up the doctor on a recent sperm analysis. It’s been four weeks since DH re-tested and the results were due three weeks ago. We know the results won’t have changed since the last time he tested – the lifestyle changes have been going far less than the recommended 70 days it takes sperm to regenerate – but, the point is that the results will trigger the healthcare professionals to set in motion A PLAN. And a plan is what, I think, we need.

I want someone to take control and advise on what happens next – breakfast of vitamins at 7am, IUI for lunch, IVF for dinner? I cannot live in this weird, spontaneous, lacking in routine hinterland anymore. I am a control freak. I am one of those women doctors say “spend their lives controlling their career and lives then can’t get their heads around not being able to control nature.” Yes, I am one of those women. But show me a woman who doesn’t cry reservoirs of tears when nature shits in their cabbage patch; show me a woman who doesn’t want a healthy injection of control over how her breasts are functioning when she’s feeding her baby, over how her ovaries are producing eggs when she wants a baby, over how many people she chooses not to see when she’s going through fertility hell.

I am through with rollercoasters that don’t stop and spontaneous fun involving vodka cocktails. I want some control. I want to know what time I’m eating breakfast, where my lunch is coming from and how long they expect this journey to last.

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