Steel yourselves, kind readers, because I'm about to wax all kinds of poetic about a coffee maker.
First off, meet my new friend:
Today I went out (after scouring the world for a Bed, Bath & Beyond coupon - seriously, they're never around when you actually need one!) and picked myself up a spiffy new coffeemaker.
But this is not just a simple coffee maker.
This is mornings off spent reading and sipping coffee instead of rushing out before the sun to go be probed and have my blood taken.
This is filling up a travel mug at 0615 as I run out the door to kick ass and save lives for 12 hours.
This is me letting go of the guilt. The guilt I felt every time I had a cup of coffee, even though my doctor never told me explicitly to give up caffeine, or that my one cup a day habit was having ill effects on our conception.
This is me saying that there was nothing I could have eaten, or not eaten, done or not done that would have had any affect on the outcome.
This is me saying that my infertility was not my fault.
And then having a fucking cup of coffee.