As we came out of church yesterday, there was a woman walking in front of us with two small boys. The smaller was dragging his feet, whinging, whining and whimpering: "I'm too tired. I want to be carried."
We got into our car, and I said to DH, "I feel like that little boy today. I'm in a really horrible mood."
He gave me a disparaging look and just said, "Yes" - and that single syllable seemed filled with disapproval and accusation.
We had some shopping to do, and he clearly didn't want to go with me, so I dropped him at home and took my miserable mood off to the shops.
Several hours later, I arrived home laden with shopping, and the first thing he did was apologise for upsetting me. I said I couldn't understand why he had reacted that way when all I was asking for was a bit of much-needed sympathy and comfort.
"I figured it out while you were gone," he said. "There's something else behind this, isn't there? Is it about the IVF?"
I said I was almost certain that there would be no good news for us on Friday, but I was also desperately tired and had felt as though there was a pressure cooker building up inside me in the morning. I told him the fact that I know most of the symptoms I'm suffering are just side effects of the Cyclogest doesn't make them any less real or any less uncomfortable.
And then, for the first time ever, he put his arms around me and started to cry with huge, gulping sobs, and we stood there for several minutes, holding each other and both weeping.
And today I'm waiting for our world to end and still feeling like that little boy outside the church.
I'm tired. I want to be carried.