I’ve long viewed myself as the super-career women, all the while fighting the dull ticking sensation that has steadily gotten louder in my gut [perhaps quite literally]. I have thought, and even vocalized, “That’s all well and good for my girlfriends who are only slightly professionally-inclined and dabble in part-time real estate or any one of the new work-from-home schemes, but not me: I’ve got years before I’ll be ready. If EVER!” Then throwing my head back and laughing a throaty, I’ve-got-it-all-together-and-will-never-drive-a-minivan laugh. I was somewhat proud of this, which I viewed as my ability to fend off millions of years of highly-evolved maternal DNA. But, alas, the baby bug has bitten.
My first thought is, hell, women have been getting pregnant for years. On accident, even! So being intentional about it should up the ante, correct? Well, it seems that this whole business of getting pregnant is a bit trickier than I’d imagined (after all these years of scares and contraception failures). And, let me tell you, it is a business: do not be fooled.
And so the project management begins: “mistress of the obvious” that I am, I figured we’d have to do it more than once a month, as is normal fare in our household [sad but true]. Emotional, sometimes manipulative, [i.e. getting my husband in the mood without seeming overly pushy because I’m ovulating and we need to get in one. more. session. before the brief moment of fertility runs out], this is a well-choreographed season of our life together, fraught with fun, anxiety, and waffling [“do I even want a baby, or are we just giving in to couples’ peer pressure??”].
It’s expensive, too; who knew? $150 or more for a supercomputer ovulation predictor kit (which, by the way, I din highly disturbing that you can purchase on eBay: GROSS)? Check. Wherein one must pee on a stick ten days out of the month: check. Or special sperm-friendly lube? Check. Not too mention the other creature comforts that keep the exercise of babymaking personal and gasp-even romantic: new lingerie, candles, new 500-thread-count sheets [or at least just clean old ones] ... check, check.
We’ve also made the mistake of telling people we’re trying: including close family members. Not to self: don’t tell your mother-in-law, who is already prone to sending you articles from the local newspaper on what to eat, heart health, antioxidants, etc. Now it’s become, “you should quit that ‘hot yoga:’ not good for the baby,” and “you should be taking your pre-natal vitamins every day, dear.”
I’ve also had to go back to fifth-grade-level sex ed for a primer on how this actually happens. The sperm, the egg, the cervix...a general refresher on the birds and the bees. Funny how my adult mind now very practically and even scientifically views the “grody stuff” of childhood. Who knew anything about cervical mucus? Sorry, doc, but the gross-out factor on that still gets me every time.
And so, we’re trying. Whatever that means. Here’s to practicing, and we’ll let you know when our endeavor has been successful. In the interim, don’t ask.