I stopped taking that miraculous drug that had kept me from being pregnant for the last ten years of sexual escapades. The move was made, the deed was done. The screw was out of my husband’s shoulder. We were settling in (badly) to responsible day jobs. The prenatal appointment was over and done with. Our family histories were discussed, my drinking and smoking habits were only slightly fudged, and we were given the ok to go fertilize. I was recommended to act like I was pregnant…i.e. stop drinking. In our world, this was going to be a long, very long procreation process.
With that one doctor’s visit, everything was about to change. It was the life we chose, and we needed to make this breakup real. We needed to cut the tie with our flasks. I needed to say goodbye to my miniskirts. We needed to put away the bottle of Patron, say goodbye to nicotine and hello to prenatal vitamins. We needed to make a complete overhaul of our lives…and we realized the best way to say goodbye was to get it over with quick. Cold Turkey.
In order to procure a hasty pregnancy, a quick timeline of sexual escapades was mapped out, framed by expectant ovulation dates and findings of cervical mucus the consistency of egg whites. Encouraged by stories from friends and loved ones who, upon the first squirt of swimmers found that the little party of mini guppies took to the egg like a fish to water, we discovered the best part of pregnancy: the baby-making process. And thus we began TTC.
TTC: acronym for “trying to conceive”
PG: acronym for “pregnant”
DH: acronym for “darling husband”
DD/S: acronym for “darling daughter/son”
I like the internet. From the moment I got home from the doctor, I was on the intertubes, trying to find other people who were giving up their lives in order to procreate. What were their lives like? Was it wrong that I felt dismayed to give up my life for the life of my child? Should I feel guilty for feeling sad? Why wasn’t I feeling blessed that I had been given ovaries and a healthy and kind sperm donor? Why was I questioning my questioning, and why did I really, really want a beer? Unfortunately, I didn’t find answers to my questions.
What I found were message boards – lots and lots of message boards with lots of strange acronyms and smiley faces and sad stories of miscarriage. I had to Google the internet lingo of the birthing set in order to understand the internet lingo of the birthing set. Somewhere around the time I Googled BFP I realized – having spent ample time reading message boards filled with hugs and kisses and floating angels – that I was deep into a world of extreme female bonding and I was about to hyperventilate.
But as much as I was reading message boards made for women that actually loved female bonding – as opposed to me who hated girl talk and girl’s night’s out and never had bridesmaids and had a bachelor/bachelorette party with female strippers and could not, for the life of me feel comfortable at a women-only event – as much as I was not like these women, I had to continue to read.
At times the lingo seemed sad, especially when they came out via cyberspace from the fingers of tormented women trying to become mommies. At times they were a bit sweet, like when they came from novice message posters. Most times though, the lingo was as jarring as Rachel Ray’s EVOO. Apparently, there were a lot of people who use EVOO who were TTC with their DH, hoping for PG with a DD.
On the other hand, I was a GHB (grumpy hormonal bitch) whose AH (annoyed husband) wanted SC (screaming children) but wished the GHB (grumpy hormonal bitch) would just shut up about the DW (dishwasher).
Baby-making is strange. Sex - yes, most of us have been having it for years. But now we were actually procreating. We weren't sinning. When he pointed out that fact, it was so against what was my normal sinful life it was startling. In addition, I became extremely protective of my body, and started actually noticing the twinges in my uterus that indicated ovulation. I hadn’t ovulated in so many years, I realized the relationship between me and my own body was a shaky one, at best. In essence, I had traded an easy relationship with my life for a serious one with my body. It almost sounded like I was maturing.
It was strange though. All these things that could happen and did happen – all of the right moves we made and no matter how unprepared we were for them - no matter if we did all of this on a fairly normal basis during the best squishy days, the chances of his gunk hitting my trunk was pretty slim.
It was funny to think how for the first 10 years of my sexual life, I was convinced that men’s swimmers were a little more like Michael Phelps and a little bit less like tourists on a honeymoon cruise ship snorkeling their way to the egg, complete with life vests and brightly colored pool noodles to keep them afloat.
It turns out sperm live about 5 days. Was that enough time for a hot-pink noodle to float at least one to the Promised Land?