So after much soul searching and crowd-sourcing, we decide it’s time to have babies. I figure I’m 32, and it’s probably going to take a while, or so I keep hearing. So if it’s going to take a while, years, even, I’d rather have started as early as possible since, as people love to remind me, time’s a tickin’! However, if I get pregnant right away, I’m going to have a motherfucking stroke, this I know to be true.
Somehow, in some kind of postcard-guest book, hot-coral-table-runner, this-is-Mexico-we-have-none-of-the-flowers-you-wanted induced bout of insanity, I go off the pill right BEFORE my wedding. I am not making this up. I manage to get my first non-medically regulated period in 10 years on a tiny island, days before an event the entirety of which I am supposed to spend in a white dress with people looking at the back of me. Fortunately, we didn’t have any YM “Say Anything” moments.
Once we get home, we aren’t really “trying.” We are, as I tell people over and over (Since they ask. Of course.)”not trying NOT to.” Good, everyone says. Don’t put pressure on it! Let nature do its thing! And my favorite, “it’ll happen when it happens.” Yes. Thank you.
A couple months go by of not putting pressure on it. At first we’re sort of haphazard about it, but as time goes on, I start to pay attention. I’m a Capricorn, and a half-Jew. I don’t like failing at things. If I’m doing everything right, I expect the results to reflect that. And I’ve been doing everything right.
I take prenatal vitamins. I eat right, more or less, with the occasional accidental tripping and falling into a Chipotle. I read about when in the cycle is the absolutelyperfectbesttimeever for baby-making. I read about sexual positions that guarantee results, hypnosis and acupuncture and eating pineapples and all kinds of things that I’m sure worked for someone, most of which I ignore. I go to the doctor for my pre-pregnancy appointment (which apparently is a thing) armed with a truly obnoxious typed list of everything I can think of that may or may not be relevant to our attempts at biological parenthood. I really do try to stay on this side of the line between responsible grown-up patient and complete psychopath. According to this very lovely and patient ladyparts doctor, there’s nothing to worry about.
I decide I’ve had enough of letting fate take care of it, and it’s time for some science up in here. Sometimes part of your fate is cracking a book and letting someone who knows what they are talking about tell you how to do something. I wouldn’t rely on fate to fix a toilet, or “let whatever happens happen” if my car burst into flames. I’d call an expert. Well, to be honest, I’d probably try to fix it myself, botch it, cry, and then call an expert.
The time had come to cut my losses, read the book, and pull out the dreaded thermometer.