Sunday night was
my first night back on the bottle Clomid so as I popped those two round
gems of hormonal promise, I gamely asked C what he had done to prepare for this,
the third round of Clomid.
Very seriously,
I deadpanned: What measures have you
taken? What safeguards have you imposed?
He thought I was
kidding (I was sort of kidding). Of course, I had my own precautions in mind –
padding the corners of all tables/chests/dressers/beds, finally confronting the
seriously low supply of chocolate in this house, removing sharp objects, etc. C
of course, thought this was all very funny – in a laughing at me kind of way. While I panic about just what shape,
form and frequency my ensuing Clomid-induced-terror will take; while I lose
sleep over just how much of a bitch
I’ll be this time, C doesn’t seem all that worried (which is suspicious given
that he is typically the target of my unregulated emotion).
But bewildering
or not, it was kind of a relief. Sure, he jokes about how there are days when I
am prone to, ahem, antics, and he
reminds me often of one day during my last cycle when I pointedly – but
lovingly? – told him I was having a hard time liking him that very moment[1]
(you know what, I am never going to live that down). But it was actually
something of a relief to hear that he wasn’t anxious about the imminent
BitchCon V preparing to descend on our home. So instead of seeing this as a
challenge – I could try to be more
bitchy? – I decided to embrace it and <seamless transition here> also
to take the opportunity to make some vows for this, thirdtimesthecharm, cycle. Here goes:
(1) Post-coital
headstands: I will continue them.
(Because, umm, I
can’t prove it didn’t work. Actually,
maybe I can. Over share, move right along: if the interwebs are right – don’t even get me started
on that – then we conceived after having a quickie, sans headstand, at an out-of-town woodsy cottage before our friends
arrived for the weekend. But anyway. Why not incorporate
acrobatics?).
(2) Sex: I will
have more of it. (please.cover.your.eyes.)
(Timed
intercourse can be, umm, transactional. Sex on demand, sex on cue, sex multiple
times a day – well, that just sounds like college – it can be tricky to
fit in between two busy schedules, erratic working hours and sleep deprivation.
But <breaks into song> We shall overcome,
we shall overcome, we shall over-c-o-o-m-e, etc. #firstworldproblems).
(3) Balance: I
will try to find it?
(Sigh. It’s like
I’m all in or I ain’t. Before this whole fertility bizness started in earnest, I was a bit of a slave to my work –
even when not working, I agonized over things I could not control, clients
whose needs were far beyond those I could fill and all kinds of other stuff,
big and small. But the last couple months I have been perennially distracted. I
work hard, sure, but not in the
I’m-a-martyr-for-the-cause way I once did. Perhaps this is just growth,
maturity and healthy balance. Perhaps I’m just so focused on whether or not I have
birthing hips that I can’t exert all
of my energy on legal theory. Either way, I’m going to try to be a bit more zen this time around. Less chin-deep in the infertility vortex and more
dipping-my-toe-in when the weather is nice. Plus, you know, all the other good
stuff: cookie binges and marathon reality-tv-watching, regular exercise, a (relatively) balanced diet, adequate sleep, time
with C and friends, etc.)
And with that,
I’m off to the (protracted, agonizing) races.
[1] Not long before this, a friend who is
fighting her own fertility battle had nearly the same conversation with her
husband. I think it’s safe to say we both like our husbands a hell of a lot. Sometimes
our true feelings are just, um, cloaked in hormonal overdrive.
