So I’m trying to get pregnant.
I promise to make a concerted effort not to turn this into a baby blog – I’m not hating on them; they have their place, but I don’t want to focus just on that here, despite the fact that I spend a lot of time thinking on it.
Anyway, I am just about to start my second month of hormone treatment –I've been off the pill for just over 6 months, but the ovaries are rusty and are having trouble getting going. My husband J and I were okay but not great about taking advantage of the fertility window last month – it fell right before Christmas, and between me being sick, then him, then all the family obligations and bullshit, it just wasn’t really happening. So the other night I got out my handy-dandy chart and the calendar, and figured out my peak days so we can be sure to get on it this month.

Me: “So we’re gonna need to have sex about every day from the16th to the 21st, so don’t make any after work plans during that time. You'll need to come home and do your wife.”
J: “Wow, you’re serious about this.”
Me: “Well, we kind of have to get on it. The next step is injections, and I am not sticking any needles in my ass if I can help it. And you’re not getting any younger.” [J is in his thirties, and has this self-imposed rule that he wants to be done with all babymaking before he’d 40.]
J: “So that means that no matter what, you can’t turn me down…hmmmm…”
Me: “Oh, shit.”
J: [in horrid Canadian accent] “Wanna bone, eh?”
Me: “Oh GOD.”
J: “Do you feel like some…sausage? Hee hee hee! Wanna touch my wang? Hee hee hee!”

And this has gone on for the past few days. I’m really, really hoping he tires of it or forgets (not likely), so when the time comes I won’t feel like I’m sleeping with a 7th grader.