Thank the Lord above, my fertile period (or as J calls it, “Smash Week” [for some reason, he likes to come up with random euphemisms for sex; I’ve agreed to let him call it Smash Week, so long as he never, ever, EVER refers to the sex act as “boning”. Ugh.]) is over for this cycle. After our last go-round on Thursday night, probably the most unromantic and mechanical sex we’ve ever had, as I lay in bed with a pillow under my butt (Gravity! To help the swimmers! Go Sperm, Go!), I looked over at J and tenderly said, “Baby, I love you so much. Let’s not have sex for, like, a week.” And his warm, sincere reply was, “I love you too. And that sounds awesome.”

And now we wait! I have 2 meetings on Wednesday afternoon, and will still need to leave work early enough to make it to the doctor’s office for a blood test before they close. I’ll go in a few days later for a pregnancy test, to see if our efforts have paid off, or if I will need to start another round of Everything again, including even higher doses of Clomid this time. I hate to say it, but I have gotten a little more used to the hormone surges and their unpleasant side effects – this time, my face managed to emerge fairly unscathed by zits, though my back is not as fortunate. (I know; cute, right? Picture a 13 year-old boy in drag with huge knockers, and you’ve got me pegged.) I know the indignities I suffer now will pale in comparison to what I will go through if/when I get pregnant, but since I’m not there (yet?), I can still bitch.

Over dinner on Saturday night, I laid out for J how, if I got pregnant this time around, it would be perfect timing: a Christmas (-ish) baby, so my family would have time off to fawn; my third trimester during holiday parties and gatherings, so I would have a great excuse to either a) eat like a pig, or b) bow out gracefully; my third trimester would occur during the cooler months of the year, rather than having to haul around an extra 30+ pounds during the miserable Southeast Texas summer; maternity leave during the yucky, gray part of the year that I only want to hole up in my house; getting back to work just before things hit a good, quick, eventful stride at work, when it will still be cool enough outside that I can cover up my still baby-chubby self without feeling like a nun. Perfect! Because life always turns out that way. Right.

So. Keeping my fingers crossed, and Wishing and Hoping and Thinking and Praying, Planning and Dreaming…