Untitledhusband and I have been trying to get pregnant for about one year now, and my ovaries seem hellbent on making things as difficult as possible. Not only do they refuse to align with the last quarter moon (my fertile phase, according to the Chinese fertility calendar), but they keep pumping out eggs at the most inopportune times. I’m beginning to think that they are part of some reproductive labor union, and that they are going to withhold good eggs until I offer up a more balanced diet, regular exercise and a predictable sleep schedule.
Last month, I ovulated on Thanksgiving Day, which meant we had to wake up early and shoo untitledson downstairs to watch Jack’s Big Music Show on TiVo while we got after it upstairs. Before you report me to DHS, I’ll have you know that we took precautions (i.e. we locked the baby gate). All this hullabaloo ended up making us late to my mother’s Thanksgiving lunch. I know the “we had things to take care of” excuse didn’t carry much weight, but I wasn’t ready to tell her about the unexpected detour to tuna town.
This month, things were even more precarious. I ovulated while we were staying at untitledmother-in-law’s house for Christmas. When faced with such a dilemma, most couples would put off the babymaking for a month. But since I’m getting older and I’m taking fertility meds that cost $100 a month, we weren’t about to miss this opportunity. To make things even more challenging or exciting (depending on how you look at it), there was little room at the inn, so to speak. Everyone was home for the holidays, which left us to sleep on an inflatable mattress on the floor, in the same room with untitledson.
So there we were on Christmas night and my ovaries were ready to rock. We’d just wrapped up an evening of Cranium play and food gorging when we trundled up to bed. Too tired and stuffed to exert any kind of discipline, we fell asleep on the air mattress, with untitledson resting peacefully between us. Then around 3 a.m., I magically awoke, as if harkened by the heralding angels themselves. I peeled baby Jesus up from his cozy little nook and placed him in the rickity manger across the room.
Once the babe was out of harm’s way, I bravely undertook the hazardous job of waking Joseph from his slumber. Those carpenters, they’re always ready to work with tools at the ready — even in the middle of the night. Well rejoice, rejoice. The angels did sing. And above all else, we managed to keep the Silent Night, well, silent. Like I said, we’ve been trying for a year with no success. So if things end up taking, don’t be surprised when we name the child Nicodemus or Bathsheba.
