If Pee Sticks Took Selfies

peestickselfie

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She’s Got Baby Fever!

When a woman is ready for a baby, be it her first or her 5th, she is 100% committed to doing whatever it takes to get a baby in there.  If a medical professional told her that she needed to do 107 minutes of yoga, then you can bet your sweet bottom that she will be watching the next episode of Downton Abbey from the downward dog position.  If her mother swears by douching with vinegar prior to doing the deed, she will buy 3 gallons of it (along with some olive oil and a large bag of croutons to throw the cashier off of her pungent baby fever scent.)  Her internet buddies tell her to ram some herbs up her hoo-ha and she climbs into her Prius to the local Whole Foods and she sticks that EPO where the sun don’t shine.

When a guy is ready for a child, he tosses the Trojans in the garbage.

So the mama-to-be stocks up on those costly little OPKs, decongestants, and even a fancy hip propping apparatus if she isn’t up for naked handstands.  She reads up on all of the best sexual positions, optimal timing of the baby dancing, and how to convince her husband to wear boxers.  She researches fertility enhancing cleanses, diets, and anything else she can do to increase her odds of getting pregnant.

The guy… well… he just listens to his wife obsess over everything that is probably wrong with her uterus, fallopian tubes (whatever those things are) and her cervical mucus.  He suddenly realizes what use to be very sexy is now his wife’s science experiment in the bathroom as she explains how far that stuff can stretch.

The hopeful lady finds herself with optimal cervical mucus, a pee stick that tells her she has about 48 hours to make some bedroom magic, and a perfect night planned of cuddling while watching How I Met Your Mother, her husbands favorite snack foods, and a fertility smoothie for dessert.  Tonight is the night!  It doesn’t matter that she caught the flu from some preschool brat with Cheetos stained fingers and spent the afternoon puking her brains out.  It is just prep for the first trimester!  She knows that she doesn’t want her sweet man to catch it so she buys surgical masks and paints so that she can put sexy lips on each of them.  She wrecks her car on the way home from the drug store, and spends an hour at the ER getting diagnosed with whiplash.  Donning her neck brace, she makes a energy infused dinner that she can’t stomach the thought of consuming as her apatite is limited to Gatorade and toast.

The husband comes home from a long day at work.  He eats a protein packed dinner but it does nothing for his headache.  He apologizes and heads to bed early with a promise that they will catch the next egg.

The woman spends the next 2 hours visualizing her perfect little egg baby disintegrating in her perfectly primed, lightly vinegar scented lady parts.

Her husband sleeps soundly.

His wife researches life insurance policies.

What?   Too far?
despair

Hanging at Club Uterus

The next time you find yourself obsessing over the two week wait, take pause and consider what is really happening in there.

I bet you never knew that your uterus played house music.  It totally does.  If you listen really closely you can hear it.  Go ahead.  Make the room silent and focus on your uterus.  Do you hear it?

Douche Douche Douche Douche

DJ “Strong O”  gets the lights just right and plays the perfect tunes to get Ms. Fine Egg on the dance floor.  She’s moving suggestively but  the only one around to see is Mr. Pro Gesterone.  He is tending bar and has a heavy pour because he is entranced by the sweet music Strong O is putting out. Before you know it, Mr. Gesterone is spilling his crazy hormone juice all over the club so that no other ladies crash this party. DJ Strong O sees about 20 million eligible bachelors rush in the door. Like all good DJs do, he slows down the music. Some of the fellas find their way to the bar but the good ones go straight to the dance floor. There is bumping. There is grinding. It all gets a little awkward so Pro Gesterone starts pouring doubles causing the landlord to manage complaints that the upstairs tenants, Left and Right Ma’am Marries, are uncomfortable, but the party must go on. 

Now, will Ms Egg let those guys see what she’s hiding under her sexy outer covering? It isn’t that she won’t “kiss and tell.” She just won’t tell until after they cuddle for 8-12 days.

If she did decide to open her doors to her 1 in 20 million, she has her own little walk of shame to manage.  Instead of hanging her head in a long cold walk across campus from the frat house, she sticks herself to a wall of the club.  She sticks her head as far as she can into that wall and immediately starts trying to get the word out about her amazing evening by putting out a secret message in a magical colorless odorless substance  Most people refer to it as HCG but in Club Uterus, we call it, “Holy Cow, Girl!”

Club Uterus is now going to have to close it’s doors for a 9 month expansion project starting with landlord notification.  This will be done officially by urinating on a Holy Cow, Girl detector stick and must be presented to the landlord within 5 minutes for interpretation and joyous approval.

Or you could just have sex and wait, but where is the fun in that?

Club Uterus

Must Have All the Babies

I want you to imagine that it is the Easter season and some fat chick cruises into Wal-Mart on one of those hover-rounds.  She clips the ankle of a seeing eye dog, runs over the foot of a diabetic veteran, and kicks a small child who is crying because she can’t find her mom.  She exceeds speeds of 2.2 miles per hour leaving a trail of chaos.  She finds her ultimate destination… Cadbury Cream Eggs (if you find these repulsive, insert peeps into the analogy… if you don’t like peeps… well…you’re just weird.)

There on the shelf, is one last package of of those creamy, sickeningly sweet eggs.  With cougar like swiftness, she snatches up the candy and lets out a victorious cackle.  Left in her wake is a 4 year old who refused Christmas presents for just one taste of a Cadbury egg, a exercise enthusiast who ran an extra 3 miles that morning to earn that treat, and last but not least, Pollyanna.  Yes.  Polly-freakin’-Anna.  Now, there was a Wal-Mart employee nearby who sees this calamity and calms the shoppers.  He reassures them that there is sure to be more of those eggs in the stock room and if there aren’t, another shipment is due in a few hours.  The shoppers leave the store with a rain check and hatred spewing from the depths of their sweet tooth… their sweet teeth?  Whatever.  You know what I am getting at.

That is how I feel about announcing to any of my infertile friends that I intend to try for another child.  I know rationally that my trying doesn’t lessen their chances of conception, but I feel like I should let them all have their time at the candy shelf.  If all that there is left is those weird candy buttons, then so be it.  But, I don’t want to wait.  I don’t have time to wait.  Plus, who eats those nasty button things?