SO ... THIS EXISTS

Came across this little gem in my Facebook feed over the weekend. Pumpkin fetus — thoughts?

AN ODE TO (FUTILE) BABY-MAKING SEX

I know what you’ve all been missing — more sex talk. I wrote about sex a lot in the beginning, because that was the only baby-making tool we had at our disposal. Now we have a team of doctors and nurses all up in the mix, and they’re armed with syringes, medications and transvaginal wands.

I’m afraid baby-making sex is going the way of the buffalo. We’re surrendering to the reality that our reproductive organs, left to their own devices, aren’t going to produce a fetus for us. If we conceive, we’ll do it from separate rooms in the fertility clinic.

That said, I thought I’d write one more baby-making-sex post, for old time’s sake. And, though it was unsuccessful, we had the best baby-making sex of our lives last month.

It all began when Philip made fun of a pair of cotton underwear I was wearing. He was just being playful, but his teasing made me take stock of my collection: a pile of sensible cotton panties — a few A pairs, mostly Bs, and then the Cs I keep around for that time of the month. When it came to “sexy” panties, I had exactly four pairs, one of which had been a bridal-shower gift. I’ve been married for seven years, so do the math.

Then I turned to my bras, all five of them, stretched out, pilly and even more ill-fitting after months of use than they were when I originally purchased them. Not a single one qualified as sexy.

This was a sad state of affairs. Philip has said many times he’s not really into lingerie, and I can’t stand thongs. But it wouldn’t kill me to have a few bras and panties that have a shred of pizzazz.

So, off to Victoria’s Secret I trotted, with the intention of spending as much as it took to procure a handful of slinky underthings. I began canvassing the store, looking for sexy bras that didn’t have padding. I never in my life have owned a padded bra — I had never even tried on one. The idea seemed silly and false to me. But I wasn’t having any luck — all the cute bras were stuffed to the gills.

A sales associate asked if I needed help, and I explained my dilemma. She suggested I try one particular style that had gel. “It conforms to your body and doesn’t make you look bigger,” she assured me.

So into the dressing room I went, push-up bra in hand. I tried that sucker on, and people, I looked HOT. You know how you always want to murder the models in Victoria’s Secret ads because they’re so slim but yet so incredibly buxom? Well, they can take credit for their skinniness (though Photoshop helps, I’m sure), but the boob thing is ALL BRA. It was a revelation. No wonder women buy these things. They make your boobs 20 times bigger and squish the twins together in true porn-star fashion.

So, I bought it. Along with the matching panties. Plus another bra-and-panty set. All in all it was $150, a sum of money I knew would make Philip choke on his Coke Zero. “But,” I chirped to the sales associate, “this is what he gets for making fun of my underwear.”

When it was time to have our scheduled sex (literally it was on the calendar, doctor’s orders), I was ready. “Wait till you see this bra I bought,” I told Philip as I headed for the bathroom to change. “You’re not going to believe this.”

And then … we proceeded to have the best baby-making sex of our lives. Philip affirmed his membership in the fraternity of red-blooded heterosexual males who enjoy push-up bras, and I felt super-confident.

I’m thankful that baby-making sex went out on a good note. It usually wasn’t so pleasant. It often was forced, awkward and stressful. I often was confused about exactly when to have it, and we often felt so much pressure that we could barely perform. But now that baby-making sex is a thing of the past, now that we gave it one last college try and surprisingly had a blast doing so, I can think back on it with a bit of nostalgia.

Thank you, push-up bra. You won’t be the last one I ever buy. From now on, I plan to try harder to keep a few sexy undergarments in the rotation, not for baby-making sex, just for sex. It’s sad to think that most likely, we’ll never make a baby the old-fashioned way, but it’s also a relief that sex can go back to what it always was — just a way to be intimate and enjoy one another.

THE WEDDING

Philip and I recently returned from the destination wedding of his sister. The happy couple allotted three months to plan, and three weeks out from the big day, they fired their wedding planner. Friends and family, including yours truly, were enlisted to carry out the multitude of remaining tasks.

My duties included making all the hair and nail appointments for the bridal party, researching local attractions and adding them to the wedding website, decorating the DIY photo booth and providing props, and brainstorming/executing other fun activities for the cocktail hour, as there would be no actual cocktails.

Two weeks before the wedding, two other bridesmaids and I were also throwing a shower for the bride, so I was super-busy, scattered, stressed and frustrated — happy to help, but wishing I’d had more time and notice.

Adding to my to-do list was securing the various pieces of my elaborate and colorful bridesmaid getup. For the bolero, shoes, sash and dress, I made somewhere between six and 10 trips to David’s Bridal, I store I dislike even more than Walmart.

The wedding weekend was a giant flurry of activity. Guests were scattered among small inns and rental homes in rural northwestern South Carolina, and we spent the days leading up to the wedding driving to and fro handling last-minute assignments, as the nearest towns to the remote wedding site were 30 and 40 minutes away. And though the mountains are gorgeous, especially in the fall, there was no cell service or Wi-Fi, making communication very challenging.

In the end, my sister-in-law and her fiancé got married, and the ceremony and reception were perfectly lovely, and I think they had a wonderful time, which is what matters. The next day, Philip and I drove the eight hours home and breathed a deep sigh of relief that it was over.

But even though I was grumpy at times about this event taking over my life for several weeks, even though I was overwhelmed and anxious, there was one huge advantage to this wedding: It kept my mind off of infertility. Nothing in 18 months has so consumed my brain and shoved out my infertility obsessions like the shower and wedding did.

I’ve been home for one week now, and all I can think about is:

Am I pregnant? There’s no way I’m pregnant. I feel PMSy, which is a bad sign. And oh yeah, both of those pregnancy tests I took were negative. But there’s still a 14 percent chance they’re wrong. Plus, I bought them on clearance; maybe they’re defective. I should read some more articles about infertility. Maybe if I read all of these strangers’ infertility blogs, I’ll find a clue about how to stop thinking about fertility all the time. Because that makes sense. 

So anyway, am I pregnant? What if I were? I would be the wussiest infertile of all times because it only took two hCG treatment cycles. All the other infertiles would think I’m ridiculous. But I wouldn’t care; I’d be so happy, so relieved. How would I tell Philip? What would the look on his face be?! Wouldn’t it be so amazing for him to come home from this business trip, and I could surprise him with a photo of my positive pregnancy test! And then we could tell my family at Thanksgiving! They’d all be overjoyed! We’d all cry; we’d all be together. It would be wonderful!! [Heart swelling to bursting.] 

No. NO. STOP IT. There is a ZERO percent chance you are pregnant. You have cramps. You spotted a little yesterday. And listen here, you denial-having whackjob — that was NOT implantation bleeding. And you have taken two pregnancy tests that were absolutely, unequivocally negative. Do not get your hopes up, because you know what always happens — the harder you crash when your period finally comes. Etc. etc. etc.

So. The wedding spared me from all of THAT noise for a few precious weeks, and for that, I will be forever grateful to it.

ON THE BRIGHT SIDE ...

If I never conceive, I never have to worry about a cake like this showing up at my baby shower:

Every cloud has a silver lining.