Friday, January 16, 2009


I'm ovulating.

And no, that's nothing unusual. But it stirs me up inside.

Who knew you could have PTSD from trying to conceive? But, evidently, those things stick with you for a while. Like recognizing without even having to take your temperature, that it's dropped or risen every month. Like being able to identify when and through which fallopian tube, new eggs just dropped. Like mentally cataloguing without fail during those few precious days whether your secretions are sticky, or slimy, or watery, whether they're yellowish, or whitish, or clear, and what that all means in the it's-time-honey world of TTC (trying to conceive).

And so today, 6 1/2 years after we finally got it to take after the 5th try, my body is telling me that today's the day. And I guess I'm a little nostalgic. And I guess a little wistful. And even a little pat-my-back pleased that my 38-year-old body still refuses to act like it.

And in this moment I curse the lack of spontaneity and the concerted family planning that gay couples are relegated to. And I ache to wake up two weeks from now a little frantic that I'm x days late, not counting my DPOs (days past ovulation). To have to rush out to Walgreens for a test, and not have a Costco case of them in the garage. To wait until 1/2 time at the Superbowl to surprise her with a teensy football jersey.

Weird, huh?

Well, no, not weird. But the thing is...we're not trying to conceive. So, at the very least, it's futile.

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