Two Good Eggs

Two cracked eggs find the sunnyside (and funny side) of trying to conceive

Scientific Sexy Time

on September 24, 2012
Let’s go ahead and cancel the “G” rating on this blog right now. It’s time to get a little intimate ladies and gents. We all love to make the bed creak from time to time, some of us in the morning (Ahem! Guys!) and some of us at night. And when the Big O arrives, it’s time to get our O faces on and get to it, no matter the time of day! Light the candles, turn off CNN, and put the fan on high because it’s about to get steamy and sticky ’round here.
That telling line (or smiley face) on your OPK has arrived and it feels like a Slip ‘n Slide downstairs. “Oh, honey. Where are you? This little egg is ready and needs one of your friends!” And the pressure sets in…
Thats okay. We can set the mood. Barry White, anyone? Or perhaps you prefer: “You and me, baby ain’t nothin’ but mammals so let’s do it like they do on the Discovery Channel.”
Music? What? Not in this bedroom and definitely not at 6 a.m. The only sound is an annoying alarm clock and the dog’s attempt to remove the thong I carelessly tossed onto his head as DH rolled over to “greet” me. “Wait! I’ll be right back,” I whisper as I run to the bathroom, hopping over four-legged fur babies,“keep him awake!” 
A quick trip to the bathroom is in order to fill my syringe. Not heroin. Not fertility drugs. Just some good ‘ole PreSeed to help send his boys to the promised land. Does anyone fill that thing the whole way?! They sure do offer generous dosing options. One to two grams should do the trick.  And some Listerine. Now, that’s love, even if we won’t be facing each other. Come on, we all know which position will get the job done in record time. 
I bound back to bed and hope we can accomplish the task at hand before the alarm blares again in seven minutes. Easier said than done. I’m not a morning person and “I’m ovulating” is not a great excuse for showing up late to work…apparently.
“But babe, we have to finish like this so it stays in there!”
“I know. Chill out. I got this. It’s a lot easier to make you a mom if you shut up.”
We both laugh. He’s right.
The phone chimes and I encourage the grande finale, the 14th grande finale in the last 19 days. (Ahh, the beauty of unpredictable ovulation.) Exhaustion.
“The pillow. Gimme the pillow!” I shove it under my hips, cross my legs like I’ve got someone in a choke hold, and press my heels toward the ceiling. These little boys are on lock down in my lady dungeon, for at least twenty minutes. Heaven forbid I sneeze.
He strides off to shower. I stay still as a field mouse, secretly wishing I had a microscope and an ultrasound wand so I could obsessively track the journey. I’m such a nerd.
Sex during TTC is like horse racing. You release the boys from the gate, coaxing them hurriedly to the final destination! Go sperm men, go! Catch that f-n rabbit! All bets are on…now where is my damn cloak of roses?!  Oh…the winner (if there is one) isn’t announced for two weeks?? Bullshit. Gimme my flowers.
I finally emerge from a rigor-mortis-inspired position and wiggle to the shower, thighs on the verge of a spark as I dare not separate them. So sexy.
The day goes on as usual only to discover the next morning that my temperature has not yet spiked.
“Babe…one more time?”
“Are you f-n kidding me?” We both sigh.
“Just grab me an ice pack. My peekachoo feels bruised.”
“Oh, toughen up. You’re fine. Get over here, woman and sex me!” 
The laughter ensues and we rally, day after day, month after month. We will get this baby, damnit.

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