missionary. side-by-side. no reverse cowboy for you, girl. gravity's a bitch and you need all the help you can get. as you prop your bum up and stare at your toes suspended in midair, you ask yourself the question:
amidst all this baby dancing, am i missing a step?
"maybe you're not doing it right", your callous friends joke. wanna give me a lesson, you internally cry. but the joke's still on you.
whatever happened to the days when sex was just sex? now it's this position, this lube. orgasm NOW. what was once so blissfully simple is now a formula more complicated then the Pythagorean theorem.
and yet, you follow your prescribed equation and dance on into the night...
Friday, August 14, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
the secret life of the american ARTist
so many questions, so few answers. waiting rooms, basal temps, PreSeed. DPO and OPK's.
such is the life of the american ARTist.
every answer brings a new question. and everyone has something to say. stop stressing, drink Robitussin, stand on your head. you follow the advice of your GYN's, RE's and fertile friends diligently. and yet, weeks go by. months. didn't your sex ed teacher tell you this was easy? "all it takes is once." if only that were the case.
time marches on. suddenly you go from "it will happen" to "maybe it won't". you join forums, confide in friends, cry yourself to sleep. the sight of the happy family that used to bring a smile to your face, now brings a tear to your eye. the most well meaning words of your spouse bring you no comfort. you wonder if the frazzled and anxious mother across the subway train will report you for gazing longingly at her child.
you track temps, pee on sticks, check your cervical position (six months ago you didn't know what your cervix was). you wonder, is my mucus egg-white or watery? you become fluid in a new language. TTC, BD, HCG. 2WW's and BFP's. you agonizingly analyze every symptom. my bbs are sore. is it AF? should I take an EPT? but i'm only 11DPO.
then you hit the dreaded and fateful one year mark. yep, you've earned the title. you schedule an appointment, make a list of all your comments/concerns/commands. you ask for a 7DPO progesterone test, your luteal phase is a little short. you wouldn't mind an ultrasound to check your ovulation. you sit back, impressed with yourself. your RE smirks and asks you to pee in a cup. after all, you might be pregnant.
and this is only the beginning. your journey awaits...
such is the life of the american ARTist.
every answer brings a new question. and everyone has something to say. stop stressing, drink Robitussin, stand on your head. you follow the advice of your GYN's, RE's and fertile friends diligently. and yet, weeks go by. months. didn't your sex ed teacher tell you this was easy? "all it takes is once." if only that were the case.
time marches on. suddenly you go from "it will happen" to "maybe it won't". you join forums, confide in friends, cry yourself to sleep. the sight of the happy family that used to bring a smile to your face, now brings a tear to your eye. the most well meaning words of your spouse bring you no comfort. you wonder if the frazzled and anxious mother across the subway train will report you for gazing longingly at her child.
you track temps, pee on sticks, check your cervical position (six months ago you didn't know what your cervix was). you wonder, is my mucus egg-white or watery? you become fluid in a new language. TTC, BD, HCG. 2WW's and BFP's. you agonizingly analyze every symptom. my bbs are sore. is it AF? should I take an EPT? but i'm only 11DPO.
then you hit the dreaded and fateful one year mark. yep, you've earned the title. you schedule an appointment, make a list of all your comments/concerns/commands. you ask for a 7DPO progesterone test, your luteal phase is a little short. you wouldn't mind an ultrasound to check your ovulation. you sit back, impressed with yourself. your RE smirks and asks you to pee in a cup. after all, you might be pregnant.
and this is only the beginning. your journey awaits...
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