Last December I thought it would be as easy as just binning the condoms, and that would be it. Growing up I was let to believe that if you looked at a boy in the wrong way, you'd get pregnant. You shouldn't have sex during your period because those little swimmers would still get in and cause trouble. Condoms weren't infallible because apparently the sperm were armed with teeny tiny machetes and would probably be able to fight their way through. Those little guys were programmed to get you pregnant and they were going to do it no matter how many obstacles you put up to stop them; you were better off just avoiding men altogether and becoming a nun until you were ready to have a family.
I didn't want to get ahead of myself of course, I didn't imagine that I would get knocked up that quickly. I thought it would take us a couple of months to get a result, I did have a vague idea about how these things worked after all. I imagined that I'd probably be heavily pregnant by about this time, making plans for the newest arrival to our family (all the while secretly hoping that it would happen much sooner and instead we'd be spending Christmas with a real life new arrival).
Perhaps because of that I wasn't too worried when my period came. And then I did some work that could have put an unborn baby at risk, so I was kind of relieved when there was no baby the next cycle. We were trying, but we weren't really trying hard.
That prompted flashbacks to my exams and school and the fact that I had it drummed into me that if you wanted to see results, you needed to put some effort in. So that's how we came to here. Instead of frolicking in a pool at DisneyLand, I'm floundering in a pool of acronyms. My mornings begin with taking my temperature, intimate moments are punctuated with pauses to apply liberal amounts of Preseed, and peeing in a pot has become a regular part of my routine.
|My little book where I track E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G TTC-related.|