His wife Melody blogs regularly about their journey of trying to conceive, but this time it's Justin McCabe's turn to share how he feels about the monthly pregnancy tests and their impact on their relationship.
Trying to conceive, or, as the ladies in the know call it, ‘TTC’, sounds like fun to begin with.
I liken it to Dr Ian Malcolm's statement in Jurassic Park: The Lost World: "‘Oooh, ahhh’, that's how it always starts. Then later there's running and screaming."
When we decided to give it a go, there were proclamations of "I've been preparing myself for this coming test of physical fortitude and declare that I shall be resolute in my firmness to this task." (Foreplay and wordplay in the McCabe household often blur.)
I declared with much gusto that I would always be up for it; that I would never tire in my role in this endeavour of procreation. It was the case of the kid in the candy store – all that intercourse was waiting for me! I just had to reach out and take it with dedication and stout-hearted stamina.
Oestrogen levels had peaked, ovarian follicles had ruptured, scented candles had been lit and I had facilitating meiosis on my mind. It was an all you could eat buffet.
There was no stopping us. Life was great and at this rate we wouldn't have any problems conceiving.
Little did I know that all this excess had a time limit. It was only to be had when the moon was in the second quarter and Venus was intersecting Mars.
In other words, over time, we ended up only having sex when she was about to – and briefly after – she had ovulated. Once that time had past, as dictated by the great authority that is the thermometer, all access was cut off.
Nothing I could say, do or imply would gain me access to Promised Land … until 28 days later, marked with the beep of a thermometer and a "Babe, my temperature is up, I'm ovulating", it started again.
Over and over again, the tap was turned on and off again.
Month after month, what was once an enjoyable act was now the most boring, passionless act that I had ever experienced. Cutting my toe nails gave me more enjoyment than the process of trying to create a child.
Timed intercourse is utterly and totally demoralising, destructive and just writing about it makes me very angry.
There is something to be said about the act of timing when you are set to get down to business, and while I am sure there are many out there that would relish bringing a spread sheet into the bedroom, I sadly was not one of those.
Try as I might I just couldn't get into it.
But regardless of my personal feelings on the sometimes frustrating process of creating our offspring, talking about our future children is what we talk about all the time.
Every day we talk about what our child would do in this situation or that. Last weekend we spent a good portion of time discussing how a little three-year-old mini-Justin or mini-Mel would attempt to help me paint the garage, which one of us they would be more like (stubborn like her, more chilled out like me), and how we want to raise them.
We long to have our own children and hope that will be one day soon. We are as ready as we are ever going to be, and every month we hope that this is the month, that this time we've done it at the right time.
I can't wait for the day I hear running and screams of elated crying as I am presented with two blue lines.
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