Allez Les Bleus!

Tomorrow we set sail. OK, not quite, but we do drive a ford focus.

Actually, I drive a ford focus.

All the way to France.

Yes, situated in the beautiful rolling landscape of the Ardennes, in the Champagne region, is a secluded farm house that will be our serene home for the next 3 days, unfortunately in the company of 6 other infirm buggers.

As if Sunday's revelation that we may be headed straight for the great tandoori oven in the cellar wasn't bloody bad enough.

You win some, you lose some.

Yes, brain, you are off limits for the next few days thanks to the wonderful invention that goes by the name of 'a national holiday'.

Queen's day, or 'Koninginnedag' to give it it's correct asphyxiating title.

ET had her blood tests today for various hormone levels and the usual prerequisite stuff so all that will be ready for the RS in a few weeks.

The few days away will break up the 2WW, the two week wait, as I've recently come to discover it called.

Ironically, and somewhat disturbingly though, we have deduced that our 2WW is very possibly not two weeks at all.

Fucking typical.

This is not a good thing. Nevertheless, there's no point harping on about it now, until we know more, which we will next week.

I think Ellie was just jealous of all the attention Spencer was getting and she may just have decided to go on a 'go-slow', just to even up the score.

Bloody women always have to go one better....

An immaculate conception?

It's Sunday and I feel like having a moan simply because we have now entered the luteal phase, more commonly referred to as the 'there is sod all you can do now, so sit quiet and squirm rat boy' phase.

This is cycle 13, making us 'officially' infertile, as opposed to the 'don't be such a drama queen with a willy' type infertility I've been rattling on about for the past year.

I am confident that things will work, but the prospect is ever larger that we need assistance.

On selfish reflection this is a slightly saddening thought, but honestly I don't have any huge issues with this. On the other hand, my 'spiritual leader' does.

In early March the Vatican listed a new and improved, better than your current leading brand, set of seven deadly sins by adding seven modern mortal sins.

This list includes 'Genetic Manipulation'. I had to do some checking to be sure, but this encompasses procedures such as IVF.

A few searches confirmed my thoughts that the Vatican would consider IVF a mortal sin, but to be certain I went to the Vatican's own website, to get it from the donkey's mouth, and found the following:

'The desire for a child - or at the very least an openness to the transmission of life - is a necessary prerequisite from the moral point of view for responsible human procreation. But this good intention is not sufficient for making a positive moral evaluation of in vitro fertilization between spouses. The process of IVF and ET must be judged in itself and cannot borrow its definitive moral quality from the totality of conjugal life of which it becomes part nor from the conjugal acts which may precede or follow it.(48)"

Basically, it's NOT the good thought that counts.

This saddens me in one way and aggravates me in another.

I'm sad because the faith I was brought up in, and which has to this day unseen influences on my life, is so far out of touch with real life it becomes almost impossible to defend it.

I'm aggravated and angry because this 'ruling' puts ET and myself on the cusp of a descent into eternal damnation according to Pope Benedict XVI.

Does the fact we have made the decision to try and have a family from a totally (probably for the first time ever) unselfish viewpoint not weigh in on this 'hell bound sentencing'?

We have invested, blood, sweat, and tears into this, all three quite literally, not to mention a few other bodily fluids, and we have as of yet, nothing to show for it only the prospect that any further action will see us keeping eternal company with murderers, paedophiles and rapists.

If I had any real faith left I'd be losing it right now.

If I wanted to get silly about it, and let's face it, that's what I do best, I'd start making claims that Jesus himself could have been the product of an assisted conception. Maybe Joseph had a touch of Spencer syndrome and had a few questionable wrigglers, maybe Mary was low on the old vitamin B6, we don't know, but we do know we are told that no uglies got bumped and yet voila! the son of God is delivered into the arms of his loving and soon to be sleep deprived parents.

Maybe.

I wonder did my main man Benedict even raise an eyebrow to the irony as he grasped his ruby studded gold pen from it's 14th century antique holder given as a gift from the court of some French or Spanish royal family, peering over his silver spectacle rims before penning the next mortal sin on his new list:

'Accumulating excessive wealth'

The Vatican website is located here, with the quoted passage located in their documentation, here.

Ovulation Observations

Just a brief mention for these ovulation prediction kits, or OPKs as they are known in the acronym rich world of TTC.

These are expensive little buggers, aren't they?

€32 for a package of 7 from our local friendly communist chemist. When you factor in mass panic, widespread insanity, a little stupidity, and not to mention being in the 13th cycle, that adds up to a whole lot of cash spent on a non-existent kid and no small amount of piss covered plastic.

Buying in bulk online would be admitting horrible things that should never be spoken. So that's what we've just done.

I also really want to meet the designers of these bloody things, what smart arse decided it was a good idea to have a 'smiley face' appear on them with a positive test?

Considering the positive result means you end up having to shag for breakfast, brunch, lunch, dinner and your midnight snack for days on end, I think a more appropriate image should be considered.

My submission for a new OPK 'positive result image' is a stick-man clutching his crotch with a grimace of painful resignation, hopelessness, and poverty on his face.

Much closer to reality. Money grabbing sadistic bastards.

Mother Nature & Uri Geller walk into a bar

You may or may not have noticed, but I tend to be somewhat preoccupied by one particular subject. As much as it disturbs me that I may be boring you, this is all just for me and my sanity now, so we are just going to continue along the same vein of tedium.

It struck me, as it does every bloody four weeks, that right now, really fascinating stuff is happening inside our bodies.

OK, not so much in mine per say, unless you count the digestion of half a dozen frozen sausages along with amounts of zinc so abnormally high that my neighbours should be wearing haz-mats, but rather, in the bodies of 'the ladies'.

Right this minute, in ET for example, there are wee spermies lying in wait for that cocky egg to descend, today, tomorrow, or maybe the day after.

They will attempt to pounce on her and nibble their way in. They'll try to grip on for dear life and hope she sticks in the one spot.

If they manage that, it's the start of a life, a human. (Don't go getting all technical on me now you anally retentive livestock buggerers, it IS the start of life for the purpose of this tripe)

What gets me is that this immeasurable event could be taking place right in front of you, or even in you, and you don't know squat about it. Her nose won't glow redder, or her hair won't stand on end, or she won't start yelping uncontrollably.

Nothing.

This is where I have a gripe with mother nature, surely this is deserving of a more marked physical manifestation. Give me something woman, a sign of some sort, have an appendage burst into flames, or have a loud blood curdling noise emit itself from the female form, or even just a funny smell would do. Otherwise, you're really just being a teasing bitch.

I won't hold my breath.

I've also been thinking about the power of positive thought!

Take Uri Geller for example, he makes an entire nation's cutlery bend with a few 'Ummmms' and the odd rub of his temples. I'm fairly certain that if he can do that, he has the wherewithal to get a few bits and bobs together to form a zygote for us shagged out misfortunes.

In fact, he's a buddy of Michael Jackson isn't he? He's got kids and I have serious doubts as to whether anyone really bumped uglies with him to create them.

It MUST be down to Uri Geller that he has the little balcony danglers.

So Uri, this is a plea from my disease ridden heart to you, rub yourself and moan for me tonight while concentrating hard on my wife's innards.

There's a good chap.

Ellie

Hello there,

You don't really know me Ellie but I know quite a bit about you. I've known your 'mother' ET for quite a long time, and we even had you and your sisters pointed out to us by a specialist last week.

I hope you don't mind me saying, but you really are a pretty egg.

I know this is a really old fashioned way of doing things, but sometimes the old traditions are best, you know?

I'm aware that you have lots of guys hanging around, bugging you and trying to get into your good books, and I know that up until now, you've resisted their advances.

You're an egg with high standards in morality and taste, always something to be admired.

You see Ellie, I have a buddy, and he's taken quite a shine to you. He really is different to all those that you've met before for many reasons.

He's been admiring your for a long time, over a year in fact. You don't know this, but every month when you take your trip down south to the beach house in the 'tubes, he travels from a place that is beyond even the realms of your imagination just to try and meet you there. He truly goes to tremendous effort.

He's made twelve attempts now to rendezvous with you, but each time he just misses out. I don't intentionally want to make you feel bad, but this is getting him down just a little bit.

Not that he's given up, absolutely not, quite the opposite in fact Ellie.

When he started making his trips to meet you, he wasn't the best swimmer in the world. Frankly, he sucked. The measure of his character is that he just didn't give up, he got to work, he trained and conditioned himself, and now he's one the best swimmers you could ever hope to meet (and not too shabby in a pair of speedos, not that that should influence you in any way, of course).

Basically Ellie, this wee guy may not be the most handsome nor the brightest you'll ever meet, but he's hardworking and is busting his milky backside to get a chance to meet you.

I guess what I'm saying is we know you are taking another trip south in a couple of days, and he has really given his all to be ready to get there to meet you in time. Not only does he want to meet you, but he'd like the chance maybe to take you for a bite to eat, or for a drink of something, non-alcoholic naturally.
He really wants to impress you, between you and me Ellie, I think he believes you are the one for him. He's quite the romantic that way, he is convinced it's fate that you both should meet and settle down somewhere nice, just the two of you.

I know you enjoy your lifestyle at the moment, the freedom to come and go, hanging out with your sisters up north, and heading down south to party every month or so, but doesn't even the smallest part of you wish for someone special to keep you company?

So, my dear girl, when you reach the 'tubes, keep an eye out for him, he won't be the one shouting the loudest or getting drunk or making rude jokes, but he'll be the one that's worked the hardest to get there.

You could do a lot worse. Just give it some thought, eh?

Kind regards,
Me.

P.S. How could I forget? His name, is Spencer.
You should be able to recognise him because he's the one with the wallpaper paste complexion, the glint in his eye, and the big heart.

...oh yes, and braces.

Zinc or Swim?

Maybe it was ET's imposing 5 foot nothing frame giving them grief at 8am, or my booming prepubescent voice at lunchtime that filled them with fear and sparked the frenzy of action, but something finally went our way today.

At 5:20pm this afternoon, outside office hours, Ms trainee doctor rang to inform me that the missing semen analysis results had been magically located. I didn't ask where, when, how, or who, I just shrieked at her to give up some figures.

Sperm count, volume, and morphology were all slightly down on the last time, but no great concern.

The first time around the issue was motility, and it royally sucked. 22% in group A & 10% in group B was gonna be the cause of significant problems.
It is also widely accepted that if your boys don't swim today, you can't make them swim tomorrow.

So what did I do?

I fed Spencer, I fed him daily, until his wee gills were full of vitamins C and E, beta carotene and my secret ingredient to tackle his lethargy, zinc.

I took him aside and had a man to man talk. I revved the little bugger up, got inside his head, started his wee milky heart pumping and told the fucker to swim like his legendary grandaddy sperm had done before him.

And that, my good folk, is what the little maggot went and did.

He swam like a Chineese olympian after gobbling up one of his coach's special milkshakes.
He swam so hard and fast that I reckon that's why the results were delayed, he had them chasing that wee container around the laboratory fridge.
He swam with such gusto there were petri dish tsunami warnings issued.

The little legend swam his way to 39% in group A and 30% in group B, a total of 69% motility, more than 100% improvement, and almost 40% above the norm.
Spencer is one magnificent mass of man milk.

Monday I will see the results in detail, and get a chance to do some real comparisons, but the bottom line on this fine Friday evening is, thanks to the most heroic semen sample outside of a panda enclosure, there is no reason why we can't do this naturally.

Spencer my man, hang up your swim cap and rest well tonight, for tomorrow, together, we ride.

So, God IS a woman...

...and she's had me tied to the bed, wrists and ankles bound. She doesn't even crack a smile as she tosses aside the unopened tube of lubricant, and tightens the belt on her over sized strap-on. She steps closer...

I woke up today a bigger idiot than normal. Why so? because I believed today was the day I would get the results from my second semen analysis.

I was mistaken.

Here in the world's best kept communist secret that is Holland, you must follow appointments, no wavering, no flexibility. I guess in a country the size of a Texan bathtub with a bigger population than Australia, you need some kind of order to avoid outright chaos. So I go along with it.

At exactly 1pm, I called for my results. I dialed the GP's office number. 17 times.

At 1:40 the phone is answered.

After the customary berating from the receptionist that I wasn't ringing between 1 & 1:30, I get put through to the doctor.
Scratch that, I get put through to a trainee something or other.

I again explain the reason behind my call, repeat my details, and wait silently, with the sound of single finger keystrokes on an iMac the only sign of life on the other end of the line.

'Uuum, I can't seem to find them right now, can I call you back this afternoon?'
Sighing 'OK'.

An hour later she calls me back with the news that I instinctively knew was coming.

They'd lost the results.

The GP doesn't have them, the lab doesn't have them.
They are going to check up with the lab again and ring me today or tomorrow.

I'm not even gong to entertain the possibility they may find them, unless Shergar trots into their office with them sellotaped to his arse.

So, what now?

It takes around 4 weeks to get an appointment to give the sample, and 2 weeks to get results back. For the slower among you, thats 6 weeks, add in 3 Dutch national holidays in the coming weeks and you can safely say 7 weeks before I can get another set of results.

We return to our reproductive specialist, who is expecting a full set of results, in just over 5 weeks.

If we don't have a full set of results for that appointment we can forget any progress then, and can face another 6 week wait for a follow up, if we get lucky.

This particular 'whoopsie' may well cost us a set back of a couple of months.

If I were a cynical person, I would allow my mind to wonder had they in fact misplaced the original sample? What a lovely thought, here I am, unable to impregnate my wife, and there's Spencer just lying around unlabeled in a laboratory where they wash sperm for IUI and IVF treatments. Some poor skinny, blond, 9 foot tall, straight toothed Dutch couple could be in for one hell of a shock in 9 months or so.

If you hadn't already guessed from the tones of bubbling frustration, you can take the dream sequence of being anally raped by female deity as a sure sign that a total meltdown is just around the corner.

...jerking me by the legs closer to the edge of the bed, I clench, bite down on my pillow, and mutter "OK God, get it over with, just no kissing on the mouth"...

Lack of adventures in babysitting

So, last night was the big babysitting evening.
I was cool, it had been a while, but I'd done this before. Many, many times.

A bit of background.
I come from a family of breeders. A group of people so f*&%ing fertile that pregnancy is the only successful form of contraception they know.

Youngest of 8 brothers and sisters, I have 18 nieces and nephews. 13 of these I have looked after for extended periods over the years before I moved here.

Anyway, we walked into the victim's living room to see Daddy holding the 7 month old angel. She took one look at me, her face inverted, and she started bawling.

Yep, I still had it.

I soon learned how to adjust her volume based on how close I stood to her, and after a half hour or so she was in my arms and NOT having a seizure.

Progress.

With this, Mammy & Daddy buggered off.

There we were, ET and myself, making ridiculous sounds in the direction of this 'person'. A person who had absolutely no interest in me whatsoever.

I confidently put this down to the same reason every other Dutch woman has no interest in me, there was obviously something very wrong with her.

So there I sat on the sofa with this thing on my lap.
She tugged and pulled at a variety of vulgar coloured toys that frankly did nothing for the living room. While quite engrossed in this mind numbing activity, she would occasionally peer her big browns in my general direction, and scowl.

Now, this is where I started to wonder if there wasn't something significantly wrong with her.

Mommy & Daddy bloggers out there, hold your cherished spawn close, for what I'm about to tell you will surely chill your blood.

She didn't do one single blogworthy thing.

She didn't make one wisecrack that would have you all suspecting that I'd embellished, she didn't crawl into a flowerpot or the tumble drier or ANY cute photograph worthy position that may make you wonder if I'd staged it, she didn't show signs of knowing beyond her years and ask me how work was going or whether I was worried about getting my 2nd semen analysis result back on Thursday.

Nothing.

I've read all these blogs back to front, so how can this be possible?

I was just about to call social services to report this finding which was most certainly a sign of mistreatment, when she started screaming her adorable little lungs out, which ET informed me signified she wanted feeding.

Seeing as we (I) had decided anything going in or coming out of this sweet heavenly thing was ET's responsibility, I handed her over, all the while wondering how two reasonably entertaining and interesting people could have birthed such an unbloggable cherub.

Fast forwarding through this literary home video, we come to the part where the dear little butterfly wing is again screaming her face off, in my face. Deciding against screaming back in hers, I took to walking her around the room for approximately 10 days.

Having just about decided that I'd had enough of this blogfodderless baby and it's sweet adorable screaming, her parents returned, closely followed by normality.

With our coats on and ready to leave, I pointed out to the doting parents that their first born must surely have some sort of issue that needed urgent attention as she didn't find me in any way entertaining, and couldn't even be bothered to humour me with a gurgle, smile, or any of the cutesy stuff I'd signed up for.

Then, from the safety of her mother's arms the little maggot turned towards me, one little finger in her own mouth and the other pointing right at me, she started.

Her big brown eyes opened wider and she began a long screeching laugh only interrupted by wide gummy smiles, flapping hands, and pronounced nodding blinks.

I may have just grown a fucking ovary.

"And here is the opening to your uterus"

My ears burned red as she said the words, I couldn't move my head, so I just stared at my fingers.

If I turned around I was going to get another eyeful of ET's pink bits winking cheekily at me, and if I looked upwards I was staring at the reflection of her uterine opening in the doctor's display case.

What happened to being asked to step out of the room?
I'm a fairly easy going sort of chap when it comes to such matters, but I don't need to, want to, nor have the ability to stomach having to, watch this Dutch lady use my wife as a glove puppet.

One good thing about this impromptu internal examination during our first meeting with the reproductive specialist, was that she had a good look with an ultrasound, and took smashing pictures of my wife's ovaries, eggs and bladder.
I was tempted to take a copy to pass off to my friends as a 12 week scan just to prove my point that you can't tell what's in those pictures anyway.

'Is that a penis?'
'No, it's a fallopian tube'

I guess these pictures could be used to support our case as potentially fit parents to "fate's department of social services".
'...and here is where it will sleep'.

The long and short of it all, ET is is perfect working order, and its my gammy gonads once again in the spotlight.

Just before she had to climb into the stirrups, we were subjected to the type of questioning that I've only previously had from my buddies after a dozen pints or so.

'Any secret children ?'
'No'

'Do other members of your family have children?'
Oh rub it in why don't you, you hag. 'Yes, I've 18 nieces and nephews'.

'Have you ever had any sexually transmitted diseases?'
'You mean, aside from regret?' I thought to myself. 'No, no diseases'.

'How often do you have sex?'
'Like, with each other or just by myself? because thanks to you lot that's really starting to affect the averages'. Eventually we just explained our various approaches.

'Are you experiencing any emotional issues from not conceiving?'
'Click here, bitch, and you tell me'

ET took over the answering from that point.

Actually, she wasn't a bitch, she was even quite nice, as long as I dismiss the fact she was further inside my wife than I've ever been.
She even took the time to go through my first man milking results, and pointed out, (just as I did, so there) that the lower motility is offset by the high count and good volume.

She awaits my second set of results, later this week.

A quick blood sample (from me) later, we arranged for ET to have some blood drawn later in this cycle, and made a follow up appointment for 4 weeks when we get down to the nitty gritty.

By the time we got to the reception desk, the 4 weeks became 6, so it seems Spencer has enough time for at least one more shot, before I have to open the last thing handed to me today, the information pack on Intra Uterine Insemination.

Fuck me, this IS getting serious...

Arrival

If anything is enough to make me have a 'zaadlozing' right here and now, it's just got to be this.


Now go over there and tell them how spot on they were, while I write up something about seeing the reflection of my wife's uterus opening in a doctor's office cabinet window, and then come back here and tell me how bang on they were.

I need a tissue.

Rolling out the 'grote kannonen'

Well campers, it's time to get all "shock n'awe" on yer asses. (I really can't pull off the American thing, can I?)

It's time for rolling out the 'big guns'.

Monday, having now officially gone into (cyclical) year two of trying to conceive, we speak with a reproductive specialist at the university hospital.

It's a relief, an annoyance, a source of hope, and a source of anxiety all in one.

We arranged the appointment some weeks back, so we have aleady had some literature through about the reproductive department ('Sectie Voortplanning')

It's quite good, includes the basics, what the usual paths of action are, what checks and test are possible. All the stuff that makes an anal 'chillingly methodical' number cruncher like me (thanks Foreigner By Default ;0) ) relax a little bit.

This brings me back to another aspect of this whole bloody 'adventure' that I've often mentioned but never gone too deep into. We live in the Netherlands, and are not native speakers.

Thanks to the mundane daily tasks we have to do to earn a few quid here, I have built up a decent level of Dutch from working with the noble race, ET less so as she works with an international company, the lucky bitch.

Dutch is a funny language, with some translations simply impossible, and some translations that are so literal you would piss yourself, or 'pis jezelf' (see what I mean?)

So I've been struggling through this reproductive literature, picking up some great new vocabulary, which I'm gonna share with you ignorant folk.

Fertility is 'vruchtbarheid' or literally 'Fruit-ability' - Does this mean our best chances are in the Autumn, like crab apples?

My testicles are 'zaadballen' or literally 'Seed balls' - Thankfully my seed balls have seed in them, but what about the poor bastards with no seed in their 'seed balls', do they then not have 'testicles' in Dutch?

An ejaculation is a 'zaadlozing' or literally a 'Seed letting loose' - Now, considering the issues I'm having with Spencer and the boys I think that's a tad insensitive.
'Letting loose' conjures up visions of wild sub-saharan African beasts thundering through the undergrowth and out into a green vast plain bellowing their cries of the wild. In fact my semen seem to be behaving like two grumpy teenage boys with hair in their eyes, flopped on the sofa, watching 6 hours of 'saved by the bell' because they are too lazy to move to pick up the remote control.
Hardly accurately described by 'letting loose'.

Bless their sensitive Dutch hearts, they do try to put a quite cosy spin on some of the more gruesome aspects. For example the dreaded post coital test is often referred to as the 'samenlevingstest' or literally the 'living together test'.
Now I presume it's intended to describe the 'living together' of his man milk and her juicy internal bits after a good old squelchy session, but I just like the explaining-where-babies-come-from type innocence of it all.

All I can say is that innocence, has most definitely, left the building.

Roll on 'grote kannon' Monday when I'll be standing prepared with my Dutch-English dictionary in my hand and my heart in my mouth...

I want to say a huge thank you to everyone who has been commenting, with advice, tips, reassurance, recounting their own experience, and well wishing. It surprises me no end how nice some of you gits can actually be. Off the top of my head I just want to say a special thanks to Ashely from BossSanders and Bernard from RaisingEli who both went 'above and beyond' in offering advice & information, and well wishes, respectively.

24,000,000,000 to 1

24,000,000,000

300,000,000
350,455
310
26
25
12
5
2
1

24,000,000,000
This is the number of Spencer's buddies I calculate have been dispatched into active duty in the name of trying to conceive. That's twenty-four billion.

300,000,000
That is further number that have been sent out on research duty.

350,455
This is the number of milligrams of vitamin supplements I would have taken in order to help the cause, had I been taking all of them from day 1.

310
This is the number of days we have been actively trying, and failing, to conceive.

26
This is the length in days of cycles it now seems. 28 don't live here no more.

25
This is the number of siblings (& their children) I have. A fertile bunch eh? Another cup of irony soup anyone?

12
This is, as of today, the number of failed cycles. A bloody year.

5
The percentage of couples our age who don't manage to conceive in 12 cycles.

2
The number of times I've had to 'milk' myself in the name of science, Not once, but twice.

1
This is the number of very pissed off Irish brace-mouthed, sub-fertile bloggers who is wearing correctly matched shoes for once.
It's the total number of sperm actually needed out of that twenty four feckin' billion to be any bloody good.
It's the number of wives that I have, and have disappointed time and again over the last 310 days.
It's the number of chances I want, just the f#*$ing one.

Should I be worried...

...That I've totally gotten the date wrong for the first act of childcare we would have been involved in since we began trying distort my wife's body forever through conception?

I was only a week out. That doesn't mean anything, does it?

...."Spencer!!!, come back, you're not f*&^ing up to this!".....

I'm not reading too much into this. Honest.

Not bad for €10 an hour

Well the Gods of irony must have had a few drinks upstairs last night with their buddies from the department of irritation, and decided amongst themselves to send another bolt of 'see how much he can take' in the general direction of my fat head.

Try pushing the incidental stuff aside, you know, the repeated failure to impregnate, the confirmation that you've got the natural potency of the dodo, and many, many instances of increasingly irrational behavior etc etc etc.

If you push all that aside, what else would you really NOT recommend a couple who are trying to conceive to do?

Did I hear the skinny lady down the back with the bug eye say 'babysit' ?
We have a winner.

Yes, ET & myself have been asked to babysit for a few hours on Tuesday evening.

Queue awkward silences, knowing glances, brushing off of comments and questions like 'Oh it really suits you' and 'So when are you guys gonna get one?'.

I've booked our flights, withdrawn as much cash as I can fit in a nappy, and photoshopped a birth certificate for the kid who we will raise in Switzerland. (Named Spencer of course, I'm sure she won't mind)

So, ask ME to babysit in my tormented and demented emotional and psychological state will you?

This'll f&^%ing teach ya.....

Disclaimer - I do not condone kidnapping babies. Teenagers are far more likely come willingly to annoy their parents anyway.

Ignorance & Bliss

With all that has lead up to this, the 11 failed cycles of trying to get knocked up and the utterly marvelous revelations that my sperm are couch potatoes, I've started to wonder about what results I really want to see from this semen analysis.

Do I want another set of poor results?
Will this really prompt the Dutch medical world into springing into action and working their magic and bringing an end to the great baby drought of 2007-08?
This would obviously mean more tests, more procedures, and infinitely more waiting.

Do I want great results?

Do I want to see wonderful figures that would send women scurrying for safety with crossed legs for fear of falling pregnant by just being in the presence of such potency?
This will obviously mean that there are other gremlins in our machinery, and therefore, more tests, more procedures, and infinitely more waiting?

It would be like earning a Phd and not being able to get a job.

Do I want to know at all?
What is ACTUALLY the point of knowing the results now?
Whether I like it or not, it doesn't matter if the test shows I've got a lower motile sperm count than Heather Mills has toes, or a greater motile sperm count than she has gold dug dollars in the bank, there still will be no child.

In the end, isn't the only real positive outcome of any fertility test, the family that results?

So, come on Spencer, do your bloody job this time around and make the results irrelevant, for me eh?

Return of the sperm runner: This time it's personal

I was prepared.

I had everything timed to a tee: Alarm, packed for work, showered, shaved, and lab paperwork in order.

Just fill this pot up with what must surely be a half litre of my finest saved up 'sample' was all I had to do, before hopping into the car and off to the hospital.

"Squirt".

What?
That's it?
You have GOT to be taking the piss, it's less than the last bloody time!

There I sat on the edge of the bathtub, shaking my (upper) head in disbelief, trying to screw the lid back on the pot, and strongly contemplating the possibility that testicles have an underdeveloped sense of humour completely independent from their owner.

Where were the GALLONS I had most certainly saved up?

Disheartened, I put the container (which looked more like I had sneezed in it rather than filled it with a well timed semen sample) carefully in my pocket.

Down the stairs, out the front door, down the path, past the pond (where I swear I could see a couple of frogs lighting cigarettes), into the car, and off I drove to the hospital.

(Incidentally, while sitting in the car park I had one good hard look into the container. It was hard to tell but I couldn't identify Spencer in there. Fingers crossed he's already gone off with his whip and hat leading the charge on the temple of doom.)

I was prepared.

I knew EXACTLY where I needed to go, so no cringe inducing conversation at reception would be necessary.

Confidently clutching my pot of man milk like a hand grenade primed for launching, straight past the hideous receptionist and off down the hallway I bounded.

Upon stepping into the lift, the blood drained from my brain.
There stood a pretty wee nurse with her petite finger hovering over the button...

Pretty Nurse: Which floor?
Sperm Clutching Idiot: (rapidly losing oxygen to my brain) ...er...I dunno

Pretty Nurse: What number route then?
Sperm Clutching Idiot: (at this point in grave danger of losing consciousness) ...er...I forget

Pretty Nurse: (getting impatient) What DEPARTMENT then?
Sperm Clutching Idiot: (almost yelling) I know this one!...medical microbiology...

Pretty Nurse: Oh (smirking) I see.... 2nd floor.

A short 4 hour lift ride and 17 popped blood vessels later.
BING!

Practically ripping the arms off my jacket in the still opening doors, I walk-ran up the corridor, and through the double doors to where the medical microbiology office was.

No.
No. No. NO.
No light, no nurse, no give way with the door handle.

It wasn't bloody open yet.

So, what? I just have to stand there in the hallway turning redder and redder, in front of a sign that may just as well have read 'WANKERS WAIT HERE', grasping a thimblefull of lukewarm semen in my chubby sweaty hands for every passer-by to snigger at?

Yes.

9 of them. I counted.
Every individual face now branded onto my brain, so I can rapidly flee, or scratch their eyes out should our paths ever cross again in the future.

10 minutes later, a woman shuffles up along the corridor to the office door. With a key in the lock, and her creaking neck straining backwards to look at me, she croaks: "Semen?"

My head bowed, all faith in lucky breaks lost forever, I replied: "Yes".

Into the office we step, she continues to shuffle around the room, flicking light switches and opening windows.
On my life, may God strike me down dead on the spot if this woman was not at least 70 years of age.

All well and good, at least she's experienced I thought, as she asked me the standard set of questions.

I was prepared.

Then it came: "When was your previous ejaculation?"

Now, fellas, I can guarantee that you haven't lived through shame until you are faced with the question of the timing of your last sexual climax from a woman as old as time itself, and who bears a startling resemblance to the owner of 'Tweety Bird' in those cartoons.

Unaware that I was now in the foetal position, rocking too and fro, I answered her.
I was now also highly conscious of the fact that if she calculated the days backwards she would work out it was in fact on a Sunday, which was undoubtedly going to seal my condemnation to eternal hell in the eyes of this 420 year old spinster, even if it would in fact, at this point in time, be a welcome relief for myself.

I picked up the remainder of my self respect, balled it up, tossed it in the bin under the desk, confirmed the 2 week waiting time for the results, and left.

Out the wrong exit (,again) I go, past the inexplicable chickens (,again), and vowing never to go through that again (,again).

Honestly, I WAS prepared.

'twas the night before er...you know...

So here we are again. The eve of another 'sample' giving.

What will the morning bring?

Hopefully I won't see Spencer tomorrow, all going to plan he is already heading an expedition up through the fallopian wilderness, a la Indiana Jones, with words of inspiration ringing in his wee spermy ears.

Mind you, I sincerely hope he is raiding a bloody egg and not a lost ark, although with my guys you never really know what they've got planned, and with women's bits you never really know what you'll find.

Either way, we'll know the answer to that particular poser in a little over a week.

The chances are I wouldn't recognise him in the crowd anyway, not being racist or anything, but they do all look quite similar. The ones with two heads or tails aside of course.

All in all, my concerns before the previous 'handover' are all but gone.

While I'm no sharpshooter, I know I can aim well enough from close range, and if the previous attempt is anything to go by I shouldn't have the mental trauma of delivering not too fast nor too slow, but just right.

Kind of like a masturbating version of 'goldilocks & the three bears'.

I refuse to think about handing it over again, that just makes my testicles huddle together for comfort.

On the bright side, (I use that term in a manner as loose as an Australian's morals), I've been 'saving up', and therefore the questionable volume (again, amount, not noise levels) of semen from the previous time, should be improved upon.
Although bearing in mind the size of the bloody container, we may need to put some paper down.

I could be optimistic and hope that this sample turns out to be as productive as Doodaddy's sample which has apparently yielded interesting results. As much as I want to kick him in the 'nads right now, I'll just say congratulations. You greedy maggot.

So, the only remaining question is, bedroom, bathroom, living room, office, kitchen or garden shed?

Maybe I should remove my shoes and socks, take a paddle and join in with the frogs....

Walking the walk

All silliness aside, if you have any conscience pay a quick visit to "all that comes with it" to read a very special guest post by Neil and Rachel.

I'm not going to quote any of it, it simply MUST be read.

Neil & Rachel have founded a charity in memory of their son, The Joseph Salmon Trust.
Dan & 10 others are embarking on a fundraising walk this Summer to help support this organisation.
How about clicking even a wee bit more and helping the cause. Let's face it, Dan doesn't exactly look the picture of health now does he? and 78 miles could rightly finish him off.

Why not give a couple of quid to support parents & families who have lost children? Paypal, credit & debit cards all accepted.

What's 1, or 2, or 5, or 10 bucks, quid, coconuts or euro to you eh?
How about just giving the amount you'll spend on donuts this week, you could probably do with losing a bit of weight anyway.
Or the price of that trashy mag you'll pick up at the checkout at the supermarket, I'll even tell you what is in it, Britney's still nuts, someone famous has adopted a baby from somewhere with no running water, and it turns out Michael IS Latoya.

IF you give a wee something, I promise not to mention this again*.

Go on, do it now, I'll wait.........

.....waiting....

..................still waiting..................

..............................................go on....................

....done? Good. Now don't you feel better?

Now piss off, and come back tomorrow when I will revert to talking about my defective semen or my general rubbish reproductive ability or most probably my impending sperm run. Bet you can't bloody wait.

*For at least 2 weeks.

Fool's day

Yes it's Fool's Day and not Fools Day. Denoting ownership, my ownership, not pluralisation.

It's Fool's Day because it's MY day.

My day because it's day number 300 that I haven't managed to get anyone knocked up. (how can that figure be correct? thats 10 months, but we're currently in cycle 12, hmmmm)

My day because it's seven years exactly since I moved to this godforsaken country.

My day because it's seven years exactly since I started my first job in this godforsaken country.

My day because it's two years exactly since I started my third job in this godforsaken country.

My day because it would have been the day I started my fourth job in this godforsaken country, had I accepted it.

My day because I drink beer from glasses bigger than my own head.

My day because I clean the steamed up bathroom mirror with my discarded underwear.

My day because it's one year since I had ET distraught at the news that Colin Firth had gone to meet his maker following a car accident.

My day because in two days I get to knock one out into a plastic pot again.

My day because you can find the first 'Rash review interview with Grandmother & Granddaughter supreme, Kim over on the Frog Pond that Rocks. That's HERE for the simpletons among you. It might not make your life any better but you'll get to hear her say stuff like:
"I was raided by the drug squad...Luckily I had just smoked all the dope..." and "It was a beautiful right hook.... The skanky ho deserved it"....
If you stay awake long enough you'll also get to hear her answer to the age old question "Do you think it's an insult to your cooking if your son has taken to eating birth control?"

My day because I've given up on trying to conceive and decided to buy a couple of cuties instead. Not being one to do things by halves, I've gone for a double whammy, details to be found here.
I'm very grateful for the weak US dollar and my rogue-ish Irish charm.

Stick around, the day ain't over yet...