I said 'Nappy', dammit

"Nobody ever told me that."

I've said those words to myself countless times over the last year.

'Trying to conceive', or more accurately 'trying and failing miserably to conceive' not only brings about the standard old side effects you read in the books or on websites, but there are hidden and unexpected side effects too, particularly for us gentlemen.

I've found, not all of them to be quite what I had imagined

It makes you a randy badger....

I haven't used that word since I was about eleven, but it does. Trying to conceive basically gives you the horn and reveals to you the real reason behind sofa cushions.

Unless your pre-TTC rate was at porn star frequency, you are probably at it more than ever, and despite the often dreaded 'timed' occasions, you soon realise that you actually can't get enough.

The primative urge to spread your seed, even though it's as useless as tits on a bull, is all powerful.

If the regular thirst isn't quenched, you are frequently in danger of poking your own eye out.

You lose all sense of shame....

Quite self explanatory if you read through previous entries.

Even outside the topic of trying to conceve, you find yourself diving into conversations where no sane and/or hetrosexual man belongs, and being totally unphased by situations that would previously have resulted in you soiling yourself.

Imagine leaving your sister so horrified that you can sense a 'gasp' via MSN when you tell her about her baby brother producing semen samples, or visiting your GP to discuss providing said samples whilst wearing two odd shoes, or actually using the words 'tilted cervix' to your office manager.

These are just a couple of things an idiot would do. Yes me. Sod off.

Prolonged trying to conceive desensitises you, and reduces any sense of acceptability, respectability and sensibility in relation to biological matters, to shreds.

Basically, the downside about becoming practically qualified to perform reproductive surgery in 14 Eastern European states, is that you become the person people really don't want to tell a knob joke to, for fear of the repercussions.

You hear the words 'too much information' 8 times a day

You become over-sensitive and soft....

I have already rambled on about this in some detail, but indeed, with the exception of genitalia, trying to conceive turns a man to mush.

You blub watching the neighbours out and about with their kids, you blub on a sunny day, you blub when somone takes your parking spot. (You know who you are you bitch.)

You become uber sensitive to the point of paranoia about people who don't have snot bags hanging off them, "maybe they have, you know, 'issues' too", when in fact they very possibly just can't be arsed.

I've used the word 'cute' so much in the last year I should be carrying around a feckin chihuahua in a dolce & gabbana purse, and I've uttered the word 'sweet' so often I am writing this from the midst of a diabetic coma.

It's probably all the testosterone focussing on your jolly rodger that leads to a deficiency in your brain and turns you into a 12 year old girl.
That's my quasi-qualified medical opinion anyway.

You'll try absolutely anything....

Logic flies out the window. Actually no, correction. Logic pulls down your pants, kicks you up the arse, blows a raspberry in your face and then flies out the window.

This goes far beyond having Ms. shagee remain horizontal for about 4 days after bumping uglies, with her backside hoisted aloft seven cushions.

This goes into the realm of counting and waving at magpies.

This goes into the mad realm of ordering fertility dolls off the internet.

This goes into the realm of two grown, educated and semi-intelligent people in their thirties, sleeping on yellow knitted booties, incredibly generously hand made and sent to us from the other side of the planet.

One under each bloody pillow.

I know it's utterly illogical, but God help you if you try to remove them, I'll bite your non-believing fingers off and feed them to the frogs.

You get what you wish for...sort of....

The observant among you will have put two and two together and come up with the logic behind the name, Xbox4NappyRash.

For those who haven't, bless your cotton socks, I'll explain. The idea was to sacrifice using my xbox in return for nappy rash(preferably on the arse of a kid).

Well, maybe the Gods of fate have a cruel sense of humour, or perhaps they are hard of hearing, or most likely they just can't understand my funny accent, but they have given me what I asked for, almost.

Instead of nappy rash, they have provided me with a nasty rash. On my bloody fingers.

Yes indeed, it's a joy to share the news that I have developed a charming wee reaction on my right hand. Excema-esque in appearance, some bright sparks attribute it to stress and frustration.

I've no doubt in my underdeveloped mind that it is due to the lack of penile contact (with not one, but two, notable exceptions) This naturally arises from the absence of acts of self love, which are rightly forbidden during these trying times.

Incidentally it's also frowned upon by my buddy, the pope, but frankly, I fear the wrath of ET a million times more.

Are these male side effects of trying and hopelessly failing to conceive common, or am I just odd? Scratch that, the oddness is a given, some things I don't need to be told.

For those who feel the urge, "judge not lest ye be bitten on the calves by a chubby Irishman, for skin is a real bitch to remove from my braces".

And yes, I said 'for skin'. Smart arses.


EDIT: It appears that the deceptively named Newbie nominated this for post of the week and it's been shortlisted along with 5 very different other posts on other interesting blogs. Go check them out.