And here's your host...

All this waiting makes my tits itch. I need to be more occupied. Not in a "the German's are advancing on the Eastern front" kind of way, but rather, just to be kept busy.

What better way to pass the time, than a game?
A waiting game, a two week wait waiting game, a two week wait waiting game game-show!

It could have different rounds, starting with 'find & destroy'.
This is where the fella has to locate, and dispose of, all ovulation prediction piss sticks discarded by his fine lady during the previous ovulation blitz. A point for him for each one he finds, one for her for any he misses.

So far I've found them under my printer tray, two on the office window sill, and one in my shoe.
There may be up to 6 more on the loose.

You could have the 'straw clutching' round, where you take every tiny symptom and turn it into a sure sign that heaven has smiled on our miserable existences and granted us the gift of reproduction. You can get up to 10 points for this, split between the symptom and the farfetchedness of the straw you clutch.

So far, ET had a 'twinge' on Sunday (after lying on the couch for 9 hours straight) so that MUST mean that mini me has sunk his teeth into Ellie, right?
That's an automatic five pointer for her.

I've found that my mantitties are a bit tender these days, which scores high on the symptom scale but blows the fuse on the straw-clutching scale. Just because I don't have a cervix?

Sounds like nit picking to me.

There's the 'quickie', a round of fast fire questions relating to the cycles just passed, and approaching.

-"Day of ovulation this cycle?"
-"CD14"
-"Correct"

-"Will ovulation fall while we have visitors next time?"
-"No, 5 days before"
-"Correct"

-"Did I take my vitamin C on CD21?"
-"Yes"
-"Incorrect" (slaaaaap...)

-"Was it good for you?"
-"...snort.."
-"Bitch"

No game-show would be complete without the 'menstruation guesstimation' round, where both partners get to guess the day on which the cycle will end, and blood and tears will flow.

Ten points are on offer for the correct date, with a point being dropped for every day you are out by, - if it's early!
If it arrives late, you lose 2 points for every day you are out, just to add insult to misery and any raised hopes.

The person with the most points accumulated (when all your hopes and dreams are torn from your grasp and danced upon in front of your very eyes by skinny people wailing 'nah-nah-nah-nah-nah') gets to choose the bottle of wine which will start the 'PPPP' (Post period Piss-up party).

We'll be right back, after this commercial break.

The best laid plans

I'm not nuts, honestly (am I?), I'm not going to swing from the apple tree (it wouldn't hold me anyway), and I'm not spiraling down into a psychopathic depression, bound by restraints woven from the finest threads of jealousy, bitterness and despair (nylon is far superior, and less expensive).

I am in a funny old mood though, I really want distractions, until I get them.

If I stop and try to take some sort of stock of where we are now, all that comes to mind is disbelief.

This stuff only happens other people doesn't it? some other poor bastards that your mother and her housewife friends used to talk about in hushed voices in the back kitchen.

How the hell did we end up here, worse off than when we started?

We are older, more worn, more frustrated, and ever so weary from these past 15 cycles.

We know that what we are doing, most likely, is futile.

We know that the help we thought we could rely on if we needed it, will only be forthcoming at someone else’s discretion.

We know that we have to go through 9 more cycles, of finding and losing hope over and over again, eroding our patience, resilience and confidence, before we can even begin what we believe is necessary.

Will this break one of us?

Will this break both of us?

Will this break us?

I am afraid that going through this will damage us, damage the way we look at things. Before, creating a real family was the ultimate goal.

Now it feels like a line on a stick is the big prize, which it shouldn’t be.

We are becoming more selfish, colder, bitter, and cynical. How can that be good for anyone, prospective parents and the prospective children thereof, alike?

By the time we get lucky, will there be anything left of the people we were when we started out?

-will we get lucky?

This is not how it’s supposed to be, ET is a lovely woman, warm, generous and protective. I’m a decent enough guy too, even if I do say so myself, reasonably fun, capable, and intelligent enough, to manage a child at least.

We don't deserve to be the subject of that whispered conversation in someone's kitchen.

"Those poor bastards"

We really don't.

Did I roast a kitten on a spit?

I’ve come to the conclusion that I must have been a spectacularly horrible prick in a past life.

Someone worse than Hitler, I don’t think I was Hitler, simply because I’m not so good with the facial hair, and I was never really into blondes.

Someone that made Atilla the Hun wet himself.

Someone as dementedly psychopathic as Robert Mugabe on smack & red bull.

Someone as high up the evil scale as Mariah Carey is on the irritation one I'd imagine.

For certain though, I was a very, very, evil creature.

Why do I think this?

Why do I think the karma Gods are rolling around in piles of their own excrement laughing at me?

A recap on the ‘week that was’ may help illustrate.

In a single seven day period, I lost a tooth, we failed another cycle, and we got told to piss off by a hush toned, croc wearing, fertility expert for a second time.

We then turned our gaze to the world of light entertainment for some respite, only to find breaking news that some SEVENTY year old woman in India has just had bloody twins, and a feckin’ MAN has given birth in the good old US of A.

These two stories have contributed to the left, and then the right hand side of my brain, exploding within the confines of their cranial cavity.

I can now hear sloshing when I walk.

If this is the way this life is going to pan out for me I think I’d prefer to go back to one of my previous hideous incarnations.

How bad could it have really been to be a bunny rapist, or a puppy skinner, or a big brother contestant, or someone who uses pensioner’s finger bones as toothpicks, or an Australian?

Yes, I am bitter, want to make something of it?

Kitty kebab anyone?

As I sit in a pool of my own estrogen

The clinic we visited on Tuesday is also a sperm bank, and so they help realise the 'child wish' of all manner of combinations of potential parents.

They help singles mummies, and mummies and daddies, and mummies and mummies, and mummies and mummies who pretend to be daddies, and daddies and daddi...er no, not that combination, but all others, it's great, really.

They advertise that there is NO waiting list for IUI procedures! Wonderful, off you go, pick your milkshake and a couple of squirts later you are good to go.

We, on the other hand, despite 15 failed attempts at the miniaturest version of paintballing known to man, have to wait 9 more months before they would consider squirting me into the missus.

So, as with everything in life, I've formulated a near perfect solution.

It takes 7 months to become a cleared sperm donor here in Holland.

That means I could donate samples, and have plenty of time to divorce ET so she's a single woman, or alternatively complete my transition into a woman (through a carefully planned process of infertility blogging) so that we would be a lesbian couple by the time my donated sample is cleared for use for IUI.

A saving of a whole two months on when we would be eligible for help in our current situation.

If they can be absurd, so can I.

Child wishing in the whispering room

As much as it sounds like an Enid Blyton tale from 'the faraway tree', it's not. It's my somewhat hazy account of this morning's trip to specialist number 2.

I knew it just wasn't going to go according to plan when I saw the crocs.

Every single nurse, lab assistant, and doctor that passed us sitting in the whispering room was wearing them. Crocs.

So there we sat, in the whispering room where no one makes eye contact with anyone else.

Magazines got flicked through, phones got checked and doubled checked, and throats were cleared.

It took all my restraint not to lean over to the guy next to me and ask 'So, what are you in for then?'

One by one the names were called, and all manner of couples, individual ladies, and a uniformed police man gathered their bits and pieces and left the whispering room.

Our appointment time came and went, when ET had the audacity to announce she had to go to the bathroom.

No. fucking. way.

She was not me leaving there, undoubtedly to be called by the doctor while on my own.
Rubbing my beer belly, and slowly waddling after the doctor would have raised a few eyebrows, even here in the mix n'match mummy & daddy clinic.

So, she held her piddle, and I held my tongue.

Finally we got whisper-summoned, and took our places across from a very intelligent looking doctor.
'So, what can I do for you?' she asked, proving once again you should never judge a book by it's cover.

'Er, short back and sides with a little off the top you infuriating mare!' I didn't reply.

ET launched into our background which the good doctor ignored and quizzed us on anyway, despite having just been told, and having our records from the last specialist in front of her.

'How long have you had a child wish?' she inquired.

'A bloody WHAT?' we gaped at each other.

'You know, a 'child wish', - "kinderwens" '

Glad I hadn't actually taken a wrong turn and ended up in neverneverland, I accepted her horrifically literal translation of the Dutch term for a desire to have a family, and moved on with the discussion.

When I say 'discussion' I of course mean the 5 minutes she spent to tell us that they would normally do nothing for people in our situation.

ET: 'Nothing?'

Doc: 'No'

Me: 'Seriously, where are the cameras?'

Doc: 'What?'

ET & Me: 'Nothing'

We were advised to go home, keep trying, for 9 months more, which would bring us to the magic 24 cycles when mystical doors of opportunity and wonderous avenues of treatment would become available.

She shuffled her papers a few times, started to get out of her chair, but we just could not budge

Maybe it was the despair she saw in ET's eyes, or the plan to beat her about the head with the plastic uterus on her desk she saw in mine, but she caved a little and said she would discuss our options with "the board".

We 'may' have a possibility to check for tubular blockage, we 'may' have a cycle monitored, but it's all in the hands of "the board".

As Pacino-esque as it may sound, it's nowhere near as efficient, it will be 16 days before we get a phone call informing us of this almighty gathering's decision, which inexplicably takes place - this afternoon.

We went in with a lifeline, and brought it out in tatters.

Bring a friend

Tomorrow we trot off to our 'specialist number 2'.

While I love the idea of that sounding like a turd with a purpose, it's not, it's just our second reproductive specialist.

With cycle 15 due to come to an end (or not) at some stage this week, we were hoping for one of those funny stories folk tell where we could say we went to a fertility expert only for him to announce we were up the duff.

Kind of an 'oh we've just adopted a bucketful of Chinese babies and now she's preggers' type thing.

Well, guess what? That's not happening.

Cycle 15 has left the building in such a hurry she forgot her purse. And shoes. And underwear.

The slut.

It's so many days early I can't even compute, but whatever the story, we will be bringing Auntie Flo to the clinic with us tomorrow, the bloody wench.

That should make any physical examination all the more, ahem, interesting.

So spare us a thought tomorrow, eh ?

I believe there is a real possibility that we may get treated for free, just on the basis of us being so pathetic.

The midget couple where the husband has missing teeth & braces and the wife is bleeding profusely from stirrups.

We will get to answer the same intimate questions about our sex life again, whether I had both my testicles upon birth again, and whether she ever had any sexually transmitted diseases again.

The only new answer we can give will be to how long have we been trying.

'16 cycles now doctor'.

16 you fucker.

Excuse me, waiter...

I'm not quite in Bon Jovi territory yet, but (Whoooooah) "we're half way there".

Half way into the 'two week wait', that is.

Next week is going to be exciting....in more ways than one.

After our last visit to the reproductive specialist we were left pretty much helpless. The days that followed were desperate, and things turned nasty in a way I had not known possible before this.

So we let it sit for a while, we've let a cycle pass 'normally', had a bit of a breather from rushing for appointments and doctors but we have to move on.

Tuesday, July 1st, we have our first intake appointment with another clinic, a second set of fertility specialists, who actively promote their 2nd opinion services.

Incidentally, does it count as a 2nd opinion if the first specialist didn't actually have one?

I like a colourful turn of phrase here and there, and this hasn't gone unnoticed. Despite being currently sleep deprived John Braine has mocked up this picture which I can only pray hits the shops soon. Definitely my chuckle of the week. Cheers John.

A UV light at the end of the tunnel

So, Spencer has been dispatched, hopefully with more success than the shaggin' Dutch, who rolled over for the Russians on Saturday night.

Now begins another two week wait to see if he has had any more luck this time than the previous (approximately) one billion and twenty six times he's been sent into action.

Which brings me to the revelation that I think I've hit a medical breakthrough, a concept that could change the lives of people trying to conceive (and possibly parents of teenage boys) forever.

Surely, the white coat brigade (scientists, not butchers) could come up with something that men can drink, which would turn their wee swimming troop luminous. Glow in the dark and traceable through human flesh.

Just like UV lamps can pick up certain stains and substances on surfaces, surely they can fashion something that can follow a guy's emissions internally?

So all that would need to happen is Mr Lubba-Lubba would drink this magic substance a half hour or so before ugly bumping, and it would turn his awesome sauce luminous.

Then by waving the 'Spencer Tracer' wand (trademark & patent pending) over Ms. Lubba-Lubba's funny bits, the participants can follow the progress of the wee buggers internally.

It would be possible to see which ones have put their feet up just inside the door, and which are beavering away and where they are beavering to.

Should none be heading in the right direction, then they can try again, or just go ahead and get drunk, 2 weeks early.

Aside from the possible issues arising from abuse of the idea, such as wives spiking their husband's porridge with the stuff, and then waving the Spencer Tracer around their babysitter's throat, it can only be seen as an idea full of sheer brilliance, I think.

An unlikely hero?

I know it's been a while, but listen up old chap, I've got some news for you.

You have another chance.
Okay I know you've had lots, but this is a big one.

You see Spencer, I've told you before you are the chosen one, a natural leader among (se)men, you are the milky trojan warrior, explorer of fallopian wildernesses, captain upon mucus covered cervical seas, and hopefully, the capturer of eggish damsels in distress.

Your qualifications alone will not seal your place in history though, luckily the fates of football and ovulation have combined and lined you up the perfect opportunity.

Holland's quarter final game against Russia is on Saturday night, and we already know the benefits a drunken sporting celebration can bring.

Remember Ellie, that piece of skirt you've been chasing? well, guess what? She's going to be in town then.

So what are you waiting for? Everything is ready and waiting for you, (15th time around you lazy prick), the sun is shining (somewhere, probably), it's the weekend, you'll have a (socially acceptable amount to) drink, watch some sexy football, so why not top it off by hooking up with a nice bit of booty?

Tap that eggy ass for the love of God, you know you want to.

'What's the hurry?, why now?' I hear you say.

Well Spencer, balls are rolling once again.

Straighten yourself up and stop laughing, I don't mean those two plums you spend most of your day in, I mean 'metaphorical' balls.

Steps are being taken, and after this cycle, it may well be out of your hands, and well, you'll be back in mine, once again.

The bottom line Spencer, my favourite little Casper lookalike, is this - This.Is.It.
It's being put on a plate for you, physically, cosmically, romantically, and desperately.

Worm your slimey little arse all the way in and up, and hold on, by your teeth if you have to.

Otherwise, you face the sack, or worse still, the plastic cup.

Too much information?

Who do you tell when you decide you want a child?
Aside from each other obviously, pricking pinholes in your condoms or feeding your pill to the geranium plant unbeknown to your partner really isn't recommended.

Who do you tell about a decision to try to conceive ?

Who do you tell when it all starts to go arse over tit and you have to bring specialists, plastic cups, and stirrups into the equation?

In my naivety, I was fairly quick to tell a friend, and for a while it was a trolley full of humping jokes and willy in a sling gags.

Even when we got to the point where samples were being tossed about the place, there were plenty of black slapping and beer spitting moments to be had.

That's fellas for you.

Then things turned serious, and all that stopped. It was no one's fault, but for whatever reason the conversation rarely, if ever, arose once the complications did.

So we are left with a big infertile elephant in the room.

Deciding to start a family is a huge decision for a couple, and to be honest, once we'd made it, I felt people should notice something different about me.

It's big bloody news, and you burst to tell people.

What you don't realise, is that maybe, just maybe, it doesn't all go according to plan, and you are left with something very awkward.
You are left with people who were willing to joke with you about aching gonads, or were willing to turn a blind eye to your late arrival to, or early exit from dinner out somewhere, but are less able to be the support you need when your dreams are taken out of your hands.

It's this possibility that things don't work out like you planned that would make me say, with hindsight, that you should keep it as much to yourself as possible, and don't go shouting your mouth off, even to one person. It's one less person that you find yourself having to explain to 15 cycles down the line why "nothing's stirring".

If I could change the way I did things, I probably would, but there's no use in crying over spilled man milk.

Trying to conceive is an exciting time, a fun time, one of few times in your life where you can feel grown up and overwhelmingly excited at the unknown at the same time.

Infertility, is a far less exciting time. Reality starts to hit home, time goes by far too fast, and what was excited expectation turns to nervous uncertainty.

You used to see a parent and child in the past and look at each other with the 'that'll be us soon' grin on your faces, now you turn your eyes to the floor and look away, from the scene, and each other.

Acknowledging the sadness you see in someone else's eyes only leads to being reminded of your own.

I'm torn between what seems to be an instinctive urge to be frank and open (or immensely idiotic) about this, telling anyone who has a functioning eardrum, and a new gut feeling, an instinct to shut up shop.

Like closing the curtains for the weekend, or not answering the phone for a day, not telling anyone who'll listen that you are trying to conceive is just self preservation.

At a certain point, that's all you have left.

Now if you'll excuse me, the ice pack down my trousers is melting and dampening my chair.

It's definitely number four officer

I have a funny habit of getting a moment of wonderment-stroke-clarity where my head just spins when I stop, take everything in, and wonder to myself 'how in the name of a randy badger did I end up here?'

It usually happens when I find myself in a strange place with strange company, or when I'm doing a job far removed from what I'm supposed to, or just in any bizarre situation that crops up.

What insane chain of events in my life has come to pass and put me in this spot, in this situation, at this very moment in time.

I had my very first one of these moments in respect to 'trying to conceive', today.

As a result I stopped and thought, and came to the decision that I need to soak my brain in bleach for a week.

It wasn't the fact I know more acronyms, thanks to TTC, than an Olympic texter.

It wasn't the fact I have a far too vivid understanding of things like luteal phases, and progesterone levels, and morphology.

It wasn't the fact I talk to my own baby gravy or christen ET's eggs.

It wasn't even the fact that I could probably identify ET's funny bits in a police identity parade at this stage.

This moment of 'how in the name of Jehova did I get to this' came today when I handed my timesheet to my boss and informed him that this was "my timesheet for the 'cycle' of May"

I might as well request that I get my salary paid per menstrual cycle.

Coming all over Dr. Phil

Well Mr Fate was nice enough to give us the 4th of June, but we should have known that he had something up his sleeve for the 5th, the crafty git.

Not enough that I had to get my bloody braces tightened to the point that my hair hurts and eyeballs are bulging, but cycle 14 is finished, and failed.

No frustration, a little disappointment, a lot of sadness.

I'm glad it's over, it's been a particularly lousy one. A bloody hell. Literally.

So let me introduce you all to cycle 15, not the prettiest, but has a lovely personality.

Yet another of the 'No one told me that' moments is how it affects you as a couple.

People talk about how it brings you closer, and it does.
What they don't mention how hurtful you can be in the heat of the moment.

Spiteful, hurtful words, said, and taken, out of context.

People say I have a way with words, can you imagine the result when those words are fueled by anger, frustration, disappointment and sadness?

I can be be a hurtful bastard.

When I say things like "You either want it or you don't", the pillock that I am, I really wonder about how suitable I am for all this.

When I finally prized the baseball bat out of ET's fingers I started to think. Like, proper grown up thinking that adults do.

The thing is, I can't do this on my own in the way I want, and ET can't do this on her own in the way she wants.

We need to be on the same page, we need to know where we both stand, we need to know what we both think, we need to talk and listen and talk and listen and talk and listen some more, until our teeth fall out and our ears bleed.

Like a three legged race sometimes one person is a little behind and lacking in energy, or a little ahead determined to get on, but you both are both tied together and simply have to work together.

Ooooh, I've come over all 'Dr. Phil', (not 'come all over', you filthy minded beast)

...and exhale

I can breathe again.

The cycle didn't end today, I'm resigned to the fact it will sooner rather than later, but if it doesn't end within the next 9 minutes (regardless of blogger's dodgy timestamp) as I write this then I'm relatively happy.

So, credit where it's due, fate gave me a break, and allowed me not to associate today with that.

Today was the 4th June, 2008.

Today was 20 years to the day that my mother died.

Nothing special was said or done today, I've never asked for it I suppose.

I was never sentimental about it very much, but I miss her, or at least 'the idea' of her, now more than ever.

10 years old is too young for a parent and child to be parted by a parent's death.

I don't think I ever realised I was missing anything as I was growing up, but when I think of her, I know she would have missed being there. That make me feel a bit guilty for not reciprocating.

I wonder how different would things be if she were here, how different would I be?

I think we would be friends.

What would she make of all of this madness?

She'd probably chase me around the kitchen with a tea towel as her weapon of choice, but after her initial faked shock and horror, I think she'd laugh.

Heartily.

She was fond of cheekines, the 'rogue' type, not the 'will you buy me beer mister?' type.

She'd laugh and shake until she'd start to cough, she always did thanks to the twenty a day habit.

Twenty a day that cost twenty years.

So you don't fancy my soul

Dear decider of fates and destiny,

Fair enough, I can see a tarnished soul ain't for everyone, but if you don't want to take me up on that offer, I have a favour to ask in it's stead.

I know you're gonna kick me in the balls again. Soon. Could you just make it NOT today, please?

Not the 4th of June, with other fish needing frying and all that jazz.

Just wait 24 hours, and I'll accept it gracefully.

Don't be a bugger, ok?

Appreciated,
Me

I can't get off

No, it's not some weird over-sexed climaxing problem, rather its another 'no one ever told me that' moment.

Once you start trying to conceive, you can never really stop, until the process ends one way or another.

The old analogies are still the best, this is one hell of a merry-go-round.

Even when you want to stop obsessing, if you know you need to stop for the sake of both of your wits, you just can't.

Here we are, on our 14th spin, and we are as certain as we can be that we either need a big slice of luck, or some medical help, whatever form that may take.

Yet, still, here we are in the final days of the cycle again wondering, again hoping, again allowing the flutters of anticipation to creep up from our guts, even though we all but know what the outcome will be before the week ends.

It's yet another thing slipping from my grasp.

Every step in this trying to conceive process seems to result in me losing control of yet another aspect I used to command.

Almost as strange, all I can feel about it is indifference, a resignation to the fact that I have no control in what the outcome will be. Sure, I can force certain paths, but the outcome, the end result, is 100% out of my hands.

I can no longer even 'opt out', this cycle has been the worst by far, lack of energy, unhelpful people, and frustration at the biggest disappointment yet, and I still can not bring myself to just stop.

There is no chord to pull, no emergency brake, no way to step off this ride.

So around we have to go again, like it or not, past the frustration, past the disappointment, past the sadness, and worst of all - past the hope.

I used to hope by choice, and now I hope by force.

Available for trade

Offered:

One used soul.

Battered from 29 years of incidental probing followed by 14 months of intensive use.

Open to offers from all faiths, denominations, belief groups, social movements, non-profit organisations, Tom Cruise, satan worshipers, trade unions, or Bono.

Wanted:

Just one successful cycle.

Benefits of trade:

You will find yourself in posesion of a relatively young and vibrant soul.

Sense of humour included, well worn, but functioning.

More than adequate intelligence and a significantly open mind, the soul is willing to devote itself to any cause in complete and unquestioning fashion.

In return, with granting of a successful cycle, you will make yourself feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

You will be be eliminating the need for difficult choices that should not have to be made.

You will be putting an end to frustration and sadness for two people.

You will be replacing tears of sadness, a level of which I never knew could exist, with those of boundless happiness.

You will be softening past disappointment, removing it from the future.

You will be guaranteeing a match up between a child and two parents that could be so bloody sickeningly perfect, human evolution may slow down to watch, causing tailbacks in the process.

You will be stopping my fucking whinging.

For further information please feel free to contact me at the above e-mail address or by phone between 6-7:30pm on weekday evenings.

The good news

The good news is that my semen is 'perfect'.

The good news is that I don't have HIV.

The good news is that I don't have hepatitis.

The good news is that ET doesn't have HIV.

The good news is she doesn't have hepatitis.

The good news is that she doesn't have, nor has ever had, Chlamydia.

The good news is her hormone levels seem acceptable.

The good news is that they can't see anything wrong with us.

Great news isn't it?

Then why won't anyone help us for 11 more months?
Or why won't they investigate further for a cause?
Or why won't they offer any help at all now, in our 14th cycle.

I've always hated that fucking painting, I 'get' it a bit more now though.

Patience Patients

So here we are, another work week behind us.

I use that term lightly, ('work' that is, not 'week') as I haven't actually done a tap of any.

These have been an odd old few days, we've been playing with the new bulk shipment of OPK's and they've been giving some funny results.

When I say 'playing' I mean pissing on them, not engaging them in monopoly or chess or anything like that. Also, when I say 'we' I mean ET of course, there wouldn't be a whole lot of point in me wazzing on one, as tempting as that actually is.

The funny results from them are not so much belly wobbler funny, as they are head scratcher funny. CD11 gave an almost full blown positive LH surge, with nothing since. Day 11 is WAY earlier a positive than the old sarcastic brand of OPKs.

So as with everything else, we have't got any shagging clue. Literally.

So we hump n'hope.

Monday brings us back to the specialist, where we'll finally have all the relevant test results and hopefully get some plan of action from her.

We fantasise about us being shown a dessert trolley full of options and choices, while the chances are the only decision we will have to make is what our escape route from the building should be when I'm forced to murder the overeducated procastinating hag.

Nevertheless, with my dusty cobweb covered optimistic head on, should we be given choices, what should we do?
Do we start popping ovulation stimulation drugs (again, ET, not me) in the hope that Spencer the dozy bastard will hit SOME target?, or do we shoot straight for an IUI, medicated or otherwise?, or do we just take a detour by the maternity ward and pick up something off the rail?

Personally I like the idea of putting Spencer in a rocket to the planet uterus, but what do I know, I'm just a frustrated, sub-fertile, patience deficient, obsession fuelled turkey baster with legs & braces.

While I'm sucking lemons, I've decided to be proactive and combat the 'just relax' brigade, I'm going to force feed a bucket of laxatives to the next 'just relax-er' that comes my way, and then we'll see how easy it is...

Now, where's that bottle opener.

A warning to the txt generation

Due to the wonder that is a rural Irish Catholic background, I come from a somewhat unusual family, demographically speaking.

In an era and area of Ireland where the only contraception was pregnancy, potato harvesting, or death, never ending families were the norm.

The 2nd or 3rd 'accident', I'm the youngest of eight children, by quite a margin.

Take into account the fact that the rest of them are much older, are poster children for fertility, and that they got jiggy with it at relatively young ages, and the result is a flummix of nieces and nephews.

18 of them I believe.

This in itself is a bit of an issue. The very genes I share with my siblings are waving fertile chromosomes in my face and taunting me in unison.

Screams of 'jaffa' ring in my ears from the souls of long spent semen.

For Christ's sake, there was period in the 90's where you couldn't walk into any one of our family homes without slipping on a freshly expulsed placenta.
ALL up the duff, ALL the time.

Thankfully, I am zen personified, and for the most part I let this genetic mockery wash right over my lower than average head.

Having quoted Bonnie and Bono last time around, I'll now quote Bob - " The times they are a changin' "

These kids that resembled safari park monkeys as you approached their homes in the past, are growing up.

They have been going to college, working, living abroad, and I presume (while using all my strength to avoid mental images), fornicating.

In fact, six of them are in their early or mid twenties. You see where I'm going with this?

Sooner rather than later, one of them is going to report back that they have gotten themselves, or some other poor misfortune, knocked up.

No doubt the moment of impact will occur with a post cider party knee trembler up some side alley, or some other gesture of mockery at my own redundant efforts.

This simply can not be allowed to happen.

These people say things along the lines of "Yeah like, I was totally like shocked like n'stuff", they drink alcopops and other blue shit, they have rap songs for ring tones, they haven't got a clue how to spell words using vowels, and they've never even once seen an episode of Dallas, Dynasty or Falcon Crest.

Mother of mercy they have 'Bebo' pages for f&$% sake.

I will go ballistic if I receive one of these: "HI XBX JST A QCK MSG 2 LT U KNW I R PRGNNT. L8R UR FAV NECE"

If one of them informs me that I'm going to become a granduncle before I get ET knocked up I'm going to take a bath with a toaster, but not before I get into the ford focus and mow down all of humanity, showing no mercy to man nor beast.

A granduncle.
A grandparent's brother.

I'm just warning you, that's all.

A Bonnie Tyler & Bono toasted infertility sandwich

"Where have all the good men gone?" sang Bonnie.

I dunno love, but I strolled into the Hague yesterday to try and find out. Well, I didn't stroll, I took the train, strolling to the Hague would have had me found dead from exhaustion about half way, but that's not important. Well, my death would be important of course, to some at least, but that's not what I'm talking about.

I headed for the English bookshop. Ironically this is actually an American bookshop, but once again, that's also not important. Stop interrupting.

I wanted to pick up some books, obviously enough. I wanted to find something, anything, on 'trying to conceive', or infertility, or just starting a family, from a male point of view.

What a waste of oxygen and sitting on my arse time that adventure turned out to be.

It's a relatively small shop, with a limited selection of books in relation to conception, pregnancy, childbirth and childcare, but I imagine it is quite representative of what's available in the market.

Of all the books on show, there were TWO specifically aimed at men, BOTH were related to childcare and rearing, and BOTH were big, bold hardbacks with titles like 'Child Operation Manual' or some such other utter pigshit, with pictures of a frazzled daddy on the front, with a toddler under his arm and a beer bottle up his arse.

'Okay' I say, and onward I search. Into the deceptively named realm of the conception and infertility section. I say deceptively named, as there was sweet fanny adams on infertility.

So I dive deeper into the conception books which consisted of two groups.
One, understandably enough, was full of big pink and other pastel coloured books with fat bellies and smiley faces on the cover, full with references to mother earth, and egg white whatsits, and 7am thermometers up the bum.

The second type were manuals that were just as thick, twice as tall, and less comprehensible than myself. If Freud himself had problems getting his mother up the duff, he would struggle to understand these medical journals.

My conclusion is that us fellas either have to put up with these 'changing nappies for dummies' novelty type books, or bloody biological ledgers that you need 17 years training to be able to follow.

NEWSFLASH, we are not all either complete muppets, or experts.
Some of us, me at least, fall somewhere in between.

So why isn't there anything written for, or by normal men on the subjects of conception, trying to conceive, or infertility?

Does conception not affect us? The last time I checked, fellas made up roughly half of every heterosexual couple trying to conceive, and have a 'hand' in one or two homosexual couples trying to conceive.

Does trying to conceive not affect us? Fellas want children, they want families. They might not always say it, and they prefer to be seen to be dragged kicking and screaming into the abyss that is responsibility, but under that facade, they love the idea of being dads, the head of a household. We just know it.

Does infertility not affect us? Exclusively male factor infertility accounts for 30% of infertility cases in couples failing to conceive. With 30% attributed exclusively to the women, 30% to a combination of both, and with 10% unexplained, even someone who needs one of those 'dummy' books can figure out that men bear half the responsibility in cases of infertile couples.

Why in name of all that is holy does the increasingly popular male tendency to be 'idiot or expert' have to spill into this area? Infertility is often not easily overcome, but often, very often, there are simple steps that can be taken to reverse it, or avoid it in the first place, from the male point of view.

I'm all for playing stupid to ET when I don't want to have to make myself a toasted sandwich, but this is slightly more pressing than an afternoon snack.

Why isn't there something for, or someone supporting the normal fella, the one who struggles with medical journals but is rightly ashamed to have to resort to a 'fatherhood by numbers' novelty book?

As I stood in that shop yesterday, the CD playing was Ray Lamontagne, 'until the sky turns black'. Ironically, that is just one example of a guy tackling uncomfortable subjects (depression in this case) but using his skills to work it out, and there are literally thousands of songwriters doing the same.

If so many musicians can do it, why can't writers?

Maybe I'm wrong, but I don't think I'm all that weird, not to the point where I'm completely off the mark with this. Fellas DO want to know about these subjects, how they affect them, what they can do about it and what to expect, but there's nothing out there for them. Even in the wild expanses of the internet, where lack of anonymity is no longer an excuse to shy away from these topics, resources for men on this are few and far between.

I should know, I've been searching long and hard enough.

Even though the runt gets on my nerves, there's something about short arsed Irishmen that don't know when to shut up, that just appeals to me and makes me want to quote Bono.

'I still haven't found what I'm looking for'