Baby steps

Aside from almost choking to death upon reading the newspaper last weekend we were busy with one or two other things.

Most importantly, we got to meet ET's new nephew.

He's changed a lot from the first photographs we saw. He has a thick fluffy head of black hair and a handsome curious face that could sell anything.

He also snuffles in his sleep like a hedgehog I once nearly stood in. Textbook cute.

So, what's next for us?

Simply, more of the same.

We meet with the specialist on the 11th March, just under two weeks from now. This is a meeting where we've been told we can discuss starting some intervention. Almost certainly in the form of IUI, the question remains medicated or non-medicated.

The very early end to the last cycle (25 days) obviously means this one has started earlier than expected and the appointment will fall on CD16, therefore ruling out any slight chance we may of had that they would try something in this cycle.

The ultimate irony is, Spencer could be snuggling up to a slutty egg on his own initiative at the very moment I'm prying ET's fingers from the specialist's eye sockets.

The earliest we could realistically hope they step in is in the next cycle, due to start somewhere around 23rd March.

Before then, we just try to chill out again. Come back down. It's been an up and down few days.

Undoubtedly and unfortunately, there'll be more to come.

Empty boxes

Over eleven years and two months you collect a lot of birthdays, valentines, Christmases and anniversaries. Nearly one hundred of these occasions between a couple, if you’re counting.

That’s a hundred presents.

Small ones at first, signs of intent and interest, romantic ones in the hope of wooing, practical ones to help along the way, right up to ridiculously overpriced and over the top gestures.

Making up gifts, jokey gifts, and spur of the moment for no good reason gifts.

Somewhere in there, are a few special ones, ones that mean as much to me, the giver, as they do to her.

She has everything she could want, gadgetry, clothes, holidays, sparkly things, time to herself, some money to spend, and a house to do with as she pleases.

There’s nothing I can give her.

On one hand it’s a great complaint to have, she and I have both been working full time for 8 and 11 years respectively, and we have pretty much managed to exhaust our wish lists.

On the other, it’s a screaming reminder of what’s gone so very wrong, like some nightmarish fairy tale where we are supposed to learn our lesson, and emerge enlightened as to what really matters in life.

We get it.

Our house is full of ‘stuff’, but it’s horribly empty. Music, games, and movies could deafen you in any room over three floors, but it’s still eerily silent.

Silence that’s amplified when you stand on the spiral stairs and listen to the Saturday morning screeches and giggles from next door.

We have spare bedrooms living lives disguised as offices, storage space, giant walk in wardrobes, or dressing rooms. Not as they were intended, just bedrooms.

I don’t know if it’s possible to feel any stupider as you do when you realise the clichés were true all along, and the joke is on you.

“The best things in life are free” or “Money can’t buy you happiness”

Cheesy, overused, and scoffed at, but stomach sinking true. Yes, we fucking get it.

We have everything, all adding up to nothing.

Yesterday was ET’s birthday and there was nothing I could give her.

She got a gift from Aunty Irony today though, her period.
Twenty four, over and out.

Blowing trumpets, playing flutes

Despite my protestations of being too cool for school, and it not bothering me at all, I was actually quite excited about the Irish blog awards being announced on Saturday night.

Unfortunately, it wasn't to be, and the Specialist Blog award went to Irish Economy, congratulations to them.

I really regret not going now, as it sounds like it was a great night, I'm now vowing to be there next year. There it is, in writing.

Hmmm, what else happened, oh yes, my sperm made the national press.

I woke up on Saturday to find that the blog had only been mentioned in The bloody Irish Times! In the weekend section there was an article "Blogs: What to read and why" which listed the '20 of Ireland's most essential blogs', including this one.

There and then, I had an orgasm.

I ran out and immediately bought 400 copies and have spent the last 36 hours re-reading it and touching myself inappropriately.

398 of the copies are now unreadable.

That stuff stains.

Going home

I haven't been back to Ireland since 2007.

I'm not sure how much that has, or has not got to do with all this trying to conceive stuff, probably more than I imagine.

There is the practical side of it where we have to be in the same place for two weeks in every four for sure, plus arranging and waiting on appointments with doctors. This makes any longer term plans difficult.

Either way, more than a full year has passed, and I still dread the thought of going home today.

I guess it's the idea of facing people with this hanging over our heads. A little too real.

Last Summer I wrote this joking about the fallout if any of my younger nieces or nephews made any pregnancy announcements. Just weeks later irony bit down hard.

This Friday night we go home to say hello for the first time to ET's new nephew and godson. No doubt there will be some mixed emotions for ourselves, but we are very happy for her brother, a first time dad, and the whole family.

I know from my own family the excitement that surrounds the arrival of the first grandchild.

So we will have a weekend full of chatter and excitement, and reminding ourselves that we don't want someone else's family, just our own.

Sunday, we return to Holland, to start the count down of the last few days of the two week wait.

But....

Speaking of excitement and Ireland, sandwiched in between our arrival and departure, on Saturday night the Irish blog awards will take place in Cork. My anal bleaching, offers of sexual favours, and vaguely veiled threats of violence seem to have paid off, as Xbox4NappyRash is among the 5 finalists in the 'Specialist blog' category.

Yes, I'm clearly an expert at this conceiving business.

One of the first Irish blogs I ever read was Irish Taxi and it, along with last years winner in this category The Family Voyage, plus Irish Economy, and The Biopsy Report are the fellow nominees in the group.

It's a crazy category, very wide ranging, so the outcome is anyone's guess.

On the evening itself I will be holed up in some pub further down the country with my father pouring buckets of beer down my neck, so I think I'll employ Jo from Infantasia (& The Blog Pound & 1 Blank Page) to hurl drunken abuse at the winner on my behalf. I'll be forwarding her a prepared statement of profanity ridden insults for each individual nominee shortly.

Good luck everyone, and enjoy the night.

Almost perfect

The directionally wayward wank waste has been sent on his way.

For one reason or another, primarily shagging, no OPKs were used this month, so if we get knocked up all you 'just relaxers' can claim a mini moral victory.

Bear in mind if anyone says 'I told you so' I'll break your legs and rape your cats.

Funnily enough the indications now are of a slightly earlier than usual ovulation, so we'll see how that works out now that we're in the two week wait.

Anyway, my point. I honestly don't understand the psychology of this whole thing. Just weeks ago, and not exactly for the first time either, we were deflated again. Now, yet again, I'm quite hopeful.

Every month you need a hook to hang your hope on, sometimes it can be the same one as before, sometimes you need to find another one, something else that gives you the thought or the hope that this could be the one.

What was this it month? Not pills, potions, or propped pillows, it just feels right.

Very right.

Lying there, semi covered, spent and breathing heavy. Watching the slowing rise and fall of a breast, trailing fingertips along a thigh and hip, with evening having stolen most of the light from the room without you noticing.

This is how it should be, it should all begin from this very moment, a stirring, a bump, a healthy glow, and all the months and years that follow.

Everything just perfect.

Two years into this craziness, but better than ever, don't let anyone try to convince you that it has to be otherwise.

A tired smile, a happy smile, a cheeky smile, and more light stolen from the room.

At this moment, everything perfect.

Almost.

Friday the 13th revolution

For the record, lest there be any doubt, the best song into ever is on Stevie Wonder's "Superstition".

I may even rename Spencer to Stevie for this month in his honour, it certainly looks like he could use a white stick and a labrador to make his way around.

Don't even get me started on his rhythm.

One week of ooohing, aaaahing, and making of various other yummy noises down, and another to go. Today is CD15 and ET is ripe for the plucking.

Ripe for the plucking on Friday 13th.

Can you just imagine the intense pleasure you could derive from telling a whiney 14 year old in years to come that they were conceived on Friday the 13th?

"Jason, the truth is, you're not actually named after that singer with the funny hat."

Then again, is it fate?

Will the unluckiest day on the calendar invert and exponentially expand it's influence for good instead of evil?

I call on you, forces of misfortune and dread, make these previous twenty three unexplained unlucky failures redundant and make the unlucky lucky.

I feel like I should be standing bare-chested on a lightening ravaged cliff top, arms outstretched to the gods as I make my cry, but a basement office that smells of cheese and cigarettes will have to do.

If you have any clue what I'm talking about, please let me know, I'm buggered if I do.

The pleasant exhaustion of the week has taken it's toll.

Hump n'hope people, hump n'hope. Take 24.

EDIT: 13 indeed! I've just seen this, and I don't think I will ever have an erection again.

Clear as mucky mind mud

You people are so very, very mucky and freaky, and I do love it so. I really should have just asked for those super tips months earlier.

Of course, as you all gave slightly varying tales of the methods you used for conceptual success, it would be impossible to try them all in one lifetime. I have therefore had to mould them into one foolproof method.

Baring that in mind, here is our plan of attack for this month, based solely on your input.

Firstly we need a head to toe lace body suit, I'm not sure if this was intended for the me or her, so two are on order.

ET needs to nag me, this may require intensive training. She must nag me something woeful until I freak out and offer to shag her out of the goodness of my heart.

We then need to have sex on the stairs, doggy style.

The problem there is that it is essential we try to not to get caught. I really should post a picture of our stairs to illustrate that we certainly would get caught, by the fire brigade who would have to come and cut us free from the sweaty semen dripping spiral mangled mess that would surely ensue.

All the while my shoes should be under ET's side of the bed.

Of course we would need refreshments, with the beverages of choice seemingly being 8 bottles of red wine and a bucket of margarita, preferably provided by the in-laws. Hers or mine, I'm not certain.

For an extra push to send the boys that extra mile, or inch, ET should have her pelvis realigned, go on the pill, go off the pill, sign up for adoption seminars, and smoke some dope. All this and the subsequent über shagging should be done under the watchful gaze of some Jehovah's witnesses, with my in-law's ears pressed up against the key hole trying to decipher our grunts over Jay and Silent Bob on the telly.

I do question the use of a movie featuring a mute to drown out sex noises though.

We'll have to make sure our passports are valid as this marathon knobbing festival will be like 'Live Aid', taking place all over the planet in Turkey, Eastbourne, some random lighthouse keeper's lodge, and in the in-law's basement.

They don't actually have a basement, but they do have a garage where they keep the beer, which would do nicely. Killing two birds, with one bone.

All of this, every last bit of it it seems, can be ignored under one circumstance, and one alone. Sex in the teenage single bed.

Unfortunately, as both our teenage beds are in another country, my alternative plan is to redecorate our spare room to be an exact clone of my childhood bedroom.

From the torn Elmer Fudd wallpaper, to the wardrobe whose door never shut, to the Kylie Minogue posters, to the New kids on the block albums, to the tattered underwear section of the 1989 'Family Album' catalog, to the teddy bears who witnessed sights no stuffed animal should ever have to.

I will get the theme tunes of Dallas, Dynasty, and Falcon Crest to waft up the stairs, to warn us we have 30 minutes more. The theme tune to the late evening news will mean it's time to zip up.

The bed will of course, have to have an amplified creak upon every movement, and a plentiful supply of questionable tissues shoved between pillows and mattresses.

All this, will certainly deliver Spencer to the holy grail on this, the twenty fourth time of asking.

P.S. I did have to chuckle at the notion of aiding and abetting 'extra' orgasms, you mean one at Christmas and on her birthday?

Keeping secrets

A thought occurred to me. I don't know what day it is. Cycle day I mean (does this must mean I'm relaxed?).

Or just knackered?

Okay, it doesn't need CERN intervention to deduce that it's CD07 or 08 or so, but not knowing exactly is unusual.

Within a week we will be hard at it once again, moaning, groaning, sweating, chanting, and swapping bodily fluids, all in the name of procreation.

For the twenty fourth time. I need a lie down at the very thought of it.

Maybe it's a stupid question, but I don't think I've ever asked, how did YOU get knocked up, how did YOU knock your missus up?

Did you chew gum? shake both your hips a certain way? sacrifice chickens?

Did you use accessories, foodstuffs, or woodland creatures? Was there a specific time of day, or night?

Did you make use of any particular soundtrack or background noise, jungle sounds or whales arguing?

Did you dress up, milkman, postman, flight attendant, vicar, or backstreet boy?

Don't be mean, don't hold back, don't be ashamed. I'm not sure if you've noticed but shame doesn't live here anymore.

In other news, this has now been long listed (as opposed to long, long listed) for the Irish Blog awards specialist blog category.
I think the swimsuit round is next, followed by a shortlist, and then a talent round. Anyone good at anal bleaching?

Wii need therapy

Leaving the obvious truth of the title aside for a moment, I'm about to give you wisdom that will save your relationship.

I think I could be responsible for putting 85% of couple counsellors out of gainful employment with the following information.

Forget about those two dozen Oprah recommended books on how to cope with wonky tubes and disorientated sperm. Don't even consider the 18 months of therapy with Doctor M.T. Belleh or Professor Nohorn.

Spend a little cash, once off, on a Wii, and go straight for the boxing games.

We stood with the controllers in our hands, grinning like two brazen children as the bell went.

DING DING.

Before I knew what was happening - Boof!

- "You seedless sonofabitch" she shrieked like a banshee on acid as she punched me square in the face.

Staggering, I gathered my bearings, looked at her smug smile and smacked her on the ear with a left hook.
- "Right back at you, you cervical cripple"

Barely affected by the retaliation, she started swinging like an electrocuted monkey, left and right, right and left, making repeated contact with both my ears.

Cries of "Broken balls!" rang out as she hit me over and over again.

- "Useless bigger bollock!" - Bang, with the left.
- "Useless smaller bollock!" - Whack, from the right.

I wasn't standing for this any longer and I decided to play dirty. - "Dented womb" I cried as I pummelled the aforementioned with lefts and rights.

To and fro we sparred, landing blow and insult upon blow and insult.

The seconds and minutes passed, and we continued, sweating like two whores at mass.

- "You barren bitch!" I yelled like Mel Gibson in Braveheart as I threw my hardest punch at her nose.

She stopped, staggered, wobbly on her feet. I thought I had her beat, that was until she moaned.

I'd know that fake moan ANYWHERE!

My realisation that she was bluffing came too late. Before I had a chance to protect myself, she had thumped me in the larynx and left me flat on my arse while screaming - "screw you jaffa ladyboy and the spastic spunk you rode in on".

Knocked out, in 2 minutes 51 seconds. She stood over me panting, sweat and saliva drooping and dripping onto my beaten body.

- "Cup of tea honey bunch?" she said, placing the controller on the table and wiping her forehead.
- "Oh yeah that would be nice" I replied. "Any biscuits?"