A watched pot

It never rings apparently.

Or a watched telephone never boils, or something.

Still, nothing.

No period.
No positive.
No nothing.

We sit, and we wait.
We sit, and wait, and scratch, and itch, and sit, and look, and wait, and fiddle, and sit, and surf, and read, and look, and sit.

We wait.

If a kid does end up having been conceived this month, I'm going to kick it's arse next January.

If it doesn't, we'll sit, and wait, and scratch, and itch, and sit, and look, and wait, and fiddle, and sit, and surf, and read, and look, and sit.

Missing

We would like you to be on the look out for a missing period.

Answers to the names "Aunt Flo", "Red", and "Yokes".

The missing period was expected back home sometime early this week, but as of yet has not turned up.

The last reported sighting was early April 2008.

The uncertainty as to the whereabouts of the missing period is causing great distress to it's owner.

Described as moody and bitchy, with an affinity for chocolate and doritos, the period is similar in appearance to a gaping head wound.

Should you encounter this missing period, do not approach it. It is considered highly dangerous and volatile.
Do not attempt to converse with it, do not attempt to apprehend it, and most certainly do not attempt to send it home, or you'll have me to deal with.

Should you see this missing period please go directly to the appropriate authorities, even though my mind hasn't quite worked out who they should be in this little verbalised meltdown.

As a result, feel free to use your own imagination, as mine, it appears, has broken it's leash.

A positive negative

If there is such a thing, that's what we got this morning.

A negative, but the cycle is still going.

Into injury time if you like. The more added on time we get, the better.

It may very well have been to early to detect a rise in hCG, 9 days, so the longer the cycle runs the more of an outside chance there is that we will get one.

Or not. Who knows?
Not me.

So I have the tweed jacket on layaway, not canceled just yet.

Also, what is it about trying to get someone up the duff that can render you both incapable of counting to 26, 27 or 28 correctly?

I've taken to using an excel sheet now.

So, on we go, if there is a tomorrow in this cycle, we'll once again be pissing.

Just hopefully not against the wind.

Unlucky for some

We are now very, very close to the end of this cycle.

So close I can smell the blood.

Number 13.

This is the last 'end of cycle' before we go back to the specialist in three weeks.

We have really done everything right this time, angles, gravity, trajectory, all faultless, and with Spencer back in the game we were very, very hopeful.

One thing came to our attention though, Ellie makes quite a relatively late appearance.

Her tardiness means that there seems to be around 9-11 days before the start of the next cycle as opposed to the ideal 12-16.

This (luteal phase) is considered, like myself, to be too bloody short.

If this is the case, we are not too worried, it's identifying another issue which can be solved with supplements and/or hormones to boost the levels of progesterone, vital to make the product of any conception 'stick'.

Dr Xbox4NappyRash has put ET on Vitamin B6 supplements until we can get the proper advice.

ET has had tests for progesterone performed and the results we'll discuss with the RS.

This brings up an eerie thought though.
If Spencer has at least some of the time been performing, but the luteal phase has been too short, it's possible that we may, at some stage, have conceived but it failed to stick.

There goes my fucking lunch.

While I'm desperately trying to think of this purely in terms of hormone levels, we can't help but think of the 'what ifs'.

Regardless, because it's the last chance before going back to the specialist, tomorrow morning we will take a pregnancy test. (When I say we, I mean ET obviously, it's not like I'm going to wazz on the feckin thing.)

This is probably the latest we can hold out before the start of the next cycle.
We haven't taken a pregnancy test since our first two naive months of trying, and don't plan to again, but it could be a vital piece of the jigsaw for the specialist.

The insane thing is that, given all the variables, the result, whatever it is, could mean many things:
Negative, could be too early to detect a high level of hCG due to the short post ovulation phase.
Negative, could be simply negative, denting my latest theory.
Positive, could be a conception doomed not to last due to the short luteal phase.
Positive, could be positive, and stick, and I could buy a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches.

Do we really even want to know tomorrow?
No, but it's for the best.

If I keep saying that to myself, I may even eventually believe it, but probably not.

If anyone needs me, I'll be in the fetal position.

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.

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...

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.

Supplementing Spencer

Now I'm going to get all serious and sciencey on your hides.

It's a big week for Spencer and the boys, Grand Prix week, 6 days which will make or break his reputation. (I am in negotiations with a sub-contracting sperm called Samson should Spencer not deliver.)

He needs the best preparation possible. We've tackled the mental preparation here but of course we need to back that up with real physical conditioning.
Keeping his condo nice and cool is a prerequisite, therefore I'm writing this wearing nothing but an itch and a pervy grin.
The hour we spent cycling in the snow last night on our way to and from a Christmas (yes, Christmas, we have strange friends) dinner also will help prime him.

But nature alone isn't enough!
This world we live in strips us of vital nutrients and send us towards a downward spiral of impending sterility. To combat this and to give Spence the best preparation possible we are pumping him full of supplements.
As usual the internet is as much a hindrance as a help with this stuff, but after much googling we've come up with what we reckon is best needed.

So fellas, listen carefully and take note. If that's too much for you to handle, then just look at the pictures.

Vitamin C - Yes guys, not only is this good if you want to avoid scurvy on transatlantic exploration expeditions, but it oxidizes and detoxifies just about everything. Great if you are a smoker or often in smoky or polluted environments. Recommended is 250-500mg per day for smokers. I'm not, but I gobble 1000mg a day anyway as I'm waiting for a call from Christopher Columbus, I hear he's on the look out for a sarcastic chunky lazy shipmate.

Vitamin E - It savages 'Free Radicals'. I'll be fecked if I know what they are. I think they are a band. Nonetheless, they are bad and simply must be savaged. I'm told 50-100mg per day is enough to kick the hole of a Free radical.


Zinc - Zinc is a handy wee bugger. It doesn't particularly add anything but it does stop your boys being generally crap at what they are supposed to do. The 'Acrosome reaction' is when the boys do stuff at just the right time to get stuck into that egg good n'hard, often this reaction is mistimed (do I hear an 'don't I know it' from the ladies...?) but Zinc helps the timing to stay in good order. At least 10mg per day is recommended.

Beta Carotene - Again an antioxidant with Vitamin A, purifies and sharpens everything. Other than that I'm not too sure what it does, but it DOES have a carrot on the bottle so I reckon it improves Spencer's eyesight so he can see better in the dark. 15mg a day and Bob's your uncle.


Disclaimer for Americans - This is not medical advice. Don't sue me. I have shag all of value anyway. If you do, I'll go on Oprah and play the sympathy card of being a sub-fertile male being hounded by capitalist bastards.

Incidentally, if any of you internet experts out there actually know your stuff and are willing to inform me that I might be killing myself or leaving myself open to turning orange or growing a second tail by ingesting these supplements then I would appreciate a wee 'heads up'.

P.S. She DID read it after all, which is why I have to be very male and stupid and self destructive by posting silly pictures.

Stay tuned...

What in buggery is this?

I am a man, I am an idiot. I am now thirty-one years old, a man, and an idiot.

In the late Spring of 2007, my wife ET and I decided to apply our universal ineptitude to conceiving, gestating, and maybe raising another human. Or a 'child' as they are known.

I began logging the chain of events almost immediately, and fully expected to blogging about disgusting nappies, cute gurgles, and sex & sleep deprevation.

Instead, it seems that fate is an ironic and crafty bugger and has other plans. We are now, by official definition, in the realms of 'infertility'.

At first glance it seemed that male factor infertility was the source, but following further semen analysis, the swimmers have the ability, when it suits them.

With the "all clear" for the both of us so far, here we are with occasionally wonky sperm in our pockets and not so many answers.

Mild insanity has set in, I've named my sperm and wife's eggs, and I chat with them on a far too regular basis.

Attempts to get help from the professionals proved to be, literally unfruitful, as for two years two clinics have decided because they can't see a problem, there must not be one.

Finally after being given the go ahead for treatment, and another few hiccups, we've done it. I sat and watched as someone else got my wife up the pole, knocked her up, made her a grump with a bump.

Feel free to join in with suggestions, remarks, comments, support or heckling.

Xbox4NappyRash@gmail.com