***I feel like I should preface this, and all future posts with a warning. It might get gross/TMI-ish (TMI, too much information. I used to say “don’t go there” but that’s lame. Oh, I love Michael Scott…) Since baby-making is a messy process involving bodies and fluids and sex, faint-hearted readers may want to steer clear. I can’t say that I’ll try to keep things clean and dry, but I will try to try…
You know what’s super awesome about Clomid? How it takes away the one physical manifestation of ovulation (our dear friend “EggWhite Cervical Mucus, or for those in the know EWCM) so you don’t know when you should REALLY be doing it? Or maybe it’s the part where it makes you feel crazy and fat and ugly and sad, so you don’t really want to wonkytonky* anyway. When they prescribe Clomid, I think they should also prescribe Xanax. And lots of booze. Wine, preferably. Women should be given something that will trigger a psychological shift that encourages some desire for the sexytime. Because, while dudes seem to be ready and willing whenever they are called upon (for the most part, I know there are off-times and such), the one major turn-off? A wife that doesn’t want to do it. I can see how this would stress people out. A vicious cycle of non-babymaking: 1) Take pills that make wifey-poo hate everyone and everything, including herself. 2) Doctor tells you “Have sex every day for ten days, starting on day ten, have it more than once a day if you’d like” (that’s what happens when you see a MAN doctor. Bros before Hos, I guess). 3) Try to follow doctor’s orders while coping with the fact that Little Miss Crankypants ain’t too fun to be around. 4) Rinse 5) Repeat.
Seriously though, I am not so great at chores. And my (one-time only because my real doctor was sick) doctor made sex seem like a chore. So, I’m resisting. It’s not that we’re not going to do it, but rather we’re going to try and keep it in the “fun” mindframe. Maybe we’ll drive out to the other side of Utah Lake and do it in the back of the car (this was a real-life suggestion to us from some Old Lady who works at a bank in Springville) or maybe I’ll try reverse-psychologizing God, since prayers and pleas aren’t seeming to work (lousy omniscience, foiling my plans…). Whatever I’m doing, I can guarantee you that I won’t be letting some stupid pill make me resent the WT*.
*Wonky Tonky (wahn-kee tahn-kee) is a term we came up with early in our marriage during a particularly racially insensitive conversation wherein we decided that Wonky Tonky was a great term for the sex had in wigwams, or teepees or hogans or any other fun-to-say term for shelter used by Native Americans. I will probably use Wonky Tonky to refer to sex more than any other term. Fair warning.