If there’s one thing I’ve learned during this whole trying-to-get-knocked-up process (besides how to take my basal temperature every morning and record the results on a chart that tells me ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOTHING), it’s that my brain is definitely not doing the talking these days. You know who is?
Chatty little bastards.
You know how when you’re coming down with a cold or the flu, and your body says, “You’re sick,” and your brain says, “Pfff – whatever,” usually because there’s something you want or need to do, and being ill would get in the way of that? And you go ahead and stupidly force yourself to go to the concert or to the beach or whatever it is, your body all the while nagging, “Throat! Your throat hurts! And legs! Aching legs!” and your brain replying, “My throat hurts from the dry air in my house! My legs ache because I worked out and didn’t stretch!”? And then you get to the concert or the beach, and you feel like rotisseried ass, and your brain finally relents and says “FINE! I’m sick,” and your body smiles a self-satisfied smile that makes your body want to slap that smug little grin off its face ? Yeah, it’s like that. But with ovaries.
See, I went my whole life never wanting kids. This view was undoubtedly influenced by the multiple summers I spent babysitting for 8 hours a day, when I promised myself that I would never, EVER maintain a lifestyle in which I would be forced to familiarize myself with Nick Jr.’s program lineup and share living space with 345,673,097 brightly colored plastic toys – most of which had likely come in contact with some bodily fluid or another.
Plastic hot dog that has spent substantial time in a three-year-old’s nose? Coming right up!
Seemed like a pretty good plan at the time, and lo, the plan served me well for the first 30 years of my life. And then, sometime after my 30th birthday, those bitch-ass ovaries started acting up. And as any person of the vaginal persuasion will tell you, there ain’t no tuning those fuckers out.
This makes for some interesting repartee whenever my brain and my ovaries find themselves at odds with one another, which is pretty often these days. A typical exchange might go something like this:
Jive Turkey takes a pregnancy test with a negative result.
JT: Oh, well. Another couple weeks of getting drunk for me.
OVARIES: WHAT?! Are you fucking kidding me with this? ONE pink line? ONE? Get your ass back in that bedroom, you whore, and screw that man until there are BABIES in this house! You hear me?! BAAAAAAABIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!!!!!
Jive Turkey is sitting next to a squalling baby in a restaurant.
JT: Yikes. Maybe I’m not ready for that.
OVARIES: Excuse me, did you say something? I can’t hear you over the MIRACLE OF LIFE at the next table and the CACOPHONY OF INNOCENT JOY coming forth from its PERFECT, ADORABLE, CHERUBIC little mouth. And…is that a glass of wine you just ordered?
Jive Turkey passes a cute baby with his parents strolling past on the sidewalk.
Yes, my friends, this is what I’ve had to contend with these past several months. One minute, I’ll be perfectly fine with (another) negative (fucking expensive waste of an) E.P.T. test, the next minute, I’m getting all Ed McDonnough up in HoST’s face.
“You go right back up there and get me a toddler! I need a baby, Hi; they got more’n they can handle!”
And the ovaries, they never let up. Even in the most mundane of circumstances. Involved in a project at work? Well, that’s just fine, until you go to email a co-worker whose name would be just PERFECT for a little boy OMG!! Buying a new pair of shoes? No problem, until you pass the display with THE LITTLEST BIRKENSTOCKS EVER, I mean HOLY SHIT can you even FATHOM feet that small OMG!! Thinking about getting drunk to blow off a little steam? Perfect! I mean, what could be less baby-related than downing Jack & Cokes in a seedy bar? Except that alcohol turns those damn ovaries into a drunk sorority girl on her fifth Long Island Iced Tea.
“You guys, you guys, you guyssssss…I like, totally love babies, you guys. I want to like, totally have a million babies!! BABIES!! Wanna see my boobs? WOOO!”
Unfortunately, I can’t send my sobbing, mascara-smeared ovaries away in a cab and get on with my night in peace.
So, with each passing month, while my brain is managing to cope just fine with this whole trying-to-conceive clusterfuck, my ovaries keep yammering away, making it miserable for everyone. Miserable like a 10-hour car trip with a colicky infant.
Wait…that wouldn’t be miserable…that would be WONDERFUL! AMAZING! LIFE-AFFIRMING and BEAUTIFUL! A colicky baby would COMPLETE ME, transforming my soul into a DOVE that would SOAR on the blissful breezes of its EAR-SHATTERING CRIES!
I hate you, ovaries.
Entry filed under: And you KNOW THIS!.