How to Get Pregnant  

I was a reluctant mother. Yeah, yeah, I’m happy now. I love my kids, blah, blah freaking blah; they’re wiping their own asses. But, I did not go willingly into pregnancy and sleepless nights. My husband–the one without the vagina–he was the cheerleader.

After the first time I survived colic, co-fucking-sleeping, bloody raw nursing nipples, and a shit-ton of diapers, the “we should have another” conversations started.

Are you kidding me? The constant peeing, giant painful boobs, gas, constipation, oh-for-the-love-of-all-that’s-holy the constipation, and then out comes the kid and you never, ever sleep again.

Besides, I was almost 40. My metabolism? Shot. Losing that baby weight took for-fucking-ever. Was I really going to get fat again?

Also, morning sickness my ass; it’s all day sickness and don’t let anyone tell you different. The only thing that kept me from puking was constantly eating crap, like Pop Tarts. Something I never, ever ate in “real” life.

That’s right; pregnancy is not “real” life. It’s a suspended reality that, for most women, sucks ass. There are women who gain a twenty-one pound cantaloupe bump, run fucking marathons, pop out the baby and then shrug on their skinny jeans. They are bitches. Do not trust those chicks.

But, my husband was nothing if not persistent. And, he fought dirty.

“How much do you love your sister?”

Seriously?

“I just want our son to have family after we’re gone.”

Oh, for the love of God, shove the knife in my heart and make it a serrated edge.

Fine, I was in. But it wasn’t happening. Meanwhile, tick tock, my eggs just kept getting older. Off to the OB. It was day 13, I should have been ovulating. She unceremoniously shoved the ultrasound so far into my vagina it came out my nose.

“See, look. There’s nothing. You’re getting old, Jenny.”

Thanks a lot. If I wasn’t naked and incapacitated, I’d bitch slap you right now.

“There is no egg.”

Since I’m in no position to argue can we wrap up this pep talk?

Back in her office, she continued the gentle let down.

“You’re almost 40, and you’re a terrible IVF candidate. Have sex today. If you don’t get pregnant, we’ll put you on Clomid. It has side effects, but you might even have twins!”

No fucking way was I going on Clomid. And, no mother-fucking way was I having twins. It was either going to happen or it wasn’t.

I was stunned and sad, but a tiny part of me heard angels singing. No more eggs!

With mixed feelings, I broke the news. And then, I threw the hubs a bone–or rather he threw me one. That night we tried one last time; doctor’s orders.

Six weeks later, after dinner at a friend’s where her robotic, well-behaved son ate quinoa while mine ran laps around the dining room table, I lost it. I mean, who the fuck serves quinoa to a family with a two year old?

We got home and I had a freak out and a good ugly cry. My husband tried to comfort me, but finally gave up.

“Go to bed dear,” he said, which really means, for the love of God, woman, can I watch sports? You’re driving me nuts.

What was my damage? And then it hit me; hormones. I dug around in my medicine cabinet for a pregnancy test. Wait for morning urine? Fuck that. I peed on that stick like a boss, waited two minutes and son-of-a-bitch!

Clomp, clomp, down to the family room. I’m sure my husband was thinking: What now, more crying? Please, no, make her stop.

“Honey, remember I was a little emotional earlier?”

“Um, kinda?”

I waved the pee-stick in his face.

And, brace yourselves ladies, for this is the answer to conception.

“Yes! I have magic sperm!”

Aha! Your ovaries are irrelevant, gals. If you’re trying to get knocked up, and it’s taking awhile, you could be missing that special ingredient: magic sperm. Don’t waste your time at the OB; just make sure your man is shooting out the high octane rainbow juice.

 You’re welcome, and happy procreating!