In those early days after Husband and I decided that we would welcome a child into our world, the calendar was my friend. I knew when my cycle was, what days were good for conception, which ones were not. I could tell you without a breath of hesitation when my last period ended. "10 days after" became a mantra. I took my temperature, watched for fluid changes (I am sorry male readers for that one), and tracked my month for days that were good to conceive a boy and ones that were good to conceive a girl. It was madness.
Husband and I also decided that we would not become one of those couples who obsess over when to have sex because that day was the best day to conceive. We agreed that when the mood hit, we'd get it on. I had to restrain myself from yelling "do me now!", especially as the months melted away and we remained unconceived. Sex started to become a chore, and not something that Husband and I loved. And really, where's the fun in that?
Then the news came - we were unable to conceive naturally. After the tears and the "why me?s" a sense of liberation washed over me. I no longer had to watch the calendar, my underpants, and try to make obligatory sex sexy. We were free from sex coming with an equation: 11 days after last period + want of a boy x basal temperature = Wednesday sex.
Even couples who are not trying to conceive but are fertile have to watch the calendar. How many days has it been? When are the birth control pills running out? When is the doctor's appointment for the vasectomy. We infertile couples worry not about pills and days. We have sex whenever we want, moving rhythmically to the knowledge that all the sex in the world cannot produce a child. Hurray for this bright side!
Now, if you'll excuse me....
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