It’s true, Shelby and I were high school sweethearts, but there was a few months where that wasn’t the case. I half-heartily blame my infertility on one very defining moment that I remember like it was yesterday. Let me take you back about 13 years…

Shelby and I were attached at the hip. We spent every second together and when we didn’t we’d constantly write in journals and share them with each other. If I wasn’t with Shelby, I was dreaming about her. As teenagers, armed with an endless supply of energy and calories to spare, we’d stay up until 2 in the morning eating clam chowder in bread bowls, or an entire carton of Ben and Jerry’s Peanut Butter Cup ice cream. We were so young, and taught each other so much and “exercise” was plentiful. I remember ditching my S.A.T preparation classes and spending the day with Shelby instead. For some reason, I still distinctly remember what she was wearing that day; Wrangler jeans, and a plaid button down shirt tied into a knot at the stomach to tantalize me with her mid-drift. I got busted for ditching that class though. The ex-girlfriend, who was completely jealous, and called my home to make sure I was “ok” since I wasn’t in class. Totally worth it though.

After meeting at Starbucks for the first time, our “real” first date was a big one. Shelby invited me to her Senior prom. It was a great time, and I laugh at how innocent and nervous we both were. What kind of teenagers stay up late, alone in a spa don’t mess around? We started the exchange of journals early in the relationship. I remember sitting on my bed with her writing in a journal, letting her read it, she’d write back and the cycle continues. I really wanted to kiss her, but was too shy and was afraid she didn’t want to. Turns out we both wanted to, but neither of us knew what to say. In a journal entry, I wrote: “What if we were going to go out to dinner and I was thinking of filet mignon, and you were thinking of having hot dogs instead?” This was my failed attempt at an analogy of me wanting to kiss, but her wanting to just hold hands or something. Yes, it was that pathetic. My 30 year old self would giggle at the suggestion of “hot dogs” but my 17 year old self was proud of his analogy skills. Eventually, and it might even have been that same day (actually, it was. We even talked about hot dogs and filet on the way), we shared our first kiss at a park near my house. Years later, this was the same park where I asked Shelby to marry me. Sounds like a perfect story? Well, we did have a slight hiccup along the way.

What happened a few months later is something I’m not proud of and was even reluctant to share. I find that fact mildly amusing given how open I am about everything else on this blog, but I won’t dwell on that. After dating Shelby for a while, I did something stupid. I had a female friend whom I developed a crush on and decided that she would be a better fit for me. Shelby and I broke up. That’s a story for another time and a high school break up isn’t really a pretty sight anyway. Soon after starting this relationship with my friend turned girlfriend, the weight of my mistake was in full force. I was immature, and wanted what I couldn’t have.

Shelby did a good job at ignoring me, and deservedly so. I was even desperate enough to leave notes on her car in hopes she’d read them. She probably did, but never indicated it. I was desperate to get back together with her, or at least see her. My teenage mind kept trying to scheme up ways to run into her. Not surprisingly, my relationship with the new girlfriend didn’t last very long, and I found myself alone. Alone and regretting breaking up with Shelby. Eventually I would figure out a way to see her again.

When Shelby and I were together, before I made my near life-changing mistake. Things were hot and heavy after our first kiss. We quickly graduated from hot dogs, to filet mingon, to multiple course dinners, if you get my drift. There were times we’d make out at near by parks. I enjoyed every minute of it, though I can’t say I miss making out with jeans on. Denim and rubbing crotches isn’t really the most comfortable thing in the entire world, especially when you realize you’ve been doing it with a yellow school bus full of kids parked next to you. Oops. Sorry kids.

Now, as I found myself alone, missing Shelby and miserable, I begin to scheme how to see her again. Finally it hits me. After we graduated from making out with denim on, all the way to “doing it,” we had to learn the “in’s and out’s” of each other all over again (*chuckle*). There was one such time where, hmmm, let’s just say the car was not quite aligned with the tunnel and there was some uncomfortable smashin of body “parts.” Shelby’s pelvic bone made for a painful introduction to my mini-me. It wasn’t the best feeling in the entire world, it hurt even, but I got over it, quickly.

I realize that this one, insignificant event will allow me to see Shelby again. Like everything else in our relationship, we journaled about that event. We called it the “broken wookie” incident. It held no significant except for a fun thing to write about.  Now, I don’t remember how or why she likened my parts to a wookie, but I’ll take that as a complement. My scheme is coming together; I let Shelby know that I needed that journal to know when the broken wookie event took place since I wanted a doctor to look at it and was worried about my baby making future. It was totally manipulative, and it totally worked. Shelby agreed to meet me somewhere and return the journal.

The day we agree to meet arrives. I’m sitting at a table, outside of starbucks, waiting for her. My heart is pounding and I’m pretending to be reading a book on programming Java hoping to impress Shelby. (I doubt she noticed). I can still see Shelby walking towards me in slow motion. Her beautiful blue eyes were like daggers boring into me. She was wearing a long black dress with flowers on it and looking so very hot. She said one word to me, “here” as she tossed the journal onto the table, turned and was gone. The vision of her would haunt my mind for days after seeing her. If I was older, and more mature, I would have understood that spending so much time getting dressed up, and looking HOT was a sign that she still (hopefully) cared about me. Well, either that, or more likely showing me what I’m missing and damn did I miss it.

Today, I find it mildly interesting, amusing almost, that I used my fertility as a way to see Shelby again. Little did I know what was in store for us and infertility. Part of me wonders if the universe punished me for breaking up with Shelby, for dating my friend turned girlfriend, and for using fertility as a tool to see Shelby again. Regardless of my self fulfilling prophecy, it enabled me to see her again, and for that I am eternally grateful. Potent, or impotent all the same.

A few months after the journal incident, I received a call from Shelby. We agree to see each other again. Somehow, I make my amends and she accepts them. I can still remember her staring at my lips waiting for me to kiss her and seal our future together. There were no journal entries, talk of hot dogs, filet mingon, or anything else in between, just two reunited lovers.

I wanted to quickly update you on our combined test results from our NT scan. I know that you were on the edge of your seats…

Downs: 1 in 5,000
Trisomy 18: 1 in 10,000

We couldn’t be happier with these results. The good news keeps rolling in!

In a previous post, I blogged about how I’m “all in” with this baby and the first of such events are happening this weekend.

My parents are hosting an engagement party for my brother and his finance on Saturday. This is the first of many major life events this year, and I am so excited. Shelby’s belly is slowly growing (not to mention BOOOOBS!!!), and she’s beginning to actually look pregnant! It’s stunning.

We’ve been officially out of the closet this week, and it’s going to be awesome not having to explain why Shelby isn’t drinking. For the first time in our lives, we’ll be at a party where I can say:

“Why yes, we are pregnant, and couldn’t be happier!”

If this is a dream, I never want to wake up.

The following is a post that I wrote on Shelby’s blog in 2008. I have linked to it in the past, but wanted to re-post it here for posterity sake. It’s still one of my favorite posts ever. If you have already read this, thank you!

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My wife mentioned to me that she posted pictures about a day in the life of an “infertile,” which contains pictures of things most men assume only exist horror movies, and raunchy pornos (or so I hear). So, I figured this would be a perfect opportunity to introduce you to a day in the life of a male infertile. Side note: this was at a time where I was in a particularly bad job, and events took place about a year ago. Without further ado;

A Bird in the Hand is Worth Two in the Bush (yes, you can read into that)
Today is the day where I get to actually lend a hand (ha!) in our reproductive challenges. I know this because my alarm goes off an hour earlier than it should. It should be an interesting day. Shelby reminds me that my appointment is at 7:30 AM and that she’s picking up my little soldiers at 10:00 AM. I silently hope that the fruits of my ‘participation’ are a lot of soldiers, instead of my usual ‘Army of One’. I roll out of bed, and get ready. Luckily for me, I don’t have makeup to put on, hair to curl, or whatever it is that takes you ladies so long to get ready. I’m out the door in 30 minutes. It is 7:00 AM; a half-hour should be plenty of time to get to my appointment.

Can You Hear Me Now?
Being someone who loves anything with a digital display and buttons, I love my tech gadgets. However, a cell phone can be a harbinger of doom. I’m convinced that it’s psychic too. It predicts my day. Is work going to be busy, annoying, light, or anything in-between? I know the answer within 5 minutes of getting in my car. My phone literally rings off the hook the entire time I’m in my car. My commute to the reproductive clinic is about thirty minutes. Instead of relaxing and reflecting on what may (or sadly, may not) be, I’m barraged with meaningless work related questions, false assumptions and over-reactive concerns. I arrive to the doctor’s office tense. Not just tense, but teeth clenching, jaw breaking, a whore in church on Sunday tense. You’d think with my impending ‘release’ I would be more relaxed, but it is quite the opposite, I assure you. My phone keeps ringing. I am now sitting in the parking lot, trying to wrap up a call with an angry co-worker and am struggling to remember where the clinic entrance is.

Cum Again?
I step out of the car and am caressed by the cool fall air. Today is one of those rare days where, somehow, the air kissing my face makes me feel much better- relaxed even. If this was a Folgers commercial, I’d close my eyes, take a sip of warm steamy coffee, inhale deeply, and smile to myself. I wonder what I’m complaining about. I get to wake up, look at some boobies and do what every 15 year old does when they find their first Victoria’s Secret catalog.

It takes me a while, but I finally find “Suite J.” I turn the door knob and am expecting to be greeted by a nice reception area (especially given how much all this fertility stuff costs). Walking into the clinic, something very familiar jogs my memory. The door rubs against the door jamb when I open it making a very loud sound to announce my presence, the smell of fake very artificial potpourri is in the air, there is almost no carpet between my feet and the floor boards are so worn, they creek under my feet. I have the vague feeling that I’ve been here before. It hits me; I’m visiting a shitty retirement home. The only thing it is missing is the obligatory old people on the park bench waiting for “Johnny” except, Johnny never shows. Instead of old folks waiting, the first people I see are a couple who looks nervous and a woman, sitting alone, waiting for her appointment. As a guy, walking into the clinic alone, I might as well wear a neon sign around my neck with an arrow pointing to my crotch that says “I’m about to tug on this.” Suddenly and expectantly, my tension is back. I pity the guy who has an easy time getting aroused at the smell of “grandma’s place.” I am sure they exist and live in the seedier areas of the internets. I consider creating a fetish website around this clinic, as I’m sure it will do well in said circles.

In Soviet Russia, Penis Rubs You
What I find most interesting about offices that revolve around fertility is that my expectation for a sensitive, caring, empathetic receptionist is not met each and every time. Funny thing is that I’m always surprised by this. This office is no exception. As I make my way through the creaking retirement home, I am greeted by a battle axe of a woman. Pleasantly greeting me would be way too cliché, instead, she stares blankly, and without much effort says “Name?”. As an aside, I am not a confrontational person at all, in fact I’ll work harder to avoid one than if a confrontation actually took place. I like to be overly friendly with people like this. “Hi!” I say a little too loudly and enthusiastically. “My name is (hmm, pen name time…) Johnny and I have a 7:30 appointment.” She looks at the loud ticking clock by her desk and scowls, its 7:45. She breaks down the process. “Put name on cup, go in cup, leave cup in room, and leave out the back.” My passive aggressive side kicks back in, “go in cup? I’m not here to pee.” I’d like to pretend that I’m embellishing this, but not really. I questioned being asked to “leave out the back” and she points to a partly opened door through what looks like the break room. I am then lead to ‘the room’.

Tonight on OMG KILL IT WITH FIRE
You know those episodes of Dateline NBC that reveal how disgusting motel rooms are? Let’s just say I’m very glad I didn’t have a UV light with me. I’m not the cleanliest person, but this room grossed me out. A little context here; I was THE FIRST appointment of the day. No one else has used this room and I was greeted with the following;

1. The obligatory leather chair that’s been so warn I can see where every bare ass has sat
2. A trash can FULL of used paper towels. Unfortunately, these paper towels didn’t clean up spilled apple juice.
3. The same creaky floors and good ‘ol musty smell
4. Volume buttons on the TV that do not work. On top of that, the volume is set a tad too high to be comfortable for the material I’ll be “enjoying”

In this disgusting room, somehow, I am supposed to produce what may become mini-me.

Everything I have gone over can be explained away, none of it really matters except one thing; What adult materials do I get to enjoy while working on, ahem, producing? Let me tell you, who ever chose said adult materials, is either blind, sick, or a cheap bargain bin-hunting asshole. Whatever happened to normal, attractive people porn? This isn’t it. Titles from their VAST selection of four are “Thai Me Up”, “Big Booty Bitches”, “Luv you long time 5” and (I kid you not) “No White Chicks.” I flash back to a conversation with my wife the previous night:

Her: “Why don’t you put some hot chick action on your iPhone”
Me: “Nah, knowing my luck, someone will start messing with my phone at work and two chicks loving on each other will show up.”
Her: “So what! Just delete it when you are done. I’ll even download some for you. Where do you find that stuff?
Me: “I have no idea what you’re talking about. There’s pornographic material on the internet?” (I like to tell her and my friends that I keep my porn on her computer since she’ll never look there)

I simply do not understand the selection of these four titles. Maybe I’m in the minority here but just show me two attractive people doing it and I’m good. The sad thing is that the people, clothes, hair styles (and not the hair on the head), and production values are from the 70’s. There is nothing erotic about any of this. Watching the old married couple from “That 70’s show” do it on the linoleum flower counter tops would be more arousing. I curse myself for not following my wife’s iPhone suggestion.

You’d think it would end here, but it doesn’t. While the “act” is occurring, you can hear, through the paper thin walls, staff members laughing and talking loudly in the other room. When your pants are down, and you’re exposing yourself to the lovely “Big Booty Bitches” on the TV, laughter is the last thing you should hear. Ironically, I gain a little respect for the fat, ugly hairy man in the video who can get a hard on at the drop of a hat (or pants).

Eventually, nature takes hold (man, I got to stop with the insinuations) and I’m ready to get the hell out of this place. I always wonder how long you should wait after doing your deed. It seems nasty to walk out of THE ROOM with a flushed brow. In this case I could have walked out with my pants down because I was greeted to the receptionist pointing her meaty arm and sausage finger towards to back door asking me to “out that way.” God forbid the nervous couple and solitary woman see me leave the way I came in.

I walk out the door. The crisp air welcomes me once again and I let out a small sigh of relief. The fall air breathes its life into me and I am refreshed. Smelly grandma’s house is such a small price to pay in what could become the best thing that has ever happened to us. I silently thank Shelby for enduring so much; more than I will ever understand. I get back to the car; my cell phone reports that I have 18 missed calls and 10 voicemails. Time to start the day.

I was reading over a few entries on my blog, and I think I might be giving readers the wrong idea. Yes, I’m a big gushy baby, however I’m just a typical dude. Lest anyone accuse me of lacking in my manliness, I submit this conversation to you.

I arrive home around 6:00 PM last night and walk in the door. Shelby and I are in the kitchen heating up some left over Chinese food.

Shelby: I loved your blog post, it made me cry.
Me: Did you like it enough that I can get in your pants tonight?
Shelby: No, but you can get me a popsicle from the kitchen.
Me: Dammit, that’s the only reason I wrote it.
Shelby: Don’t forget the blog-o-sphere swooning over you.
Me: Yeah, my infertile sperm is all the rage. Ladies can sense my impotency.

We laugh and fight over who goes to microwave their leftovers first.

Shelby as always, wins.

Please note that this post is about our pregnancy. Oh, and it’s really mushy too. Come back later in the week if you’re just not “feeling it” today.

By the way, to make reading my site a little easier, I’ve added “This post mentions” above most of my blog posts. Don’t forget to check that out before reading anything that you might find yourself not in the mood for.

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I never realized it was possible to love something that you’ve never touched, met, or seen. Today, I am learning that it is not just possible, but easy. Let me explain;

Throughout the course of our marriage, I’ve found myself constantly learning what “love” means. Now, I find myself doing again. Today, May 5th, marks the day Shelby  and I first met. Our story isn’t that unusual. Boy meets girl. Boy finds girl REALLY cute. Boy wants to get in girls pants and so on and so forth.

Shelby and I met on a blind date while we were in high school. To fan the high school drama flames, we were set up by my ex-girlfriend’s best friend. She thought we’d hit it off and I agreed. Like most kids in high school, there was only one logical choice to meet: Starbucks. The plan was to be introduced over coffee accompanied by a comfortable buffer of mutual friends just in case there was no love connection. If things were looking good, Shelby and I were to spend some alone time at the second place high school kids go: Golf Land. Ahh, Golf Land; where arcade games, miniature golf and flirting are plentiful. Shelby and I hit it off, and the rest, well, the rest is history.

Over the 13 years that I have known Shelby, I have constantly re-evaluated what true love really is. Just when I think I’ve figured it out, I look at Shelby and realize that there is so much more room in my heart for love. I could easily go on for pages about how she is an amazing woman, or about how she can light up my world by just a simple glance in my direction, but this post isn’t about her. Well, it’s not about her directly…

On May 4th, Shelby and I find ourselves sitting in yet another doctors office as we wait to be called in for our NT scan. Honestly, we’re not worried about the scan, but since we’ve been collecting ultrasounds by the dozen, we figure it’s a great excuse to see the baby. Sitting in the uncomfortable office chair, I realize that I’m feeling an entirely new feeling at a doctors office. My silent, stomach turning  panic and fear has been replaced by something foreign. It takes me a while to place it. It’s… it’s… excitement. For the first time in 5 years, I am no longer afraid of a doctors appointment. I’m truly, 100% happy. 100% excited. For the first time ever, I’m looking forward to seeing our baby on the ultrasound and not being afraid. There’s no caveat. There’s no doubt. There’s just peace.

Our name is called, and we head into the ultrasound room. I’m greeting by a warm room and a huge flat screen TV waiting to show me our baby. Our scan was perfect (pending blood test results of course). It also marked the first ultrasound we’ve ever received that was using a doppler, and not the intimidating looking dildo cam. Well, intimidating to MOST men . As the NP presses on Shelby’s belly with the doppler, our beautiful baby is shown dancing on the screen. I’m amazed and awe-stuck. It no longer looks like a bean. There’s a baby! On the screen!

As I watch the flutter of the heart beat, stretching of arms, movement of legs, the doctor invited us to count fingers and toes. I never thought the count of 1.2.3.4.5 could be so amazing. I sit back in my chair, gaze over at the doppler on Shelby’s belly and a warm, peaceful, comfort washes over me. It’s unlike anything I’ve experienced before. I realize what it is; Love.

Love, redefined.

I’m staring at Shelby. I’m staring at her belly. I’m dumbfounded. Floored even. I feel so humbled by her and our baby. Here I sit, on the eve of knowing Shelby for 13 years, and I’m in love all over again. In an instant, my heart is broken down into the very core of my soul, only to be instantly rebuilt by this new and redefined love. I realize that not only do I have the room in my heart to fully and completely love Shelby, but I realize there is a new feeling there. It’s unconditional love at first sight. I fully and completely fall in love with this new creature on the screen. Love, for me, has been redefined again. I feel so full right now. So excited for the future. So in love with my wife and the little one inside of her.

Today, as I stare at a picture of our baby from the ultrasound, I realize that my understanding of love is truly changing.

I love Shelby.

I love this unborn baby.

I am slowly understanding this redefined love; By loving this baby, I’m falling in love Shelby all over again.

If there is one lesson I can teach our baby, it’s about true and complete love because it’s already teaching me what love really is.

Allow me the simple pleasure of sharing what love looks like;