I still mourn what should have been, but am incredibly grateful for what will be.

I came across an amusing article today that claims that “ugly” men produce more sperm per ejaculate.

Ladies, I don’t mean to brag, but it took 5 years of sex, procedures, timed cycles, IUI’s and an IVF with ICSI to knock up the misses.

You know what that means???

I am one HOT piece of ass.

If you’d like to line up and get a picture taken with me, please the line starts over there. It will be the best $10 you’ve ever spent! Hey, I need to repay our years of procedures back in one way or another!

What’s that you say?

Being in debt to conceive isn’t so hot?

Damn!

Guess the world needs to balance itself out in one way or another.

I’m a fan of celebrating little milestones of, of sorts. I love these little celebrations that range from Shelby hugging the porcelain god with her first real bout of morning sickness, to our little guy, who is 1/2 way done with the best hotel stay of his life (Hey, it even has 24/hour room service!), to Shelby’s baby bump, and to last week, where I received my first annoying pregnancy comment.

I bet you can guess the question… I rank it up there with the ignorant, “natural twins, or [voice quiets] fertility twins?” when someone finds out you are having twins. Yes, you guessed it, I got the “was it planned?”

Really, what kind of question is that? In the millisecond after it was asked, a few things occurred to me when that question is asked. I take it two ways 1.) I’m a responsible parent by planning the creation of a human being, or 2.) I’m a drunkard who didn’t want to use a condom, it broke, or we’re just TOO fertile. Ha, TOO fertile, imagine that. Sure, there are exceptions to that, but really, you’re asking me a pretty damn personal question. I mean, think about it, that’s pretty intimate. They are really asking what my (and Shelby’s) mental state was as at the time Shelby and I did the horizontal tango. What’s your next question? What position got Shelby pregnant? Ahh, the questions of the fertile.

Well, in our case, there was a lot of FUTILE horizontal tango going on. Fun? Sure. Productive? Not so much.  Actually, I believe the position we were in was begging on our hands and knees, praying for our IVF to work.

I know it’s an innocent question, but how should it be answered? I carefully considered my question and responded to “was it planned” with the answer of “Yes, very much so” and left it at that. I know I could have answered with a simple yes, but at that moment, it seems to cheapen how much we’ve gone through. Hell yes it was planned. And we have 5 years of a monthly payment to continue to remind us of that fact.

To answer any other way would seem to dishonor my little bean that is budding. We worked hard to get to this 21 week mark. We worked hard just for the chance of getting here, and I simply cannot turn my back on that effort.

I’m proud that we have an IVF baby. Simply put, I’m proud of us. We have gone through the hardest 5 years of our lives, and we’re coming out happier, more in love, and closer than ever. Even, in some way odd way, I’m grateful that we’ve worked so hard to get here. It’s made me a better  lover, husband, and soon-to-be, father. So when people ask “was it planned?” the answer should be “Planned enough that it took 5 years, a hundred appointments, heart break, tears and $60,000. Our baby, that we fought so hard for was indeed, very much planned.”

Until I feel comfortable enough to say that, I will for now remain, half way in the closet and simply answer, “Was this baby planned?” with “Yes, very much so.“

Shelby and I are in a weird state of middle ground right now. Our pregnancy is public knowledge, and we (more I) gladly share it with those we are close to, or if the timing is right. It’s a weird feeling, being “out.” Once we found out we were pregnant, all I could envision was shouting it from the roof tops. Partly because we took a huge step in our battle with infertility, and the rest because we’re FINALLY pregnant.

I feel like we’ve come so far. We’re just past 16 weeks, and still have a long way to go, and I’m okay with others being in our our little (but growing) secret. However, I will say, telling people isn’t quite the thrill I expected it to be. I find that the more people we tell, the less ecstatic I feel about it. Many other bloggers have eluded to this, as I’ve learned. The more people tell, the more our pregnancy is “normalized,” the more it feels like I’m ignoring or even forgetting the past. Almost as if we’re turning our backs on the 5 years of tears and anger we experienced as we battled infertility. It’s like our pregnancy created a blank slate, or tabula rasa (tabula rasa always reminds me of that Buffy The Vampire Slayer episode – whoo Buffy) where our infertility no longer ‘counts.’

I never expected to be taken aback as I have. I even find myself wanting to keep it to ourselves. I’ve found this especially true when around couples our age, or older than us that do not have kids. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve never assumed that everyone would want kids, but I find myself wondering, “What’s their story?” For those that we have told, I carefully watch their reactions, their eyes, their facial ticks for a hidden signal of pain or loss. I wonder if we share a common thread? I find myself wanting to hint at our infertility. We’re not “just another” pregnant couple. We’re the infertile pregnant couple and it’s not the same.

I wish there was some type of keyword, secret handshake, or other signal that us infertiles memorize. That way, when we tell you that we’re pregnant, we can identify, share, and understand each other just a little better. Sure, when you find out we are pregnant, it may stir up a lot of emotions, but you’ll also know it didn’t come easy for us.

What would your secret signal or handshake be? Maybe we can start that movement today!

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.