Heather is finishing up the DVR'd America's Next Top Model while I get ready for bed and then begin to set up our cervical-monitoring station.
At the juncture between this chair and its ottoman are two Costco memory-foam pillows, draped with a large blue towel. On the dresser top, next to my Valentine's gift, a beautiful silver jewelry stand, is an assemblage of tools-- a speculum, two washcloths, a bottle of lube, and a head lamp. Completely different and universally embarrassing.
Oh, the head lamp? Yeah. Heather bought it. She had had enough of watching me try to hold a flashlight in my mouth, jockeying for the right angle while completely fumbling the angle of the speculum. A no-nonsense kind of girl, she decided that what I needed was an LED headlamp so her crotch would be amply lit while I squinted at her cervical mucus.
It works! Seriously. Buy one if you're serious about crotch access.
What's funny is how commonplace extremely personal information becomes once people know you're trying to have a baby. Or, it's commonplace when I'm trying to have a baby, because if I'm spending the day wondering how to get Heather to relax her muscles so her knees fall further apart, people are going to hear about it. I don't believe there is anyone in our immediate or secondary social circles who has not heard about cervical mucus. These are small circles, but half the people in them don't know where I went to college and most of them know that I had an awful time trying to locate Heather's cervix.
Tomorrow at lunch, our friends James and Lamont will probably be fully apprised of the egg symbol on the fertility monitor, having previously heard about the testing window and how there's a cup of pee on our bathroom counter. I might tell Heather's boss that her mucus was surprisingly un-sticky today, and I don't think he'd be alarmed.
My parents still don't know.