That tank is starting to fit comfortably into the kitchen, like the wine rack we don't use and the shot glasses on the windowsill, which we used to use about once every six months and which we hope not to use for another 9. Even after that, we'll probably be so drunk with baby-love that we'll forget the Grey Goose that's hidden in our closet so our roommate doesn't drink it.
Today the tank is moved slightly more into the center of the kitchen. On the one hand, it's a sign of our failure yesterday, but it's also a sign of hope because we know we still have another vial in it. And that vial might be The One.
Now, of course, the pressure has changed: yesterday, I was scared we might inseminate too late, so I probably jumped the gun. (No matter what Heather says, she agreed when I showed her the picture of her cervix and I said I thought it was ready. Silence is acceptance, baby. You were there. Nobody held you down and dosed you with foreign bodily fluids.) Now we know we were probably too early, and I'm so afraid we won't cover the ovulation period that I worry we'll do it too late.
Heather, I imagine, was experiencing the same anxiety when I woke up at 5:30AM to hear her iPad suggesting word pronunciations next to me in the bed. I was too woozy to care what she was doing, but based on her 11:00AM recital of sperm-life statistics, I'm guessing she was trying to find hope for our first insemination and confidence in our second. One guy whose website she had me read aloud from said that ovulation really lasts more like 7 days. (I was also informed that the youngest person to get pregnant and have a live birth was 5 years old, which I think is meant as an indication that crazier things have happened than pregnancy from a botched, early insemination.)
We're baby-dusting, because what else can we do?
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