I've felt no need to blog because I've felt no need to think about having a baby.
Heather has left to see her family, and, to eliminate some pre-trip stress, we skipped insemination; her ovulation passed last week with little fanfare.
"You're ovulating today, baby."
It's really nice.
I kind of hate myself for enjoying it because, in truth, every cycle we don't inseminate is another month we're not pregnant. It's nice to skip the scramble of trying to order sperm, making an emergency call to the sperm bank to arrange overnight shipping-- calculating time differences, getting up at seven to try to catch them before they send the tank by two-day FedEx-- calling the clinic, getting a call from the clinic, picking the tank up, not to mention the actual insemination. I could do without all that.
However, we could also escape that abominable process by getting pregnant. That has several benefits-- for one, Heather would have the money to fully and absurdly decorate a nursery.
I was browsing Etsy to kill some time on my first night without Heather and stumbled on some onesies. "Fuck it," I said to myself, and indulged in some monkey-type hat fantasies. I allowed myself in part because I'm bored and in part because, since Heather's doctor's appointment last week, I feel optimistic. It's a strange sensation, reminding me of the months before we even tried, looking at baby-making as a genuine adventure: "Look, we'll buy some pretty man's sperm and then we'll get a pretty baby!"
All of which is to say that we expect Dr. C to do magic.