Tumbleweeds. In my ladyparts.

The ad running on my blog right at this moment promises hot flash relief.

Because there’s something about my blog that says, “Hey! Are you all dried up like me? All dust bowl uteri are welcome here!”

Hi. I’m 37. Thanks for the ad love, BlogHer.

Actually, it’s kind of ironic. After this summer’s initial wave of “Hey! We’re barren!” shock and awe, I think I’m hitting a secondary wave of hormone-related madness.

After a late-summer flurry of remodeling activity, My Guy and I are coming out of our home-improvement comas. We’re talking about how to enhance our basement rec room, and the idea of a kitchenette / bar area has been thrown about. Mostly, it would augment our Kleenex-sized kitchen. As part of this, I’d move my sewing machine and crafting area from the basement into the completely empty bedroom off our master.

Oh, you know. That bedroom that was going to be a nursery.

And, for a number of reasons that just add up to a giant ol’ mess of TMI, I should probably go back on the pill.

Now, God love my husband. His comment about the “building a bar / reclaiming the possible nursery” move was that nothing is permanent.

As for going back on the pill? I said, “I feel like it would really be putting the final nail in the fertility coffin.” And he countered with, “Didn’t we do that this summer?”

Well, when I vowed never to take any more drugs or undergo any more tests, and we broke up with the reproductive endocrinologist with a nice, “It’s not you, it’s us?” Yeah, I guess we put a nail in the fertility coffin … but I guess the tiniest part of my optimistic little heart held back. That part kind of paid attention to the women who tried to be comforting with the whole, “Oh, it’ll happen when you stop trying” schtick.

For the record: don’t say that. Because sometimes? It will never, ever happen. 

I guess going back on the pill is the ultimate in “not trying.” It’s also the ultimate in “Fuck you, heart. This is the brain talking, and we are sick of the ladyparts chaos. There’s a new sheriff in town!”

I’m not angry. I’m not really upset. I just feel like I’ve come off of a pretty good bipolar bender. Years of “Oh God, please don’t let me get pregnant,” followed by a brief but intense run of “Oh God, please let me get pregnant” have made me kind of numb. I keep getting the message that I should want a child, but things are different when it’s a no longer a see-what-happens. Now, it would be much more methodical and deliberate.

I’m kind of waiting for a sign on whether or not we should explore adoption. So far, the only signs I’ve seen have been of the “Refrigerators on sale – perfect for your rec room bar!” variety.

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