Landscaping, pregnancy, and dogs.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year!

No, not Arbor Day. The day the of my annual ladyexam!

Yep. Best day ever.

The good news is that my gyn is fast. Like a dueling cowboy, but with a speculum instead of a gun.

The bad news is that said gyn clearly focuses on being calm and delivering an “everything is going to be fine” message along with delivering babies. This means that my “We worked with a reproductive endocrinologist and decided not to be science experiments and things were totally messed up down there so I went back on the pill to normalize some shit” message was met with … kind of a blank stare. 

And then? Then, she said that if I went off the pill, I’d probably get pregnant.

Riiight. Because I haven’t already been on enough of an emotional rollercoaster. Thanks for that.

Without going into too many details … the ol’ fertilization is never going to happen for us. And while I’ve gotten the “relax and it will happen when you least expect it” message from lots of folks, I really didn’t expect it from my own doctor at this point in the game. Because if she looked at the records from the repro endo, she’d know there’s no “probably get pregnant” going on in this here oven.

After my appointment, I sat in my car in the parking lot and weighed the release of crying versus the mascara damage. I opted for intact eye makeup and a laissez-faire attitude.

I know my gyn doesn’t specialize in infertility. I know she wasn’t being malicious. She was probably making small talk. Tee hee!

I just have to close the “maybe this will happen” chapter. It’s just too brutal. I need to stop being so sensitive about, oh, stuff like my ladydoctor telling me I could catch pregnancy, like a cold. I need to focus on other ways to allocate my energies and – dare I say it – love.

I know you can’t really tell your gyn that you don’t want to talk about your ladybusiness, but to everyone else? Those acquaintances who figure we’ve been married for almost 2 years, and the friends who can’t quite wrap their heads around us saying no to invasive fertility treatments? To these folks, I say, “GET OFFA MY LAWN!”

Wherein “lawn” means “ladywomb.”

It occurred to me today that we should name our next dog Vern, after the hippie minister who married us. Because Vern is an awesome name for a dog, and it would be a compliment to our officiant. After all, it would mean we’d named our child after him.

Maybe this random thought is a sign.

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