They say the fun is in the trying

‘Every day.’ My friend recommends. ‘Twice a day if you can.’ I nearly fall off my chair. We’re sitting in a London café and I’ve just confided in her that we’re trying for a baby. ‘Apparently the reason why most couples take so long to conceive is because they’re not having enough sex.’ I don’t know where she got this stat from, she works from home so it might have been Oprah. ‘We tried for 6 months and when we started doing it every day; boom.’ My eyes are wide with fear.

Keeping a day on day off schedule for 3 weeks every month for the last 6 months has been hard enough. I’ve found my partner in foetal position in bed pretending to be asleep. ‘Don’t make me do it’ he whimpers. What I imagine he’s said is ‘Come hither you goddess of a woman’ I have to pretend this otherwise I’ll fall of the bed in tears feeling terrible about myself and another month will go by with no chance of getting pregnant.

To have a baby it follows that you have to have sex. A lot of sex, at a very specific time of the month, which is really difficult to pinpoint. The NHS recommend a blanket cover approach of every 2-3 days.

The first 3 months it was business as usual. ‘I don’t want to be one of those woman who obsesses over trying to get pregnant’ I haughtily say, ‘We’ll just keep doing like we’ve been doing and it will happen naturally when the time’s right’ firmly believing that despite my advancing years, we would hit the home run as soon as I had the coil whipped out.

After 3 months I started tracking my ovulation on P. Tracker. After 4 months I joined Mumsnet and read all the forums about TCC (Trying to Conceive). At 5 months I did the counting myself and realised the app had been telling me the wrong ovulation dates. What a waste of time! We hadn’t been doing it right, surely this month with sex every 2 days from day 5 of my cycle we couldn’t lose.

After 6 months I went to the Doctor, tried the everyday approach, and started a blog about it. ‘I thought you weren’t going to be one of those obsessive woman?’ My partner reminds me. ‘I’m 37 years old.’ I snap. ‘I don’t have time to faff about. Now get your pants off and come to bed!’


The Small Consolations

Another month goes by and I’m not pregnant.

I look for the positives in the situation. I eat a fish finger sandwich and don’t bother putting any veg with it.

We hit the pub. I order a nice bottle of wine, I can afford a better class of wine now I’m only drinking once a month. Another small positive.

Every month I’ve been working on the assumption that I am pregnant and therefore staying away from the no go food list. Not this weekend. At the deli I order 200 grams of a dark peppery Italian salami, a large block of camembert and some duck pate.

My hairdresser tells me my hair is in the best condition she’s ever seen it. I’m glad the small fortune I’m spending on folate and other supplements isn’t entirely going to waste.

For breakfast I have poached eggs with a bright running middle. Sunday roast is bloody and rare, how I like it. I have a warming glass of whiskey

I make love to my other half; not because it’s scheduled in but because we’ve been tipsy in the pub and laughing together talking bollocks over a good bottle of wine and remembering why we love each other.

It feels like a weekend off.