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I consider myself a fairly competent person, but there are several things at which I suck.  My penmanship is messy.  My desk is even messier.  I am cranky in the morning.   I am fearful of merging from the 110 freeway to the 101 and have a lousy sense of direction.

Now we can add to the list: I ovulate poorly.

What does that mean?  I don’t know.  I nod my head a lot in the doctor’s office and then get home and realize I have no idea what he was saying.

Despite weaning my daughter, my lady levels are still way off, so it’s officially time for intervention.

I’ve kicked off a regimen that starts with daily shots of Follicle Stimulating Hormone and ends with a turkey baster (that’ll be a fun blog post!).

When I heard I’d be stimulating my follicles, I was hoping the result would be Pantene commercial-worthy locks.

But the follicles in question turn out to have nothing to do with hair and everything to do with egg production.  Maybe the eggs will have good hair.

Two other surprises so far:

It’s not the medical procedures that cost big bucks – it’s the drugs.  Freaking liquid gold!  Plus, these magic elixirs must be refrigerated, so the pharmacy packs them in ice.  I was so scared of ruining my stash that I had the A/C in the car on full blast.   If the Abominable Snowman ever wants to get pregnant, she should have no problem.

Second, as horrifying as daily stomach injections sounded, they’ve been utterly painless.  Had I known that, I could have crossed heroin off my bucket list years ago.  I should confess, Dave has been giving me my shots.  Even knowing that it won’t hurt, I still have trouble doing it to myself.  Strangely enough, Dave is fine stabbing me in the stomach with a needle.   Perhaps he is conjuring my snarling morning persona when he does the deed.

This week I’ll go back to the doctor for an ultrasound so he can peek at my shiny, bouncy follicles and maybe suggest a leave-in conditioner.  I hope this get-me-pregnant plan is working.  Another weak point of mine is patience.


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