I saw the Lady Parts Doctor in October for my annual exam. I passed (I studied hard) but not before she quizzed me on important topics such as how much I drink, whether I smoke and of course, my birth control habits.
She didn’t ask whether I was using any birth control. She asked what form I was using. I just had to roll my eyes a little at silly Lady Parts Doctor. She just assumed that I was on birth control because otherwise, I would be poppin’ out those babies like a rabbit. She assumed that I was normal, bless her heart.
I was honest. I told her I wasn’t using any birth control*. I stopped filling the birth control prescription in August. “So, you’re trying,” she stated, not questioned. “Not exactly,” I said. “If something happens, great, if it doesn’t great.”
“In my book, if you aren’t preventing, you’re trying,” she countered. Touche, Lady Parts Doctor! You got me there! Ha, ha, not really. I’m still not trying, no matter what magical powers you think Mr. X’s sperm have or how many stories you may have heard of infertile ladies getting knocked up the old fashioned way after Baby No. 1. (Yes, I know some of these ladies, and no, I do not think I will be one of them. And that is just fine with me.)
We’re not “trying”, Lady Parts Doctor, because for us, trying to have a baby means we go see Dr. Salsa. We’re not seeing Dr. Salsa, adorable as his Spanish accent might have been and no matter how darned effective he was at getting me knocked up. Just having unprotected sex with my almost 36-year old eggs and a guy with a low sperm count does not count as trying in my book. It counts as just having fun and seeing where the chips (or babies?) fall.
So, Lady Parts Doctor, no need to give me that knowing smile when you say you’ll see me in the new year. I’ll be seeing you in the new year… for my next annual. Maybe then we can talk about how I define trying.
*Does male factor infertility count?