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Things learned this week:

1. There is science behind this whole baby making thing. Who knew?!

2. When science gets involved, the romance of it all gets tossed out the window.

Fucking science.

After a failed attempt at snuggling Sunny a couple week’s ago (sucks that kid is so damn mobile and independent), a deep-seeded yearning manifested itself in the form of protesting ovaries and an over-eager uterus moaning, and aching, and craving a dependent being. Essentially, I desire a baby I can nuzzle to my heart’s content without physical resistance and vocalized opposition getting in the way.

Yes, I want to have another child in the name of snuggling.

And yes, my ovaries totally know how to stage a protest, complete with chanting and sassy hand drawn signage on neon posterboard.

So finally, after 17 months and 11 days of pleading (that would be Addison’s age minus a day) – James is getting his way. Expanding the family has become the new household goal.

At first we considered the whole “when the mood strikes” approach to baby making – considering it worked so brilliantly the first time. But then a friend of ours announced her pregnancy, and I got my period the next day, and was sent into a self-loathing hate spiral where I was convinced I was inadequate and would never be able to conceive another child*

*We’d be trying for 1 day.

Fortunately, said friend used the advantages of science in her efforts to procreate – and supplied me with her left over goods. This included an ovulation calculator. The instructions explicitly say that one is to use it at the same time everyday (preferably in the morning right after waking up), with at least 4 hours between the last urination, and in lieu of extreme water consumption.

Apparently I struggle to follow directions, as my testing occurred right before bed (a different hour every evening), after guzzling a cup of tea, typically with only 30 minutes between my last trip to the loo.

I’m not a follower, people. I’m a LEADER.

Right.

Not surprisingly, the test kept coming back with a big ol’ boring CIRCLE indicating an absence of LH surge. I surmised that perhaps my bladder full of tea was throwing off the test’s ability to detect any hormones whatsoever. I expected the entire month would go by in this fashion, over-saturated bladder and obsessive peeing to blame.

However, the other night I lazily brushed my teeth while awaiting the results of the evening’s test, anticipating the empty circle of inadequacy symbolic of my empty womb – OH THE METAPHOR! – when a big, cheeky smiley face flashed onto the screen.

What happened next can only be described as a militant drill dictated by a crazy, baby-craving, LH surging nut.

JAMES! HERE! NOW!

PANTS! OFF!

BABY! GO!

So much for the romance, the intimacy, the magic of conception. The past 48 hours, we’ve had a strange reversal of roles. I don’t think either of us ever anticipated James fighting me off, and me pouting in a corner at his dismissals. He claims it’s in the name of proper baby making – as *they* need rest. I believe the exact wording was:

I HAVE TO REGROUP! THEY HAVE TO REGROUP! IT’S SCIENCE!

As I said earlier, FUCK SCIENCE. Unless of course I am now pregnant with child. Then science totally rocks.