sex & conception: the heartaches of calculated pregnancies

Me and Lilly, June 2008

We've been trying to have another baby. We've been trying for more than two years. Granted, I did only get my period back this past spring, a couple of months before she turned three and she told me there was no more left.

I was overjoyed when my period returned in April. I have hated it whenever it's since paid its monthly visit.

It always bothered me I never knew when we actually conceived Lilly. Back then, we were newly married and could act like rabbits. Sex wasn't something we planned or decided to do; it just happened. Often. It was sweet.

Things are a little a lot more complicated now. I'm a fan of the quicky; weekend "naps" are great. When they happen, that is. As far as I can remember, Lilly has always resisted naps, and especially during the weekend when she has both parents around. By the time Lilly's in bed at night, we're all exhausted.

But we try, we do. Though sometimes I worry about the sweetness of sex; at what point does the trying and the scheduling kill the fun of it?

I should be ovulating right around now; wish me luck. Perhaps something along the lines of this will come of it:

The Planned Child

I hated the fact that they had planned me, she had taken
a cardboard out of his shirt from the laundry
as if sliding the backbone up out of his body,
and made a chart of the month and put
her temperature on it, rising and falling,
to know the day to make me--I would have
liked to have been conceived in heat,
in haste, by mistake, in love, in sex,
not on cardboard, the little x on the
rising line that did not fall again.

But when a friend was pouring wine
and said that I seem to have been a child who had been wanted,
I took the wine against my lips
as if my mouth were moving along
that valved wall in my mother's body, she was
bearing down, and then breathing from the mask, and then
bearing down, pressing me out into
the world that was not enough for her without me in it,
not  the moon, the sun, Orion
cartwheeling across the dark, not
the earth, the sea--none of it
was enough, for her, without me.

Sharon Olds 

Morning Song (p. 27)