I just had to laugh, honestly.
Last night, my husband received a message from his brother, asking if we could host his girlfriend this weekend. Brother-in-law recognized it was a last-minute request and assured us that his girlfriend would not need any hand-holding. We were fine with the unexpected visit until we remember that next week is a fertility week.
She’s showing up Sunday night (CD 12) and leaving Wednesday afternoon (CD 15). I typically ovulate around CD 15, so she’s going to be here smack when we need to get it on to summon Baby TTC Writer into this world. We’ll be able to get to it Sunday before she shows and Wednesday evening after she leaves, but Tuesday: we wanted Tuesday for insurance.
You would think this wouldn’t be a problem with a two-bedroom apartment. But: our apartment has its quirks. Like, our bedroom door doesn’t close fully. Sigh.
We talked and came to the conclusion that we’ll play Tuesday by ear. We may go all out and book a hotel room for a quickie (I know, I know). We may duck out of work for a while and meet for a tryst. We may not get to have sex on Tuesday at all. But we both know that Tuesday isn’t exactly make or break in the baby-making game.
(Also: hotel rooms in and around DC are expensive right now. Do I really want to look at my kid and think, “It’s possible we made you at the Travelodge”? But I guess I can’t be picky and pay for a Kimpton hotel when the odds are against us, anyway.)
The good thing is this: I’ve never been one to look at our fertility weeks and think, “Oh, if only we’d had sex one more time.” I know it only takes one—scheduling more sex floods my system (lovely visual there), but guarantees nothing. What gets me on CD 1 isn’t that we didn’t do enough; it’s that we did all we could and still failed.
We shall see how this week goes. Maybe if we do get a hotel room, we can make it a fun and exciting afternoon delight.
With that, happy Friday!