The NYT Sunday crossword is a lot easier when you haven’t spent Saturday night licking the bottom of a wine glass. Lying in bed with your husband without a hangover hitting the replay button of all the stupid things I said last night is also quite lovely. I am ensconced in an easy Sunday of laundry and fuzzing the dog with my legs splayed across the carpet.
Gratitude for the inertial rain cozies me back into my chair. There are more articles to read, another cup of decaf to drink, and baskets of laundry to fold, but for now, I’ll just be and enjoy the steady sheets of rain that occasionally “plop” on the railing outside the kitchen door.
The hearthstone warmth of pensiveness comforts me after a week of frenetic wishing, wanting, and wondering. Over a year has passed since we started trying and we’ve moved into what my husband considers the “too scientific” and “too technological” realm of separating sex and conception. I am grateful of his willingness, albeit hesitant willingness, to experiment.
Shame and guilt are internal timekeepers of babymaking for those of us tweaking our hobbled ova and wombs. Every failure appears an indictment of our years of socially-tolerable, bad habits. But, I’m wedded to those bad habits as my downfall, because I don’t know who or what to blame next week if we do not end up pregnant.