Breakfast in Bed

This is Woody.

You might remember him from his trials and tribulations so oft noted in this blog.

Here is a poem I wrote for him:

Woody is very special, you see.
For he is an endangered manatee.
He was caught by me
Before he tried to flee.
And now I like to kiss his lips and suck on his face.

Okay, maybe that isn't quite the best ode in the whole entire world, but it is heartfelt.

I might mention that Woody is even more endangered than the average manatee because he CAN LIVE OUT OF WATER. This makes him very rare. Because Woody is endangered, he demands a lot of extras that most other animals in our family do not receive.

Like breakfast in bed.

Here is Woody's morning schedule.

He sleeps in his big king sized bed under the covers. He also generously allows my dad to sleep with him for additional body heat. Nevermind that he has eleven layers of blubber to insulate him. He is always freezing.

When he feels like it (around 10 am), he signals my dad to let him know that he is ready for his breakfast. He does this by slightly opening his eye. One eye. Not both. Too much effort.

This guy rushes downstairs to quickly make Woodykin's hot breakfast. Oatmeal.
(Don't they look alike? Obviously the apple does not fall far from the tree).

My dad promptly serves Woody his piping hot oatmeal in bed in his special green bowl. He is so gifted that he holds it between his manatee fins. Thank GOODNESS that he only have to slightly lift his head to consume his meal. He is ENDANGERED, you know!

Oftentimes, Woody simply cannot muster the energy to finish the whole bowl. He commands my father to spoon the remainder of the porridge into his mouth.

After, he is exhausted from his morning routine. He promptly flops his rare manatee head down on his king sized bed.

Oh, Woodykins. We love you.

I think my mother in-law will lose it...

when she finds out that we are officially having trouble getting pregnant. I'll let Jason deliver that news.

We went to my doctor today. Based upon my cycles and the fact that I have had two months of taking ovulation predictor tests with no positive results, he is pretty convinced that I am not ovulating.

Well, that would explain why I am so not pregnant right now.

So this month, we are going to finish this cycle and then start Clomid next cycle. Clomid stimulates ovulation. If it is possible to ovulate, Clomid is supposed to make that happen.

I am not sure how I feel about all of this. One one hand, I am glad that we are at least moving forward with a solution. I am so sick of trying SO hard and not seeing results. On the other hand, I am not exactly thrilled with being thrown into the "not able to conceive naturally" club. I know many wonderful women who are a part of this club, but it is still frustrating. I did not want this to be hard, I was praying so for this NOT. TO. BE. THIS. HARD.

I also, admittedly, am harboring some frustration toward my husband. I am trying to ignore this frustration, but I can't help but feel some anger. Maybe not anger, but annoyance? Sadness? I am not sure what to call this. You see, I was ready to start trying for a baby the day we got married. Okay, maybe not the exact day, but I have wanted a baby with him for a loooong time. Actually the first time I set sight on those baby blueishgreens and olive skin I wanted to make a baby with him, but was somehow able to control myself until that ring was on my finger. (Wait a minute while I give myself a lollipop cheer. Okay.) He wanted to wait until I was done with grad school, had a teaching job, etc., etc. I had this feeling. I just knew it wouldn't happen quickly for us (call it mother's intuition honed from years of parenting troublesome and disaster prone dogs). He insisted he had super sperm and that my worrying was all in my head. So, maybe what I am is resentful. I feel that had we started earlier, we would have figured out my problem earlier, and we would be pregnant by now. I am praying for this feeling to go away and also hoping that airing it on this blog will release this pent up frustration because really, he is so not to blame.

I am to blame, actually. My ovaries are to blame. Damn them.