At this point I think it’s safe to assume I’m reproductively challenged.
I always figured that would be the case, since I was diagnosed with PCOS (a hormone imbalance) when I was 13. For the most part, I’ve been pretty lucky when it comes to dealing with the possible symptoms: Super hairy? No. Smaller boobs? Uh, definitely not. Horrible acne? Nope!
Irregularity? Yes. One hundred times, yes.
Our friends and family are well aware that we’ve been trying to get pregnant (and now so are you, internet! You’re welcome!) to no avail. After a year and a half of old-school recommendations (eat right, lose weight, exercise, bump uglies) … still no babies. In five weeks I’m scheduled to start official fertility treatments, so hopefully that’ll be the kick in the pants (kick in the ovaries?) we need to get this reproducing show on the road.
In the meantime though, everywhere I go, people who know we’ve been trying have been attempting to figure out if I’m already pregnant. They do this by asking me a series of thinly-veiled questions, usually accompanied by eyebrow raising and staring directly at my stomach.
“Are you imbibing?”
“I see someone’s drinking water!”
“How are things?”
“Good to see you!” (I may have been reading into this one…)
“Anything to report?”
And my personal favorite, “Can I call you Momma?!” Umm, no. You can’t. And I’m never wearing this dress again.
No, I don’t want any wine – and yes, I AM drinking water (because it’s delicious, and good for you – see the aforementioned advice to eat right and exercise). Things are good! It’s good to see you too! Nothing to report. Other than, I promise I’ll tell you when I’m pregnant. And not by posting a picture of a stick I peed on, that is a promise.