I used to really like sex. I mean really, really like sex. It was so much fun, funny, and relaxing. Basically everything it isn't anymore. I was that woman who complained about the ever decreasing amount of sex we had over the course of our relationship. I told George we should be having sex at least four times a week. Can you believe it? Four times a week? Such high aspirations! No, we never actually accomplished the feat. Although, in hindsight, I must admit that it was a little eager, even for me. Over time I decided to let the argument go and settled for (maybe) four times a month.
Then we started TTC. I told George that I didn't want to hear any of the excuses he had come up with before to avoid sex. I told him we were going to have to have a lot of sex and that was just the way it was going to be. He was on board. I was finally getting what I had always wanted, right? Wrong. Overnight sex stopped being fun. It became stressful, uncomfortable, and strained. I started prepping for TTC by drinking several margaritas or glasses of wine. It did the trick ... for a few months at least. I guess it is probably good that it stopped working since I don't necessarily want to become an alcoholic; an alcoholic mother doesn't make such a pretty picture. What is a frigid TTCer supposed to do? Apparently everything one normally uses in these situations compromises sperm in one way or another, so I turned to the internet and discovered the answer was in my pantry all along. Olive oil! Soon we were basting each other up like a Thanksgiving Day Turkey. Talk about unromantic. The culmination of this was last cycle when we had to resort the EVOO (only the best will do, after all) every single time we had sex. All four times. Ironic, isn't it? That is exactly the amount of sex I had wanted in a week way back when it would have never dawned on me to use something from the kitchen as a lubricant.
Fast forward to last night. We were due to have sex to meet the quota I had set when we had decided to be "laid back" about things. I agree that setting a quota is probably not the best way to accomplish being laid back, but knowing George, if we hadn't set the quota, we probably would be back to having sex maybe once a week, if we were lucky. Everything was going pretty well. I wasn't feeling particularly uptight and I was doing a pretty good job of not over-thinking things, you know, playing the, "Just relax, clear your mind, focus, enjoy it, damn it," tape over and over again. Then I decided to get on top, my favorite place to be when I really want to have fun, and everything went downhill. I accidentally hit George in the face while getting up there and, in what seemed like no time at all, I went from trying-my-best-to-have-fun, more-relaxed-than-uptight Ruth to dry-as-the-Sahara-without-a drink-in-sight Ruth. Needless to say, it didn't happen.
I love that when people hear you are trying to get pregnant -- back when I told them we were trying to get pregnant -- they say things like, "Have fun!" and "Enjoy!" These people apparently didn't have all that much difficulty getting pregnant because I think that is the only way one could ever think this process is fun or enjoyable. Even my sister, who tries her best to be supportive and understanding (at least as supportive and understanding as the seemingly most fertile woman in the world can be), said the other day, "The thing is, if you do have kids, you will look back on this and miss all the sex you had because you just won't have it anymore." You know, if I do end up getting pregnant and have a kid, it seems likely that the amount of sex we have will decrease. I guarantee, though, that I will never look back and miss this sex. The sad thing is, sometimes I wish I could just do IUI or IVF so that we could just stop having to have sex. That doesn't appear to be in the cards, though, so here I am, looking forward to more of the same.
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