What?

I didn't tell you I was taking most of May off? Oh. My bad.

It's been a crazy couple of weeks. Remember how we had to move? Turns out, the land lady's kids were appeased by "a load of presents and rearranging their rooms", so in the end, they didn't insist that their mother kick us out so they could take over the house. I want to say a whole lot of things about spineless parenting and uber-entitled kids, but you know what? I get to stay in my house, so it's all good.

How's three been treating E? Pretty good. I'm definitely feeling the guilt of not writing that long "You're 3 years old now and this is how amazing you are" blog post for his birthday; I'm not winning any mother-of-the-year awards these days, that's for sure. But I have a good reason. I hope.

We've been hot in pursuit of a sibling for Ethan. This month, after being an annoying patient (remember Elaine Benes on Seinfeld? How the doctors wrote "difficult" in her records? Yeah, that's me.), I ditched my OB and headed to a reproductive endocrinologist. In my defense, while she said nice things and promised to help me get pregnant, she didn't listen to my concerns about taking clomid without being monitored. I called repeatedly to ask her to monitor me after taking the round of clomid, and she poo-poo'd me to the point of no longer returning my calls. So....buh-bye. I just don't know how you give a woman whose got such an incompetent cervix and wonky uterus a fertility drug that runs an up to 10% chance of multiples without monitoring her to be sure she's not popping 5 eggs in one month. So while maybe she was right and I was wrong, medically (I mean, she is the expert), I just didn't feel comfortable. And one lesson I learned from my pregnancy with Ethan is that things are freaking scary enough--you have to trust the person who's taking care of you. You have to feel like they are listening to your concerns and are doing everything in their power to make you feel safe in their care. She just didn't.

The RE does. And he agreed with me that I needed to be monitored. He was honest about our chances of conceiving (7-10% chance each month, even with help), but hopeful that we'd get there. We talked at length about my history, reviewed my blood work and all the other tests that we've had done, and you'll never guess in a million years what he thinks is keeping us from getting pregnant. Would you like to guess? Go on. If you've been reading my blog for any lenght of time at all, you'll know what it is....

Oh, yeah. That's it. My cervix.

Yup. Apparently, scar tissue from my cerclage has interefered in a variety of ways with my ability to conceive this time around. So, thanks, cerclage, for keeping Ethan in and all of that. But seriously? Seriously??? I should have known. It would have to be my cervix. That little freaking thing is the bane of my existence. Can't it just keep it together this once? I knew I'd have to deal with it again the next time I was pregnant, but I didn't think I'd have trouble with it while trying to get pregnant. It's always got to get in on the act, the little attention whore.

Fine. So it turns out, as annoying as that little bitch is, it's probably the best explanation for secondary infertility we could hope for, because the "cure" for a cervix that's not willing to play nice is just going right on past the it---with an IUI. Yes, the turkey-baster approach.

I took my clomid, I had my ultrasound---two follicles sitting pretty, one in each ovary, waiting for the word. Tomorrow I go in, either for the IUI or for the trigger shot to force ovulation, depending on what the RE finds.

I've struggled a bit with the idea that getting pregnant is no longer about intimacy for Husband and me. It's about timing, and pills, and doctor's offices and specimen collection cups and vaginal ultrasound machines (which will from henceforth be called "the dildo-cam", for your reading enjoyment). If I do get pregnant again, it will not be in the comfort of my own bed (or livingroom, or shower, or...well, you get what I mean). It will be on a doctor's table. In an office. At mid-day. With phones ringing, doctors asking nurses to hand them this or that, and a huge wad of cash flying out of my wallet.

I could go on and on about how unnatural that feels, and yadda yadda yadda, but you know what? I'm good with it. I don't care. First of all, I have known more than one person who went to far greater and less "natural" lengths to have a child. And I'd never take away from the profoundness of their journeys by kvetching about mine. And secondly, I don't care how this little one gets to me, as long as he or she does.

So, fine. Turkey-baster, it is. I'll take that. Happily. And hopefully, just maybe, the universe will smile on us.