It’s been 8 months and 9 cycles without so much as a flap of the stork’s wing.  On a bad day, that’s 4 months and 3 cycles away from officially being declared infertile. On a good day, that’s 4 sweet months and 3 healthy cycles to do something.

This month, that means me trying to relax by way of whale music and joss sticks and for him, it’s getting his swimmers tested for their sense of direction and gymnastic dynamism.

Up until this point, I had confined my commentary on his sperm to e-mailing information on the link between diet and fertility and encouraging him to eat more than one apple a year.   But I didn’t labour the point. I, like most women, had made the assumption that if things weren’t happening it was because of my hormone imbalances or, on really bad day, that my womb and ovaries had been harvested at birth by an elf called Martin.

My husband is a bon viveur.  He lives entirely without guilt, indulging in the great pleasures of alcohol, the occasional cigarette and a really excellent, flame grilled burger with cheese.  It was this unbridled passion for the good things in life that, along with his massive eyes and fine nose, made him the best candidate for father of my children.

But, last night, his bon vivuerism could have taken a running jump off the Milennium Bridge.   He declared that, if he was going to be forced onto a macrobiotic diet to increase his sperm count, then he’d better go out and rip it up with a twelve pack and box of Lucky Strike while he still had the chance.  My hackles went skywards.  Before we knew it we were caught in the eye of an argument so severe not even Oprah could have got between us.  Why was he only really considering the possibility of a macrobiotic diet now he was faced with what a test might have to say? Why couldn’t I stop nagging him? Why didn’t he listen to me when I told him there was a link between diet and fertility? He’d get depressed if all he ever ate was carrots! Why, why wouldn’t he listen to me?  We could have saved eight months of pain if he’d starting eating alfafa last Spring!

Once we’d slammed a few doors and I’d had a bottle of red wine, I remembered that not only were the results not in but he hadn’t even had the test.   We were acting like we’d already been served the conception death sentence. His swimmers might be weak, lazy, strong or Olympian and we were simply going to have to wait a few days to find out which. The reality of a test is that it doesn’t change the situation, it only changes what you know about it.

An hour later, when we’d hoovered up the paint chippings from the slammed doors, we poured ourselves some wine and talked about how much safer we’d felt in the shade of the ignorance tree.

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