Today is my first day back from a 7 day Mediterranean cruise. Before we set sail, my therapist sent a note of permission to my husband letting him know that it is okay for me to get pregnant.
After a good laugh, he said the “outlook is good” for trying to conceive on our vacation. Since I didn’t have access to my blog, here are the thoughts I saved for you on Friday, July 23.
My desire to have a baby is turning me into a monster. I’m on a European cruise, and all I can think about is fertile cervical fluid and my husband’s nonchalant attitude about getting around to having sex. Thursday evening, my cervical fluid showed up—not the crazy stretchy kind, but the slippery stuff that signals the egg is on its way and the cervix is open for business to interested, early-arriving sperm.
I tried to seduce him. No luck. I tried the direct route and made the mistake of using the term cervical mucus instead of cervical fluid. “Ew, gross!” he said. Since when have I been married to a 5 year old? He said he might be ready to start trying to conceive this cycle, but I can’t get him to actually talk about it. Oui ou non, monsieur? What’s the plan?
This dance reminds me of dating in my early 20s, when guys wanted to be with me but didn’t want to commit to me. They liked me—some loved me—but they weren’t ready to seal off their single lifestyle and the freedom it afforded. I wonder if that’s where my husband is now. He likes the idea of babies and knows he wants them someday, but losing his childless freedom is terrifying.
I’m at the point where the idea of not having kids is more terrifying than the idea of losing myself to motherhood. And I’m starting to believe in a quote I found on Motherscribe’s blog a while back:
There is a definitive link between being a mother and the risk of losing one’s self. I’d like to flip that around. Being a mother and the risk of finding oneself.