“Do or do not, there is no try.”
Thus are the immortal words of Yoda.
He evidently was not talking about baby making.
My husband Jamie and I are happily settled into the daily trauma of having two children who kick our butts. But looming over us is the knowledge we are supposed to have a third. I knew it the moment I had Baby No. 2. Because isn’t that what every woman wants to know right after childbirth?
I recently went to retrieve my birth control prescription and discovered as of January 1st, it is no longer covered by our insurance company. Do I take this as a sign that it is time? Or simply a sign that our insurance now sucks?
I am no spring chicken and if I had my way, I would have spaced my children farther apart. Like maybe in separate lifetimes.
You know, for full recovery.
But because that is not an option, this means we will likely start trying sometime this year. For those unfamiliar with P.P.T. (Prudish Procreation Talk), “trying” means “having an inordinate amount of unromantic sex around the time of ovulation.” How’s that for a lack of sugar-coating?
But back to the lack of romanticism – we speak from experience. After a particularly long, difficult day a couple of years ago all I wanted to do was pass out and go to bed. I was moody and every bone in my body just needed rest.
Until Jamie reluctantly entered the room.
“Err, I just checked the chart and today is your highest fertility day.”
Long pause.
“All right. Fine. I guess we have no choice. Get on over here.”
And this, my friends, is how our beloved baby Bode was conceived.
I'm a Canadian-born mom of two, former Denver Post columnist, family travel writer, editor of MileHighMamas.com and 9News contributor. Expert on all things Utah, Denver, family and travel. Lover of laughter and life. Happily married to a man obsessed with growing The Great Pumpkin. 