Infertility affects us all differently with the exception of one thing: the pain.

This is her story:

FULL DISCLOSURE: I am not a Mommy Blogger. That is because I am not a Mommy. I would like to be a Mommy mind you, but alas, I am not.

Apparently, my female parts don’t get along with sperm as well as they should and they reject those little buggers every time my husband busts a nut. And yes, trust me, we’ve tried everything from WD-40 to Grandma’s old tyme Hold Yer Legs Up Over Your Head technique. My husband actually refers to this as “Mauding it” a term he coined after watching The Big Lebowski one too many times. For those of you who haven’t watched the film 70+ times, that’s Maude Lebowski’s (Julianne Moore) technique of rolling around on her back to let the semen deposit brew.

So anyway, it’s been two years of nut-busting and Mauding it and quite frankly, I’m starting to get a little bit depressed. Sure, we joke about it and try to make light of the issue, but the last time I got my period, my husband cried. As you can imagine, in my hormone-enhanced state, it turned into a dueling cryfest. It was worse than when we watched Sophie’s Choice last winter.

I should probably also mention that aside from our down-home techniques, we have gone through all the proper medical tests. According to my doctor and all the lab technicians we’ve met along the way, everything is working properly on both sides. My doctor eventually pronounced our situation as “unexplained infertility.” I sort of stared at her when she delivered that prognosis until I was finally able to locate my smart assedness and retorted “so is that like the proper medical way of saying you don’t have a clue?” My OB-GYN doesn’t have an ounce of humor in her and she said “it’s what we call it.” Thanks. She sent me back out into the streets knowing less than I did before I came to see her.

While we’re technically not in any rush, we are both 34, and well, time is a-ticking. I swear that all the comments my mom and in-laws make don’t bother me, but I would sort of like to get pregnant so I can just tell them to shut the hell up. My mom, especially. She totally blames me. Everybody does. Even my husband.

Carrying this burden is annoying and unfair. While I realize that there are people out there with problems far worse, it doesn’t change the fact that getting pregnant is theoretically a fairly simple thing to do. I frankly just don’t understand. I see crack whores in Hell’s Kitchen who are able to reproduce. Repeatedly. I only smoke crack when I drink. It’s just not fair. (note the sarcasm)

Seriously though, I take pre-natal vitamins and do yoga and do acupuncture for fertility. I eat healthy, I exercise. I’ve even given up lots of stuff like running and drinking wine and eating sugar. I guess I haven’t given up on hope though. But you know what, it’s a daily battle.