Baby Dance Lessons

First of all, I can’t stand that term—“Baby Dance”. What a ridiculous euphemism. It’s sex, OK? Perfectly timed, traditional, no-frills heterosexual intercourse aimed at depositing an adequate amount of sperm into position to fertilize an egg at the very moment it makes its debut in the fallopian tube (or sometime during the ensuing 24 hours). This is the most natural and perfectly designed of human activities, and one would think that a properly executed embryonic boogie would create fetal foot-tapping in fairly short order, provided that both partners are in performance-ready shape.

One would be wrong. As Eloise and I discussed while she was rip, rip, ripping away during my last waxing session (see previous post—we’ve moved on from Bonnie), well-orchestrated lovemaking between two healthy parties often creates nothing but angst, frustration and $30 per month in ovulation test kit costs. I cannot for the life of me understand why such an elementary human act is proving more difficult for me than learning to write paragraphs in Russian. My beloved Sam has even done this before—he has two children from a previous marriage—so we KNOW his troops know the proper coordinates. Even so, God love him, he good-naturedly signed up for that humiliating “test” that is much more embarrassing than my being probed with a penis-shaped camera to make sure my ovaries are healthy. As it turns out, he checks out not just fine but fabulous (way to go, boys) and after much poking, prodding, and penis photography, I’ve got a gold star as well. So what’s the deal? Well, I’m afraid that when it comes to the Baby Dance, we have four left feet.

This is a family posting area, so let me try to deal with this as delicately as I can. I have historically had a minor issue with . . . well . . . moisture, and often enlist the help of an over-the-counter lubricant to help things along a wee bit. So, Sam and I have developed a routine of using what we call “the juice” during our reproductive and non-reproductive engagements. However, I happened to read on a fertility website about a month ago that, according to current studies, the use of any personal lubricant during sex (K-Y included), markedly decreases the motility and/or general health of sperm. It actually acts a bit like a spermicide, believe it or not. (As an additional note, saliva is bad, too). Of course, I was jubilant to learn this news, as it explained our unrewarded efforts thus far-- and what an easy problem to solve!

Yeah, right. Last night I was in the sweetest of the ovulatory sweet spots with regard to baby dance timing. It was perfect—my womb was all but rolling out the welcome mat. Alas, the complex choreography of getting me ready to provide safe haven to his emissaries while keeping his state of affairs at the right level proved more convoluted than Swan Lake in high heels. In the end, after a good bit of fruitless trying, we just snuggled up in a frustrated, exhausted mass and fell asleep—without completing the routine.

I don’t know if I require special training to surpass this annoyingly minor obstacle, but if we have another experience like this one, “the juice” may just find its way back into the love nest, spermicidal properties be damned. After all, I believe the first steps to a happy family is a happy couple, and maybe if we just keep concentrating on enjoying the groove we’ve got, we’ll get a nice surprise along the way.