The Wizard of Odds.

I was never any good at mathematics; the fact that I’ve become the next best thing to a statistician specializing in the odds of knocked-uppedness surprises me, too. And while I always adored the sciences, I had no formal training to prepare me for these forays into reproductive medicine. Don’t believe me, I’m not a doctor – though I sometimes play one on the Internet.

It goes like this. We’ve been seriously at it since January. We’ve had sex a grand total of 41 times since then, of which approximately 25 romps were carefully-timed to lead to fertilization. And 50 percent of couples our age trying to conceive will be successful in four months, 75 percent by eight months, 90 percent by a year. We’re five cycles in, so there’s officially a better than 50 percent chance that this is our month. (There’s also a slightly less than 50 percent chance it isn’t, but I choose to honor my glass half full, homes!)

Now couple that with the fact that I added Vitex to my repertoire of fertility-promoting cocktail of B-6 and Prenatal 19 and the fact that, last eve, I experienced some right-side-only crampage, and the fact that, this morning, I had what appears to be a later-than-usual/more-dramatic-than-anything-I’ve-seen-before fallback rise on my fifth day post-ovulation (perhaps too early for an implantation dip, perhaps not) and…well, I’d like to reserve the birthing suite, please!

Yeah, or not. Truth be told, I’m only cautiously optimistic. My dearth of specialized training has prepared me for just such situations, and I know they can go one of two ways: pregnant, or not. Just call me the Wizard of Odds.

And, did I mention, “pregnant” would be very, very nice?

This weekend, the Projected Papa-Pro and I are making the trek to visit with our fams for separate celebrations in New York and Pennsylvania where our nephew will mark his first birthday and my baby sis her wedding shower, respectively. And where, over the course of 48 hours, I anticipate an onslaught of the usual loving, but misplaced, inquiries into even our most intimate affairs. (Meaning, of course, intimate. Really intimate. When am I going to see a grandbaby? Uhh. Nine months from now, perhaps. Or some other time. Or never. Fuck if I know.) And much as I like first birthdays and wedding showers, and much as we like our families, I can’t help but feel like it’d be just swell to fast-forward to Monday when – provided Aunt Flo doesn’t surface in time for cake or party games – I get to answer that question for myself, tap into a box of Clear Blue Easy pee tests and see just where all that bonin’ got us!

In other, unrelated-t0-babies, news: I passed the bar. I spent a week temping at the headquarters of a major bank where I learned an important lesson. (To wit, I never want to work at the headquarters of a major bank.) I had a job interview. It went well. As with spawning offspring, I’m cautiously optimistic. I know this can go one of two ways: hired, or not. Either I get my way this time, or I don’t. And, in any event, I’ll probably survive.

Me = the Wizard of Odds.

About Projected Progenitor

Projected (adj.) (prə-ˈjekt-ed): From the 15th Century Anglo-French 'projector,' from Latin 'projectus.' Devised in the mind, predicted. Progenitor (n.) (prō-ˈje-nə-tər): Middle English, from the 14th Century Anglo-French 'progenitour,' from Latin 'progenitor,' meaning 'to beget.' An ancestor in the direct line, foreparent.
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