In 2000, the experts told us it would take on average about one year to conceive, after throwing the pills in the trash. I googled (on Yahoo, at the time) “trying to conceive” and followed my nose to babycenter, which suggested the use of a basal thermometer to predict the time of ovulation. On the way home from Point Reyes, I stopped off at the Long’s drugstore in Mill Valley and found a ten dollar basal thermometer on the bottom shelf. Smiling at the clerk, I stepped back out into the rain and into the world of possibility. I felt control and the hand of science on my shoulder.
Some mornings I awoke at six, to journal, and I’d forget to take my temperature until I was already comfortable on the sofa. Irritated, I’d drag myself back into the bedroom and wake Damon up with the tiny BEEP BEEP BEEPing. Then, I’d turn the corner, reach into the medicine cabinet, and pull out my chart. I’d have to squint my eyes to plot the coordinates.
Other mornings, I’d open my eyes to bright sunlight, staring at the ceiling with fatigue. The chart made its way to the bedside table, out of convenience, and the beeping and recording would commence. Those were dreamy mornings, before children, when the sun could rise up high in silence. When the scrub jays would wake me up, rasping among my zoo of potted geraniums, spilling over the balcony.
It only took one month, one spike. One night? Clockwork. Looking at Ford, as he sleeps with rosy red cheeks and a tangle of blonde curls beside me, I can’t say I wish it had taken longer. But it was a year-long program, and we took the weekend workshop. It wasn’t supposed to be this easy, and I, torn between pride and guilt, hysteria and fear, stood there staring at the pink line in the bathroom for ten minutes. The countertop was cluttered with tears and cosmetics, the pregnancy test commanding my focus. I looked up, smiling with red eyes and a wrinkled forehead, naked in every way, and carried the test to Damon. And the last thing I remember from that night was him, holding me and laughing, wondering why I was crying, running his fingers down his chin as he does when he’s trying to make sense of someone else’s imperfect logic. This time, however, with a hint of pride. We’d done good.
