After we got the initial results from my first semen analysis, we sat brooding on the couch. My wife observed, “No one ever really talks about male-factor infertility. Historically, everyone always assumes that it’s the woman’s fault.”
That struck me as an opportunity: to talk about something that, much of the time, goes undiscussed, and an opportunity for me to have an outlet to talk about what a daunting and frustrating process I expect this to be.
So that’s what we’ve got here: this blog will chronicle whatever steps we wind up taking to get my wife pregnant. It begins with post 1, in which we learn that my boys don’t swim, and will arrive, hopefully, at a conclusion at some point in the future when we have us a baby.
Me: I’m 33. I have one older brother, who does not have and will not have kids. That makes me my parents’ sole hope for grandchildren. In spite of this, they’ve been surprisingly low-pressure about it. I think it’s cute when my Dad thinks he’s being subtle about expressing his desire for a grandkid by starting any conversation about it with, “Well, you know your mother is hoping to have grandkids someday…” I am reasonably healthy other than…well, you know.
Ms. Swimmin: My beautiful wife. 31 as of this writing, oldest of three sisters. She comes from a fertile family (one of her sisters defeated two methods of birth control in order to be conceived), and so far as we are aware currently, has no fertility issues of her own. She is incredibly smart, dead sexy and I probably don’t tell her nearly often enough how great I think she is. She is going to be a truly fantastic mother one day.