my huz and i do very few things together well (mild exaggeration, but we want this to be worth reading, do we not?)…hanging a picture on the wall, for instance, nearly has us running to divorce court (shhh, don’t tell anyone i said the “d” word!). 

 

or take us cooking together in the kitchen–this kind of thing rarely goes well, usually culminating in something that sounds like this:

 

me:  oh, huz!  don’t cut that on there.  it will leave a mark.

 

me, again:  wait!  don’t put that in the dishwasher.  that’s a special knife from my dead mom.  i don’t put that in the dishwasher anymore–well, i did, but now i don’t, okay?

 

me, yet again:  can you just go watch tv while i finish this, please?  you’re stressing me out.  [never mind his stress level right about then.]

 

so, you see, the saddest irony is that while we do few things well together, there is one thing we do very well—we are virtually unmatched when it comes to getting a sperm and an egg to find each other.  no, i’m not talking about the sex part.  while talking about sex does have a way of getting people’s attention, i would never want to embarrass the huz-man (that would be unthinkable to me!).  

 

no, i’m talking conception.  we’re so good at this that we don’t even bother trying to conceive unless we really mean it because history has taught us we’d better be prepared for it to happen.  

 

the thing is…we haven’t yet been able to prepare ourselves for the seemingly inevitable miscarriage that follows. 

 

[insert picture of wailing-not-me-women here:]

 

woman-crying

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