OmegaMom

Oh, lordy.  It’s a variant on the “just relax” advice.  Resorts and spas are promoting “Procreation vacations”.

May I just make the delicate observation that someone who has tried for two whole months is not exactly a person in “need” of such services?

My infertile readers have my deepest sympathy.  You’ll be hearing this one for quite a while, I’m sure.  “Just go drink some of those mystery Caribbean fertility remedies!”

A little piece of advice for folks who hand out the time-worn “just relax” advice:  most couples go into the baby-making biz quite relaxed.  After all, it’s just a case of Tab A in Slot B, squirm around a little, have fun, have an orgasm (hopefully!), and whammo-blammo, baby!

Right?

I mean, I’ve heard that’s the way it works.

Most people just expect it to work that way.  No stress, no fuss, no muss, no bother–just decide it’s time to make a baby, and *boom*, there it is.

People who are stressed about baby-making from the beginning (lacking any prior knowledge of fertility problems) are likely to be stressed about a lot of stuff.  Type A types.  Maybe they need such a vacation.

But the problem is that people who really are having difficulties in the baby-making area of life are the ones who will hear this advice.  Over and over and over again.

This whole aspect of life is long gone for OmegaDad and me, and I rarely think of it at all these days.  (A blessed relief.)  But every once in a while, something like this just slaps me upside the haid, and it makes me want to stomp my feet and shriek in frustration. 

Do me a favor.  If you’re not struggling to get pregnant, or never had any difficulties, and you have friends who are, don’t refer them to this article.  Because if they’ve gotten to the point of telling you they’re having problems, it’s a foregone conclusion that they’re either some of those previously mentioned Type A types, or else they’re well on the way to medical intervention of some sort (or adoption).  And if they’re that far on the IF road, any well-meant “just relax”–however disguised–will only infuriate them.

Technorati: Procreation vacation, infertility, just relax

OmegaDotter, now almost five, has reached the age of birthday parties.  We have been to three now.  The first two were relaxed, laid-back affairs at people’s houses.  Hot dogs and burgers, cake and ice cream, a few games, present opening, voila, easy-peasy and relaxing.

Yesterday’’s was at the poor man’s Chuck E. Cheeze, Peter Piper Pizza.  We’re too small to have a CEC here, so PPP has to do.  Having heard mutterings of CEC parties, I knew kind of what to expect when I walked in the door.

Ack!

Noise!  Kids running everywhere!  Greasy pizza!  Noise!  Kids!  Cake!

Did I mention “noise”?

And pink!  Very, very pink!  The first two parties were boys’ parties.  Little boys get to have primary colors at their birthday parties.  Little girls get to have pink!

Little girls’ presents are also pink!

OmegaDotter and I had trudged off to Target to get a present.  Presents for the boys were easy.  Presents for a girl?  Um.

First off, the dotter kept pointing to things that I knew she wanted.  Horses:  horsie-looking horses.  Pink horses.  Horses with wings and long flowing hair.  Barbies and Disney princesses with horses.  Horses and carriages.  Setting aside the fact that I knew she was pointing them out because that’s what she wanted, she also tended to pick the most expensive things.

And Bratz.

And Polly Pocketses.

Bratz–well, some moms don’t want their girls to have Bratz.  (I’m not going to go into the deep moral, social, and literacy implications of Bratz.  Suffice it to say, they are the Epitome Of What Is Wrong With Our Society for some.)  So, nix on the Bratz.

Polly Pocketses–OMG.  Polly Pocketses are the work of Satan.  They have so many itty bitty accessories.  Each and every Polly Pocket comes with fifty kazillion small plastic items:  combs, brushes, hair dryers that are half-an-inch long, shoes, bracelets, notebooks, dogs, cats, dog dishes, leashes, you name it, Polly Pockets comes with it.  I eyeballed them, thought of household pets scarfing down small plastic objects and requiring emergency trips to the vet, or, at the very least, an unending search for The One accessory that is missing and causing great wailing and gnashing of teeth, but sure to turn up in the vacuum cleaner bag, and nixed Polly Pockets, as well.

We ended up getting some sort of (pink!) faux hairstyling set.  (I wanted to get the Barbie tea set.)  At least there were no small unnecessary plastic objects to get lost, eaten by small siblings, or stepped upon in the middle of the night.  Plenty of big unnecessary plastic objects, but they’d be the kind that would be easy to spot in the middle of the living room carpet.

Then we ventured off to the pizza place.  OmegaDotter’s One and Only True Love, C., was there.  His mom was there, too, and we huddled with one other mom we know in a protective knot at the end of one of the tables, cringed at the noise, and guided one another through the intricate maze of tokens for games, redeeming winning tickets for toys, and shepherding children to and fro.

The headache and jangling nerves that resulted took hours to wear off.

OmegaDotter’s birthday party will not be at Peter Piper Pizza.

Technorati: Bratz, Polly Pocket, birthday parties