scenes from a derailment

After work we went to the neighbor's house and grabbed two tables and several chairs. We're borrowing them for a baby shower this weekend, which Peaches will host for some friends from work.

Even though the party is for women and men, I will not attend. I have a legit reason for not being around, but it's a relief nonetheless. I don't look forward to hearing the word "cute" a hundred times. That's what this comes down to.

Any time a baby is involved, the world turns into a chorus of cute. Adults lose 75 percent of their vocabulary and become dedicated to saying the word cute over and over, as a chant.

Dr. Faye Miller talking with Don Draper about the central conflict in most people's lives. (Mad Men.)

during the decade+ of marriage and dating, my wife never used the pill

now, as we head into the year of fertility treatments she's been on the pill, as prescribed by her doctor

is this how irony works? or is this coincidence wrapped in a tortilla of sarcasm?

This song comes to mind sometimes. What were the B-52s thinking? Make procreation fun and funny, I guess.

The opening lyrics:

A brief history of our attempted field goals

Pre-history:

young and dumb, married, living in Asia, then Europe, then the US, lots of drinking while living in Asia, Europe, the US

stopped using condoms

no interest in having a baby (yet still used the pull-out method, no condoms)

getting into our 30s, started talking about babies in a distant way, the way one talks about going to Antarctica

Season Highlights:

done with grad school, living in California, Peaches gets bored

stopped using the pull-out method, started attempting field goals

sought help

got help

help didn't work

a dozen fraught conversations

decided we would pass on this project, go on vacation to Hawaii once a year instead

Current stats since we restarted the project in January 2011:

visits to fertility clinics: 3

doctors met: 4

hours taken off from work for this: 20

conversations ending in crying and/or raised voices: 8

counselors met: 1

dollars charged to credit card for treatment cycle deposit and drugs: ~ $3,500

for women:

* talk with everyone about how you're trying to get pregnant

for men:

* sober or drunk, you never tell another living soul you're trying to make a baby

(A few months back, Peaches mentioned to my brother that there's this project we've got going. I could not get over how uncomfortable this made me. I emailed my brother right away, asked him not to ask me about it and asked him not to tell anyone in my family about it. The last thing I want is for my mom to ask me regularly "How's the pregnancy stuff coming along?" I'd rather admit I pissed my pants in 7th grade than have any real conversation about this project with another man.)

I'm on the massage table this morning with A-, who's been treating me for years. I'm so comfortable as she works on me that she could practically filet me like a freshly caught brown trout and I would keep continue drifting off for half an hour before I'd notice.

My mind wanders, playing through the list of chores and errands ahead of me. There's a party at the house next weekend, a baby shower, which I won't attend because I'll be out of town at a wedding in New Mexico, my niece's.

But the main thing that camps out in my monkey mind is the crate of drugs that arrived at the mailbox yesterday. It came with dry ice inside, to keep the drugs safe in transit. Peaches took time off from work to get the box, run it home, stick it in the fridge, then get back to work. We'd gone to dinner after work, had drinks, and eventually made it home by 8. She talked about the various packets of drugs, showed me vials and concoctions in baggies.

I want to be enthusiastic about this, I want to be supportive, but I can only feign interest so much before I ask if we can talk about all this stuff later. There's a lot ahead of us over the next few weeks and I'm playing the role of passenger, not driver.

I drift off to sleep once A- has me turn over on my back and she works my legs. Cars swish by outside on the busy street leading to the university. Even without seeing out the window, I know the fog has broken up and that sun will be out.

My chance to hit the brakes and call everything off is over, though Peaches says it's not. We've already put down the deposit on the fertility treatments, and we've charged thousands of dollars to our credit card for the drugs sitting in the fridge back home.

There's no easy way to stop this train.