Sex is for Fun

A friend of mine who knew, before she got married, that she and her husband were facing male factor infertility problems, said something refreshing and smart, without seeming to even think about it. She said, "We always knew sex was just for fun."

Fun.

It used to be about fun. It used to be about oh-God-oh-God-my-period-better-start-because-I-can't-have-a-baby-with-this-moron. (Not DH--of course--before that, in younger, dumber years.)

I wish I'd taken that to heart in my own marriage. I wish I hadn't started to think of sex as I did--as proof of failure, of what we couldn't accomplish the "natural" way. It's weird because I never thought about the baby-making capacity of sex for years, and then it became like the main reason to have sex.

No wonder men think of infertility as a cruel, confusing trick. All of a sudden their partners are only willing smack in the middle of a menstrual cycle. It becomes a task, with a purpose, with a designated outcome, and when the outcome eludes you, you square your jaw and become more determined and try harder and worry less about how it makes you feel about your relationship and whether there's any intimacy to the experience.

Then infertility treatment makes it even worse. It's hard to feel romantic after a vaginal ultrasound, a hysteroscopy, an IUI. You get so tired of a roomful of people participating and cheering in what you always pictured to be a private moment. As much as I like the sperm lady's cheerful countenance and Dr. Yoda's silent smile, I certainly didn't expect them--or anyone other than DH--to be there when we conceived a child.

But hey--at least we get sex back. That's the good thing about infertility. It stops making any sense to think about it in terms of babymaking--it only drives you crazy. If you can just let go of the strangers in your business when you're on the table, and remember the bedroom is still yours, it is once again fun.