Fuck Spring

I used to love spring. I tend to favor the milder seasons. I dig all the spring cliches: birds, flowers, sunshine. I live for that first day it's warm enough to wear flip flops or eat outdoors or sit in Washington Square Park and watch the freaks emerge half naked from wherever it is they hibernate all winter long.

This spring, however, has been miserable. Between the rain and pollen count, I've had a sinus headache for nigh on 6 weeks. There have only been a handful of genuinely nice days so far and they're invariably weekdays. I recall one or two nice Sundays (this last was one), but the weekends have been largely overcast and damp.

I'm convinced I have Seasonal Affective Disorder, so I look forward to spring as a time of renewed energy and increased serotonin levels. I got so robbed, man. Fuck spring, and fuck mother nature.

Unless, of course, this is all part of her plan to get me knocked up. The boy and I weren't too diligent the last two cycles, only taking advantage of about 3 days out of the six day window both times. All the lackluster weather this cycle has given us reason to stay indoors and focus on the task at hand. And we've been focusing daily, lemme tell ya. Hopefully this will be the month. I won't be crushed if it isn't--only 25% of couples conceive in the first 3 months.

As Ethan mentioned on his blog, this past Saturday was Sam's yahrzeit. He passed away April 12th last year or the 21st of Nissan on the Hebrew calendar--a fact that makes trying to conceive this cycle that much more bittersweet for all the obvious reasons. Suffice it to say, I hope he knows we love him, we're not trying to replace him, and it's his fault we want so damn much to be parents again.

On that note, I'll sign off. I'll check back in after the next pee-stick test, at the very least.

V