“Stop!” I screamed as loud as I could.
My poor husband turned and looked at me through the frosted glass shower doors.
“Are you yelling at me?” He asked, eyes wide.
Of course I was yelling at him. We were 20 hours away from his appointment to release the boys into a cup for a semen analysis, and he was totally cranking away at his Johnson in the shower.
What the hell was he thinking? I mean really, how in the hell could he do this to me? I had been dealing with the maniacal side effects of the Clomid monster and here he was, in the shower, just whacking away. Did he have absolutely no self-control?
Maybe this meant that he didn’t really want to continue trying to have a baby. Maybe he was sabotaging us because he wanted to give up on the treatments and buy a boat or some other ridiculously large purchase. If we couldn’t find a way to communicate about this without defiantly forcing spooge emissions, maybe we weren’t supposed to be together. Was this it? Was this the end of our marriage?
I walked into the bathroom and leveled a single, pointed accusation at him.
“You are whacking off so that you can sabotage our results so you can get a divorce, right?”
He was both furious and amused as he opened up the door to the shower, revealing a sudsy full-frontal, and informed me that all he was doing was cleaning “it”.
Oh.
So, you do have self control and we are going to stay married? Okay, good. Carry on.
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Shawna Strohm is a 30-year-old mother of one. That one took 5 years and plenty of treatment. She is a full-time student at a local university where she doesn’t fit in because she is “old.” She is working on baby number two, if the old bod will ever cooperate.