Slushy plot bunny insists that I post a warning here: so be warned. This might not be what you are expecting.
"You want this: I want this," I continue. "We're both agreed. This is the right thing for us."
Kensi nods, but then she bites her lip nervously. "But a baby, Marty. It's such a huge thing." Kensi stares up at me, like she's begging me to disagree with her, to tell her that the idea of us having a baby together is complete nonsense. Only it isn't. It exactly what I want and what she wants.
"No, it's not. Not to start off with, anyway. Babies are tiny. I reckon a seven-pounder would be just about right. Not too big, not too small. Just right for us."
"You think you're so funny, don't you?" Despite the severity of her words, there's a smile starting to form.
"Not so funny – just mildly hilarious. Come on Kensi – you want a baby, I want a baby. Let's go for it."
"But I don't know anything about babies," she whimpers pathetically, like she wants me to talk her out of this, to say that we're not ready. But we are and it just seems like it's the most natural thing in the world.
And she thinks I know about babies? As if. I'm a man and I run a mile when anyone presents me with a baby and expects me to hold it. But it will be different with our baby, I know that. And realistically, how hard can it actually be? Millions of people have babies and thenthey look at them and realise they are completely clueless. Why should we be any different? One end eats and cries and the other end poos and pees. And it can't be that different from looking after a puppy, can it? Except that puppies are a lot cuter. Babies tend to look an awful lot like skinned rabbits, in my experience. Or maybe my friends have just had extra-ordinarily unattractive offspring? I've usually just inspected them from a safe distance. It's incredible how a small baby can projectile vomit with such force and accuracy.
"So we'll learn on the job. We're absolute beginners, but we can make it up as we go along. The kid's never going to remember if we put his diapers on back to front, is he? Heck, if the worst comes to the worst, we'll ask Sam for advice."
"That's the best you can come up with?" Kensi shakes her head ruefully.
Oh no it isn't. I've saved my best shot for last. "And anyway, we owe it to Monty. It's not fair to have him growing up an only dog."
"Monty is still going to be an only dog if we have a baby," she reminds me.
"No, he'll be a big brother."
"I want a baby, not a puppy, you idiot."
"Me too."
I've discovered that I want a baby more than anything. How come I never realised this before? Or maybe I had, only I'd pushed the thought away and it took Kensi finally mentioning it last night to make me realise what is blindingly obvious. You see, men aren't supposed to get broody, are we? And if by chance we do, then it's something we just don't talk about. Let's be honest, as a gender, we are completely hopeless about talking about how we feel, unless we are with women. Like I am right now. I don't need to hide anything from Kensi, least of all how excited I am about all this.
"So we're really going to do this, are we?" Her eyes are bright and shining, and I'm pretty sure mine are exactly the same.
"We're going to try. And we're going to have such fun trying."
Oh yes, indeed we are. We've got the whole of this weekend to practice, after all. Like I said, life is very sweet. And we're going to have a baby. Well, we're going to try to have a baby. How difficult can it be? We're only doing what comes naturally, don't you know? And sex has always come very naturally to us.
"We're going to have such pretty babies," Kensi whispers and then she starts kissing me. "They're all going to have blond hair and curls and big blue eyes. And I'm going to love them so much."
"No, they're not. Our babies are going to all look like their mommy and I'm going to be the proudest daddy in town. You wait and see." I'm kissing her back, and exploring her body with my mouth and my hands.
"I can't wait." Kensi gives a gasp as I reach downwards and then she is writhing against my hand and we are kissing like it's this amazing drug we just can't get enough of. Love is the ultimate drug after all – the original and best way of achieving ultimate euphoria. It doesn't cost you anything and it's completely legal between consenting adults. What could be better
She can't wait till we've got a baby? Neither can I. Maybe we'll make a baby tonight? Or tomorrow morning? Even if we have to keep making love for the rest of the month, that sounds just perfect. I always knew Kensi was the love of my life, but now I know I want her to be the mother of my children too. Our children. The physical embodiment of our love. That thought just about blows my mind. And then Kensi moves sharply, giving out that half-gasp, half-yelp I know so well and I'm surrounded by rhythmic contractions that actually do blow my. It doesn't get any better than this, because this was meant to be, as surely as if it was written in the stars.
Sign #2 Your Partner Is the Right One – Your Intuition Tells You
Your intuition—your gut—should never be ignored. At the same time, it should never be THE deciding factor. Your intuition should serve as a guide, something you rely on when considering whether or not they are the right one.
Intuition is more than just how physically attracted you are towards your partner. It goes beyond that to a place deep inside where you just seem to "know." It's usually just a sense or a feeling that this person is the right one.
Making a baby is more difficult than you think. A lot more difficult. Take it from one who knows. It sounds so simple at first and you have a whole lot of fun. But after a while, you start getting worried. That's usually about the time you find your fiancée weeping in the bathroom because her period has come again. I thought that all we had to do was stop using birth control, and all the rest would just fall into place. I was wrong. We've been trying for months and there still isn't a baby. And it is killing us both.
"It's all right," I say to Kensi, feeling completely useless. Even Monty gets into the act, dunting me with his head (just behind the knees, which nearly makes me fall over) and then sticking his nose into Kensi's hand. That's his way of saying he empathises, you see. Dogs know when something is wrong. They might not know what is wrong, but they do know that something is wrong, and they try their best to console you. Each month is just a little bit worse than the month before.
"It's not alright. I'm not pregnant. I don't think I'm ever going to get pregnant." I can't remember her ever sounding quite so despondent.
"You will. We just have to be patient." I pat her on the back, not really knowing what to do. Life just hasn't prepared me for a situation like this. I've spent years making sure I didn't get girls pregnant and the irony of these current events is not lost on me. And I feel kind of let down, which is even worse. I know it's not her fault – this requires both of us, after all. But I'm starting to feel less of a man, somehow. And if it's bad for me, it must be a thousand times worse for Kensi. I've heard women talking when they meet for the first time, and you can bet that within five minutes one of them is going to ask the killer question: 'do you have children?' Women are still defined by their ability to bear children after all. Does Kensi feel a failure because she's not got pregnant yet? Because I've not made her pregnant yet?
"I'm done with being patient," Kensi informs me and then pushes my hand away. "I am not a patient person. But it's not fair. There are girls getting pregnant right now who don't want a baby and we've been trying for months. It's not fair."
No, it's not. It's not fair that we want a baby so badly and we just can't seem to make one. And it's starting to come between us, this vision of an elusive baby that refuses to come to fruition. We stand there for a while, and then I sense that I'm not wanted, so I go and make myself a coffee. I've not got the slightest idea what I'm supposed to say or do, but I'm trying my hardest to think of something. Eventually, Kensi comes through to the kitchen, looking pale but composed.
"We need to buy a thermometer on the way to work."
"Why? Are you sick? Have you got a temperature?" I try to feel her forehead, only she pushes my hand away. Again. It's like she can't bear for me to touch her anymore.
"I'm fine. But now I need to take my temperature, so I know when I'm ovulating. And that's when we need to make love."
Great. Why don't we just mark it on the calendar, sweetheart? And how about we put in on our schedules at work too? Hey – maybe we can download an app for our phones.
"Sure. Why not?" I try to sound enthusiastic and supportive, but I'm none too sanguine about my chances of doing either, far less both at the same time.
What other option do I have? It looks like lovemaking is just about to become a chore, not a pleasure. That settles it. I'm going to go to the doctor and get myself tested. It's quicker and easier if you're a guy after all. And less invasive. It's just slightly embarrassing, that's all. But I can do this. I can be a man after all. And if there has to be a problem with one of us, I'd rather it was me. That way Kensi's still got a whole lot of options open to her.
So, we settle down into a routine of temperature-taking and noting it down on a chart, just waiting for that elusive moment when we have to leap into action. I sneak off to the hospital, where I discover they have some very interesting magazines and get this whole talk about how it can just take some couples longer to conceive and not to worry. So why do they hand me a bunch of leaflets about donor insemination on the way out? Can they tell just by looking at me that I'm firing blanks or something? After reading up about causes of male infertility, I decide that the David Beckham specials are too tightfitting and go back to boxers. I even cut down on coffee, for crying out loud. And in the meantime, we both abstain from any physical contact, unless Kensi is ovulating. In desperation, I start jogging in the evenings and take Monty along with me for company. He loses three pounds before I twig that I might be overdoing things just a bit.
I am becoming obsessed. And we still haven't made a baby.
We make love at the officially decreed times, and then we wait. I am now intimately acquainted with every detail of Kensi's cycle, but neither of us says a single thing when she is late. One day passes, and then four long days of not talking about it, things are getting to the stage where I'm sitting at work one day, staring at my PC screen and wondering if it's too soon to stop at the drug store on the way home from work and buy a pregnancy testing kit. In my head I can see us standing there in the bathroom, counting down and then looking at the little window and seeing the result. And then my phones registers a text.
Not this time. K xxx
I look up, and see Kensi is sitting at her desk, staring very hard into the distance, and I know she is willing herself not to cry. I can do no better than to follow her example. It's just that we were both so sure, you see.
This isn't fair.
Everyone has a baby except us, it seems. Everywhere we go, there are couples with babies: pushing them in strollers and holding them in their arms. That night, I hold Kensi in my arms and we both cry. And nobody knows. Nobody even suspects. This is something we only talk about between ourselves. It is our secret sorrow. We thought it would be so much fun to make a baby and we thought it would be so easy. And we were wrong. It could tear us apart, but somehow it's pulling us together.
"I don't just want any baby," Kensi says. "I want your baby. I want our baby."
"Me too. Maybe we need to do something more?"
"Like getting tested, you mean? Just in case there's something wrong."
"Yeah. Just in case." It's no good. I can't keep it a secret any longer. "I thought it was me, Kens. I thought it was my fault. So I went and had the tests."
"Me too, she admits and her voice is muffled, because she's got her face pressed up close against my chest. "I went and got tested too."
It should be funny: that we are both so anxious for it be our fault; that we were both tiptoeing around one another, too frightened to say a word; that we each went through the tests alone and without any support. It's not funny. It isn't funny at all. It's fucking tragic, that's what it is.
"And?" I ask.
"And I'm fine. They said that some people just take a bit longer to conceive."
"That's what they said to me too. Did you get the leaflets?"
"I got the leaflets. All about fertility and artificial insemination and egg donation, and then I got a talk about adoption options too." She screws up her nose. "Why can't they just realise I want our baby? Is that so much to ask?"
Like I said, it's worse for women. So we are both fine, physically speaking, though we're not doing quite so well on the mental front. There's no medical reason we can't make a baby. It's just that we can't actually make a baby. Isn't life great? We're young, we're both incredibly fit and we can't make our bodies do the most simple thing, the thing that ensures the survival of the human race. If there was a race called the Reproductive Stakes, we'd both be left in the starting gates. Do I sound bitter? Good, because I am. You would not believe how bitter I am. We would be good parents, I know that. We'd love our kid, no matter what. I've seen some lousy parents in my time, starting off with my own less-than-stellar examples. So how come they manage to have kids and we can't? You want to answer that question for me? Why can all these people I see everyday manage to have babies and we can't? I just want somebody to tell me why – but there isn't an answer. I know that, and that's what makes it so hard to bear.
"There are other options."
"I don't want any of that, Marty."
"You're sure? Because it's up to you. Whatever you want, that's what we'll do." I've read enough literature on the subject to know that it is Kensi who will have to bear the brunt of any medical procedures.
"I'm sure. Not just yet, anyway. We can always change our minds later on. But I'm fed up with taking my temperature and only making love at certain times."
And sometimes it's not been making love, if you want the honest truth. It's been a means to an end. How did that happen? We've always had great sex – mind-blowingly wonderful sex, but now there is no spontaneity. I have a sneaking suspicion that if we go on like this much longer, it will become a chore, not a pleasure. And that is just plain wrong. Somewhere along the line we moved from making love, from celebrating our love to the physical act of trying to make a baby.
"Me too. Although the bit about you lying with your legs up in the air was kind of great. In a mildly kinky sort of way." Sometimes I just can't help myself, you see. And Kensi does have great legs.
Luckily, Kensi sees the funny side of things. I think we both need to let go of some of the tension that has been building up and this seems as good a time as any. "You're a good deal of a pervert, do you know that, Deeks?"
"Only slightly. And would you really change me?" I give her my most appealing look.
"Can I think about that?" She pretends to do just that, and I pretend to pout. This is the most relaxed we've been with each other for months. "I guess I'll keep you. Just until someone better comes along."
"Fickle creature. In that case, I'd better do something about that."
That gets her interest. "Like what?"
"Oh, I don't know. Unless we make it legal. Like actually get married – you know?"
We need something to take our minds off this hell we're trapped in. We need to remember why we want a baby in the first place – because we love each other. If we go too much further down this road, we might not be able to turn back, you see. And I'm not going to let that happen.
"Seeing you put it like that."
"You're going to be a beautiful bride – you know that, right?"
"Of course I am. Because I'll be marrying you."
I think we might just make it. It's not going to be easy, but as long as we've got each other, we can make it. And nobody will ever know our secret heartbreak. When people ask us if we're planning a family, we'll just smile and say how lovely that would be. They tell me it gets easier, over time. I don't quite know if I believe that. But I do believe that Kensi loves me and I know that I love her more than anything. If only we could have a baby then everything would be perfect. Except life isn't perfect and I was a fool to think it ever could be. It was just that falling in love with Kensi made me think we could cheat time, just for one day and that we could be heroes. Only now I know we are just humans, fallible and fragile. This is only a small, entirely local tragedy. It's not like the world is going to stop spinning or anything. It hurts, that's all. It hurts so damned much I could scream my rage out at the world, but that's not going to solve anything. We have to keep going. And we've got a wedding to plan.
Everybody hurts, you see. Life doesn't always turn out the way you think it will.