Conceivin’…a short story thereof

There was once a woman, in her mid 30s, married to a slightly younger man (oooh) who was struggling to conceive. As all she had ever conceived of was conceiving and being a mother this was very bad news indeed. Tests were carried out. Oh so many tests. And yes, it was discovered that her egg ‘reserves’ were a little lower than might have been desirable. For her age. You know. And tests were carried out on the slightly younger husband and it was discovered that his sperm were both horribly slow and just the most awful swimmers, going in all the wrong directions, poor muddled little things.

But science, they discovered, is wonderful! And can overcome these seemingly insuperable problems. Can supercharge those naughty little retrograde sperm and, if necessary, fire them directly into the sun, where surely they must bathe in its warmth.

They can try too, to make her more ‘hospitable’. But that step is pointless if the guest can’t find its way to the house.

They had to tell their friends and families about all this. Of course. It was a big big deal. It cost ’em dearly. On every conceivable front.

They told them it was her fault. She was miswired. Imperfect. Malfunctioning. It was simpler that way. Women, despite their purpose on earth being fundamentally and biologically and since the actual dawn of time ….one of perpetuating the species…giving actual birth to the actual next generation (she is Gaia! she is Eve! she is actual mother nature!) do not — usually — identify themselves by their ability to conceive. They don’t go around bragging about their egg quality. Maybe they should.

Men, she discovered, do. Identity themselves by their ability to conceive. Or more specifically, by the quality of their sperm. They are their jizz. It’s very odd.

There is nothing worse than a guy who “shoots blanks”. She was told. In the eyes of his friends anyway. “You f****** jaffa!” was apparently the retort which would be thrown at him by his closest friends. Were they to know.

So her fault it was and she was happy with that. She wanted to conceive. She wanted a child. She longed to be a mother. The rest was entirely unimportant.