If I could just work out the issues with my underwear, I'm pretty sure it would all be okay.

If you've been reading my blog for a while, you may remember an embarrassing incident with my undies during IVF.  Two babies and almost a year later, it seems I still haven't quite mastered the whole underpants thing.

Once we got the babies home from the hospital and life started to take on some sort of warped normalcy (because it can only be so normal when you're getting 30 minutes of sleep each night), I started thinking that somehow, someday, I might like to be sexy again.  I realize that saying "again" presupposes that I was sexy "before."  But there was a time.  

So day by day, I started making efforts.  I put my wedding band back on.  Not, in itself, specifically sexy.  But reminding my husband he married me and therefore is required to find me sexy couldn't hurt.  One day I put on some mascara.  I started wearing patchouli again, since everyone knows it's sexy to smell like the forest floor.  I bought some Bio-Oil for the canyons they call stretch marks on my tummy.  (And wow for Bio-Oil.  I give you 117 random points.  Because if I were the type of girl to post before and after pictures, wow.)

And then one day, I decided it was time to turn in the uber-comfy, up to my neck pregnancy undies.  And to break out the slinkier, pre-baby ones.

To celebrate this milestone, I committed myself to also take a shower that day.  Check.  I committed myself to throwing on some chapstick.  Check.  I committed to brushing my hair AND my teeth.  Check and check.

You can imagine the disarray in my house once I completed these tasks.  Two babies crying.  Both wet.  Both hungry.  I threw on some clothes, most of them semi-clean and mostly free of spit up.  Rushed as I was, I remembered to include the sexy undies.

Four hours later, spit up crusted in my  hair, mascara smudged all over my face, I was still feeling slightly sexy.  Because babies, you can vomit on my shirt, my neck, and even my face.  You can nurse until my boobs fall off.  You can pee on me every given chance.  You can put a dent in the sexy.  But you can't break the sexy.  Because the sexy undies are safe and protected under my sweatpants.  

Realizing my bladder was about to explode, I ran into the bathroom.  It was then that I noticed my underpants were on inside out.  And that my waist was through a leg hole.

I'm starting to wonder how many of the world's problems could be solved by simply going commando.

Where's my cool breeze?

The embryos and I are resting comfortably.

They, like their mommy, enjoy turkey burgers and a good nap around lunchtime. It's a leisurely life we three live. And I could get used to this whole bed rest deal.

In all of this luxurious relaxing, I haven't forgotten that I had promised the details of my rather embarrassing moment of realizing I was still wearing my underpants as I sat on the operating table. And in deciding how to describe this in greater detail, it occurred to me that nobody wants to go back and read the details once I've spilled the punchline. Yet here I go, sharing details. Because I love details.

So. My loving husband and I are shuffled into the operating room for the big embryo transfer. He got to look all sexy and Gray's Anatomy-ish in some blue scrubs and face mask. I got to look all nursing home-ish in brown slipper socks, a johnny, and a robe. And let's not forget the powder blue shower cap. The nurse instructs me to sit on the table and pull the johnny out from under my bum. This is getting old hat for me. So I do as she says. And she's chatting away, attaching the big yellow stirrups to the table (these are no normal stirrups, ladies), when I realize that something feels, well, wrong. And I'm all nervous because here's my scrub-sporting husband and we're getting ready for the biggest, most glorified pap smear of my life, and I'm having a hard time figuring out what feels so, so wrong.

And then I realize. It's my cool breeze. It's missing. So in disbelief, I reached down under that johnny just to be sure. And where I expected to hit skin, I hit cotton. And by now, the operating table is all set up. The nurse has the big yellow stirrups waiting. The embryologist is smiling expectantly and I'm pretty sure making eyes at my husband. The doctor is at the back of the room, washing his hands. And I say, sheepishly, "um, I think I'm still wearing my underwear." Either that or my vagina is especially cottony-soft today. And she doesn't blink an eye. Doesn't miss a beat. She says, "oh honey, happens all the time!" (NO, it doesn't. Ask any infertile, and she will tell you that the first thing she does at any appointment is meticulously hide her underwear safely from view. Well doc, joke's on you, cause this time, I decided to hide my woo woo instead.)

So, what else could I do? I looked around the room. At the nurse, the nurse in training, the slutty embryologist, and the hygienic doctor. And I slipped those undies off in two seconds flat, bunched them up into the smallest little wad I could manage, and handed them to my husband with a smile. Who says IVF isn't sexy?