So THAT'S why I married him.

We overslept this morning, and while I called the RE's office, The Man threw himself into the shower, then locked himself in the office with his laptop.

I performed the important task of keeping things incubated while he hopped around looking for a clean pair of boxers and made other preparations for the drive across town.

When I went in (alone- I'll explain) the nurses were positively beaming. BEAMING. I found out why when the RN came in with the syringe.

"Tell him he did a fantastic job...again!"

I suspect that this is a big part of the reason The Man doesn't particularly enjoy coming along for the IUI's.

He is evidently some kind of sperm-creating prodigy, but he's also very shy....and the nurses have been known to stop him in the hallway and congratulate him on his plethora of little swimmers, which really freaks him out.

I can't really blame him, because the way they talk about him in there, I get the idea that they might kidnap him and chain him to the radiator along with a supply of porn and sample vials.

"I'll let him know."

"100 million! 95 % motility!" She beams at me. "It's always such a pleasant experience to wash your sample. You're getting-" (she motions at the loaded syringe) 30 million, 100% motility."

Holy crap. The idea of getting injected with 30 million of anything is...a little daunting.

Also, the fact that his numbers are so good leads to my brain working overtime, trying to figure out just what the hell is wrong with ME. Let's face it. 100 million sperm can't be wrong!

Splayed out with my feet in the stirrups, it occurs to me that every time we have sex, it's like committing a mass genocide.

Shut up, brain, shut up!

Ahem.

Anyway, the IUI went off without incident. I came home and informed The Man about his counts for the day. And he said, without missing a beat:

"Yeah, there's 100 million of them. But they're all stupid."

Yeah, I love him.