My husband and I had been trying for a second pregnancy for over two years when I finally decided to go to the doctor. She ran a blood test and informed me that my sagging 41-year-old body is no longer ovulating.

“What!” I exclaim. “I’m not ovulating AT ALL?”

“Well, not this month,” she replied calmly.

You have got to be kidding me, I think. One thing I can count on is that monthly egg drop, accompanied by slippery discharge and vivid sex dreams (at one point featuring weatherman Glenn “Hurricane” Schwartz).

“So I can’t have any more children?” I ask. I’m strangely not upset about this.

“We can put you on some medicine that will trick your body into ovulating.”

Hmm. I’m not sure I like the use of the word “tricking” here. My body and I have been pretty honest with each other over the years. I don’t want us to start deceiving each other now. Then I think of a cute little girl baby dressed in beautiful pink clothing who is googooing happily at me and waving her fists. She never cries and rarely needs her diaper changed.

“Okay,” I say.

We talk about the details and she calls in a prescription for me. The medicine is called Clomid and I’m to take it on the 5th through 9th days of my cycle.

The first month nothing happens. I’m instructed to buy an ovulation kit from the drug store to determine which day I’m ovulating and then to schedule intercourse. Intercourse is a term the doctors use to mean “have lots of sex.” I’m not thrilled about that directive, either. Sex was great when we were single and had no responsibilities and no mortgage. Now we barely have energy to crash on the couch after making and cleaning up dinner and putting our son to bed. But again I think of my sweet little girl baby who never spits up, sleeps all night, and only needs to nurse about 5 minutes a day.

“Let’s get it on.” I say to my husband.

But another month passes with no pregnancy. The only thing that happens is that my face breaks out with a rash of pimples. I count 9 of them, all clustered around my chin and jaw. I tell myself to be grateful they aren’t on my cheeks and forehead. This helps for about 1 minute. Because the zits are HUGE! They aren’t just little blackhead pepper grains, they are the size of lima beans with the angry color of a red pepper. I add “zit medicine” and “zit coverup” to my list of items to pick up from the drug store. And then I add “chocolate” because if I have to look bad, I might as well blow my diet, too.

The third month my dosage is doubled and my zits are tripled. One gets infected and fills up with pus. It sticks out from my face about half an inch. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m kind of fascinated by it and spend large chunks of time in the bathroom squeezing out the pus. I complain to the doctor but all she’s concerned about is whether I feel dizzy or nauseous. Yes, I tell her, every time I look in the mirror.

When my pee sticks tell me I’m ovulating, I’m really not in the mood to have sex, I mean, intercourse. I start thinking about how happy I am with only one child. Especially a five-year-old who can dress, feed, and entertain himself. I decide I’ll get a kitten instead of a baby; after all, pets are just as good as children, even better in many ways. You can’t leave your kids in the house alone for a few days while you take a long weekend at the beach. Or at least you shouldn’t. When my husband asks me if tonight is the night, I lie and say no.

The next day I change my mind and email my husband to come home early. He is alarmed by this unusual request.

“Is everything okay?” he writes back.

“I’m fine, I just don’t want these zits to be for nothing.” I reply romantically.

“I’ll be right home,” he responds immediately, never being one to turn down sex, even with a pimply partner.

A few minutes later he sends me a text message from his cell phone: “So what r u wearing?”

“Acne medicine,” I type back, annoyed that he’s trying to flirt with me while I am clearly so ugly and undesirable.

Later he leaves the light on in the bedroom when we start to snuggle–I mean, have sex–I mean, schedule intercourse. I guess that’s his way of telling me that my spotty face doesn’t bother him. Or maybe he was in such a hurry to get down to business he forgot to turn off the light. Either way, it seems that he still finds me attractive, zits and all.

I should find this comforting but I’m too busy running to the bathroom to apply more concealer to my angry red spots.

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