We aren't Ward and June Cleaver, that's for sure.
Me: Make your X-Mas list. I want to get you something you really WANT.
Him: A baby.
Me: You can't unwrap that.
Him: I can unwarp the box it comes in.
Me: Just make your list, pervert.
So if you've been trying to create life...that doesn't involve putting a brain in a dead body and reanimating it...for a year and nothing is coming of it, it's suggested you see an OB/GYN and have her poke-n-prod your lady parts. At this point, you're officially being treated for infertility. On all your paperwork is the the big neon sign shouting, "You're infertile! You're 31 and your uterus is a FAILURE!" Balls.
Our doc (who is super thorough and answered all of my husband's questions about the female reproductive system with the use of models and graphs while I died a little inside), said there were 3 hoops to jump through before we knew what's what:
1. Have blood drawn to rule some things out.
2. Hysterosalpingogram. Yep. It's as scary as it sounds.
3. Semen Analysis a.k.a. hump-a-cup.
And let's not forget that the starting point for all of this was every woman's favorite, the pap smear. I don't know if that should be capitalized or not but it sucks so badly, it doesn't deserve large letters. An STD screening was thrown in for kicks. Chlamydia and Gonorrhea can really muck things up. Duh.
So once my nether regions were all swabbed and sent off to the lab (the swabs, not my nether regions), she dubbed us "infertile" for the time being (and I say US because 40% of infertility is caused by the dude). There were 3 hoops we had to jump through but there were even some hurdles to jump over to get to the hoops. Damn, I wish I was in better shape.
Regardless...a plan was in place.