Have you hugged your blog today?

Okay, I'm a bad blogger. And I can't even be original and claim blogger's block, since another delinquent blogster I know has just dedicated a long overdue post of his own to such topic.

In my defense:

1. I am in New York, spending 12-hour days in the archives, trying desperately to get my dissertation research done before I'm too pregnant to move.

2. I have actually started several posts. Interesting, thought provoking posts, even. I just never finished them. I know, this doesn't bode well for the dissertation.

I will endeavor to be a better blogger. Really. In the meantime, I will leave you with this brief gem:

Recently, in an attempt to address the weird aches and pains that seem to accompany the disappearance of my waist as I once knew it, I attended a pre-natal yoga class. Instead of just doing yoga, which is what I wanted, we began with "sharing." The topic for our share-fest was nesting, that mythical condition that supposedly sends pregnant women into flurries of house cleaning, nursery-decorating, and diaper acquisition. So, I sit there with all of these straight, married women, listening to them talk about how pregnancy has suddenly compelled them to bake casseroles all of the time, and about how this makes them feel like "real women," and all I can think is, even here, even in this moment of supposed sisterhood, I still feel like such an outsider.

I'm not complaining. I don't want to nest. I hate casserole. And I have no interest in being straight, or married, or demanding, in a fit of hormonal rage, that my husband paint the kitchen ceiling RIGHT NOW. But for those of you who think that being pregnant will suddenly make you feel like you have SO MUCH in common with other women, I've got to tell you, for me at least, it just ain't so...

And on that cheerful note, I leave you, with promises of more posts as soon as I escape from the archives.

DWP: Dating While Pregnant

Awkward topic, right? Indeed, it's awkward for me to even write about, since people I know in real life read this blog. (Hi Mom...) And yet, with a dearth of available sources on what it means to date while single and queer and pregnant, I feel a sort of responsibility to document some small piece of my own experience. Mainly, this post is for those of you who don't know me, and rather, have found this blog through your own interest in queer single parenthood. You know, all four of you. Because, if nothing else, I want it to be a part of the public record that you can indeed date while pregnant.

Which is not to say that it isn't complicated.

The first thing to know is this: You will want to have sex while pregnant. In fact, you will want to have a lot sex. As soon as that first trimester nausea passes, you will become more sex-obsessed than a 16-year-old boy.

You will not find this information in What to Expect When You're Expecting. (Nor, for that matter, will you find the words "queer," "gay," "lesbian," or "trans," but that's a post for another day.) In fact, many pregnancy books focus on telling you that it's okay to NOT want to have sex, or that gentle, non-penetrative sex is what many women prefer while doing the important, nurturing work of growing a fetus. My friends, not only has this not been my experience, but once you get pregnant, women everywhere (queer, straight, single, and partnered) will all let you in on a little secret: pregnancy makes you want to get it on.

The problem, of course, is that those of us becoming single parents don't necessarily have a sex partner on tap.

When I thought about being pregnant and single, it honestly didn't occur to me that this would be a time in which I'd want to date. The emotional complications seemed huge, especially after having experienced so many ups and downs in my last relationship, most of which were due to my desire to have a baby. It seemed so much simpler to imagine waiting until after the kid was here, a known quantity. And then too, I couldn't imagine feeling hot in maternity wear. I mean, can you really get laid while you're wearing leggings, or jeans with an elastic waistband?

Amazingly, the answer is yes.

Dating while pregnant is great in lots of ways. In a moment in which your body is changing dramatically, and your self-image requires constant re-negotiation, being with someone who thinks you're sexy is a really powerful thing. In addition to feeding the aforementioned sex obsession, dating can be a fun and playful way to explore the ways in which your body is changing, with someone else. And in my case, dating someone who thinks that becoming a parent is cool has been an incredibly validating experience.

But there is, of course, a flip side. And that, for me at least, is that pregnancy brings out emotional vulnerabilities you never knew were there. Dating while pregnant is thrilling one moment, and terrifying the next. Because here's the thing: you're embarking on one of the biggest, most exciting things you've ever done, and sharing that, even a small part of it, with someone who might not stick around until the end can be a very scary undertaking. You have to constantly ask yourself, is this worth the risk of getting hurt?

I don't know the answer to that question. Most days, I feel like I'm fumbling blindly down an unmarked path. There are so few role models for making a family in this way, I often have no one to turn to for words of wisdom or advice. Even my therapist said the other day, "Well, there's certainly no textbook answer for that!" All I can do is continue to make the best decisions possible for myself, my baby, our future. Who knows how it will all turn out? In the meantime, I'll keep you posted...

Queer Birthright: San Francisco

Okay, so things have been a bit quiet here at QueerBabyMaking. That, my friends, is because Baby Fang and I have just returned from ten glorious days on the west coast, most of which were spent in San Francisco.

Now, it's true that the Fanglet's first exposure to my favorite of all cities happened in utero, and thus, I recognize that she might not remember it all. But I like to think that, in addition to the lovely California sun shining down on Dolores Park, perhaps my developing fetus will be ever so slightly influenced by all of the happy queers with whom we passed our week.

In any case, I certainly was. It was so nice to spend a week someplace where pregnancy isn't equated with straightness, where queer and genderqueer families are par for the course, where I not only don't look weird, but might even look kind of... normal.

What would it be like to raise my kid in such a place? What would it mean for my kid to grow up surrounded by other queer families, queer single parents even?

My last night in town, I was hanging out with a good friend who lives in Oakland and is single fathering a 14-year-old. As we were walking to the ice cream parlor, his daughter asked me if I planned to move back out there. She then said, "You really should you know, for the baby. There's no place else I'd want to grow up."

Indeed.

But Please, Hold the Pink

It's a girl! Or rather, it has a labia, and no visible testicles.

I'm pretty excited. Though, still feeling weird about using gendered pronouns for something yet to be born...

Mom, if you're reading this, I really don't want you to make it lots of pink frilly dresses, okay?

(I am now resuming my "no blogging during the workday" rule. More to follow soon...)

Ladies and Gentlemen, Place Your Bets

Alright folks, the countdown is on. This Wednesday, just three short days away, is The Ultrasound.

I'm having a lot of guilt about the fact that I cannot wait to find out the sex of the baby. Good gender theorist that I attempt to be, it seems pretty clear that I shouldn't care what genitalia this week's ultrasound reveals. Finding out ahead of time, and indeed, obsessing about it as I've been doing, makes me feel like I'm beginning the process of gendering the kid in utero. After all, why does it matter if Baby Fang has a penis or a vag? Aren't I going to treat him/her/hir the same regardless?

I like to think that I will. And I certainly don't presume to think that whatever the scan reveals will actually tell me anything about my kid's gender identity. (Truth be told, I hope that I get a really butch girl, or a super femmy boy.) I justify my obsession with the sex question by telling myself that finding out ahead of time will give me a chance to think through what it would mean for me to raise a boy, or a girl. But of course, there's no reason why I couldn't think those things through without knowing what's between the kid's legs.

So, I'm trying to make peace with my curiosity, and to use this time to examine my own prejudices and fears. And mostly, I'm just excited to know a little bit more about the person who will soon be joining me. But deep down, I still feel the voyeuristic guilt of the spectator who seeks the thrill of meaningless gossip, and I worry that I'm on my way to unhealthily gendering my kid before it's even born.

In spite of all this, I have no doubt that I'll post the news just as soon as I know. So in the meantime folks, place those bets...

Letting Go of Everything but Love

Today: Trying to live intentionally. Trying to fill my heart with love, forgiveness, compassion. Being overwhelmed with excitement about the life inside of me. Loving my friends. Loving myself. Setting new goals that have to do with love, and letting go of everything that isn't.

Past Due

I wanted to blog over the weekend, but my internet was down. I had planned to write about the fact that yesterday, February 24, was the due date from my first, miscarried, pregnancy. It's funny to think of that, because right now I can't imagine being ready to actually have a baby. You know, like one that's out of the womb and in the apartment. In my mind, the five months that stretch between now and my new due date are somewhat eternal, and hold endless possibility for the cleaning of closets, the acquisition of supplies, and the reading of all of those books that I keep requesting from the library.

In an interesting coincidence of timing, France's high court ruled today that parents have the right to official recognition of miscarried and stillborn fetuses, regardless of their stage of gestational development. This means that in France, someone who miscarries a pregnancy will now have the option of naming, registering, and burying the fetus. Proponents of the new law say that it will help families deal with the grief of pregnancy loss. Critics worry that assigning the fetus such rights will chip away the legal status of abortion.

Unfortunately, I think that both sides are correct. I've spent enough time in the world of intentional conception lately to know how pervasive and devastating the pain of pregnancy loss can be. I have no doubt that many women would indeed take comfort in a recognition that yes, they were pregnant, and the life that they had hoped to welcome into the world was lost to them. Knowing how important this is to many women, it's hard for me to argue the official recognition of such "lives." And yet, I remain committed to a world in which abortion is a safe, legal, accessible option for any woman who wants one.

Part of the problem is that the abortion-rights lobby, in the United States at least, has tied itself to the rhetorical strategy that life begins at birth. While this makes sense as a justification for the legality of abortion, it simply doesn't resonate with the experience of many women who have been pregnant. Anyone who has seen a ten-week ultrasound is shockingly aware of the striking resemblance the fetus bears to an actual person.

And so, my own position is somewhat less morally comfortable. There is no doubt in my mind that there is a life growing inside of me right now, a life that has been growing for the past 17 weeks. And similarly, there is no doubt in my mind that I should have the right, that any pregnant woman should have the right, to terminate such life.

It's a hard thing to write. It's a hard thing to say out loud. After all, so much of the language of choice avoids the issue of life, the issue of a living being. And perhaps that's simply a political necessity. But as I grapple with the messy edges of my own feminism, I feel like I have to acknowledge this contradiction, to own the uncomfortable space between my lived experience and the rhetoric of a movement I vehemently support.