Confession #3691

Alright, here goes. Another embarrassing truth from the frontlines of queerbabymaking:

I had a sex dream about my sperm donor last night.

Now, I've certainly heard stories from women who have used known donors (usually friends of theirs, or at least, close acquaintances), and who, while inseminating in a purely turkey-baster fashion, had some surprisingly sexual feelings for the donor surface. This makes sense to me. After all, there's a real intimacy involved in the process of inseminating, and I can see how the donor would become a vortex for some of the energies and desires floating around.

I, however, did not use a known donor. My sperm arrived each month in a liquid nitrogen tank that bore more resemblance to R2D2 than to an actual living person. My sperm bank didn't offer fancy services like donor photographs or audio files of their donors speaking. No, all I know about Donor 3691 is what came printed on the long profile form sent to me by my bank. And yet, last night, I had a disturbingly vivid dream about getting it on with my impregnator.

Now, lest you think this dream is merely me rewriting the history of baby's conception into a more "natural" script, I have to tell you this: in my dream, I was already pregnant. Yes, that's right: I dreamt that I met my donor after conceiving through alternative insemination, and then had an affair with him.

And for those of you who are worried about me losing my dyke membership card, you can rest assured that in my dream I confidently informed Donor 3691, "Oh don't worry, I'm a lesbian!" You know, right before I kissed him.

Oh my...

Six Weeks!

Wow, time flies when there's a weirdly parasitical creature making a home in your body, huh? This week the embryo will get to be half an inch long. Bizarre.

The good news is that, while I'm still more emotional than "normal," I now seem capable of making it through the day without tears. The bad news is that the tears have been replaced by utterly horrendous "morning" sickness. And by "morning," I mean non-stop nausea from the time I wake up until I go to bed again. So my dearth of updates here stems mainly from the fact that looking at the computer screen for too long makes me ill. (Unfortunate that I'm also trying to write a dissertation, huh?)

Anyway, I promise some good content to come soon about the how-tos of babymaking, as well, of course, as updates on the various thrills and traumas and pregnancy.

Soon. I promise.

Pregnancy feels like life before thyroid medicine.

Three winters ago, in my second year of graduate school, I was diagnosed as hypothyroid, and starting taking meds to regulate my thyroid levels. I remember the months preceding that diagnosis as some of the worst of my life: I slept for 10 to 12 hours a day, and I couldn't stop crying. I don't mean I got a little weepy. I mean that I cried, uncontrollably, for hours every day. It would start without warning, and it couldn't be contained. Crying in class, crying in front of my advisor, crying with my friends, crying on the phone at night. I broke a cell phone from crying into it too much. Really. And then finally came that glorious day when I began taking the thyroid replacement pill. Within two weeks I felt like a new person. I was happy, energetic, awake. I wanted to play tennis for hours on end. I wanted to do fun things with my friends. I wanted to do my schoolwork again. And most importantly, I stopped crying. Just like that. I woke up one day, and all the tears were gone. It was a powerful experience, and made me aware of how linked my emotions are to what's happening in my body.

Pregnancy, my friends, feels a lot like life before thyroid medicine. Well, maybe I'm not as tired. But man, that crying thing? It is back with a vengeance. Add in a healthy dose of nausea and life starts to seem pretty bleak indeed.

All sources tell me that this is normal. Some offer reassurance that the second trimester will be much, much better. My endocrinologist is closely monitoring my thyroid levels, but so far, they're quite normal, which means that this time, I can't blame my tears on that pesky old thyroid.

I am trying to just get through one day at a time here. Right now, the fact that I'm pregnant makes me cry. But then, so do stories on NPR. I know that what I have to do is trust that I had good reasons for wanting to be a parent right now, trust that soon, I'm not going to be crying. I have to trust that the way I feel right this minute isn't the way I'll feel forever, or indeed, for very much longer.

I know that I also need to keep on reaching out to my friends. (And friends, if you're reading this, this would be a great time to call.) What is really important is that I don't let myself feel isolated in this process. Because the truth is, this pregnancy ISN'T a mistake. I DIDN'T get knocked up by accident. This baby is going to be one of the most intentional, wanted, and welcomed kids in the world. And, I might be a single-parent, but I certainly didn't start this process alone, without an amazing group of friends and family.

And hopefully, soon I'll stop crying...

Why I Love My Big Queer Family

So, after yesterday's mini-meltdown, in which I came face-to-face with my fears of going through this pregnancy alone, I decided to be pro-active about asking for some of the help and support I need. I sent an email to a few of my close friends and family members, telling them how scared and overwhelmed I felt, and asking them to make an effort to check in, stop by for tea, send an email, call, whatever. I know that one of the things that will be really important for me in this process is to have a group of people with whom I can be both unspeakably terrified and overwhelmingly excited.

Today, I received an incredibly thoughtful and loving email from one of the friends to whom I had written. She wrote, in part:

You know, we live in a fucked up society where babies belong to individuals and everyone rotates in their little ring of nuclear family life. You are forging an alternative community for your baby, and you have the friends to be part of it. I have re-dedicated myself in the last few years to being part of the lives of my friends' children. This is your baby, but you aren't in it alone.

C and I spoke about what your needs might be when you first started talking about having a baby. We talked about what we can do to be supportive. Never hesitate to ask for anything: rides, groceries, support. It makes us feel useful and helpful. Although physically, you are the one enduring the changes, you are not alone. You are part of a constellation. You have a lot of friends who put their actions where their politics are. A lot of us (C & I included) believe that children are a community affair - and new mothers should not be isolated. Your child represents the future of social change. Modeling alternative ways of community is an important part of making those new ways of being real.

As I read this, I started crying. Okay, so it's not that hard to make me cry these days. Still, I was so moved by her articulation of this vision of parenting that stretches beyond the heteronormative, or even the homonormative. Making a family, my friend asserted, is both an act of love and an act of politics. This child will enter the world surrounded by a group of people who love it, and love each other; who support it, and support each other. And being a single parent doesn't mean parenting alone. It just means taking the time to forge a new form of family.

Panic: I'm having a WHAT?!?!

So, I set up this blog with the intention of providing a centralized resource for many of the logistical questions that arose in my babymaking process. However, I'm going to take a little detour today from talking about inseminations and sperm banks, and instead focus on the unexpected moment of abject terror that is apparently common in early pregnancy. The moment when, after months of agonizing, emotional attempts at conception, you realize...

OH MY GOD, I'M HAVING A BABY.

I imagine that this sense of panic is normal for women who didn't mean to get pregnant. After all, even if you're in a stable and secure relationship, an unexpected pregnancy changes everything. And of course, for those people who simply fell victim to a faulty condom in a one-night stand, well, we've all seen "Knocked Up." There's certainly plenty of justification for tears and fears there.

However, my own panic surprised me, precisely because this baby has been SO planned, SO intentional. I mean, I started making preparations for this a year before I received my first shipment of sperm. Long before I had inseminated, I had already started researching diapers, baby slings, and day care options. I've had a list of names going for months now. There's a FERTILITY ALTAR in my apartment, and let me tell you, I hate all that new-agey crap. But that's how much I wanted this baby. I was willing to try anything.

And finally, after one miscarriage, six rounds of inseminations, lots of tears, and $6,500 worth of sperm, I've gotten what I wanted: those thrilling double lines on the pregnancy test. So, why do I still feel like crying?

The answer, I think, is complicated.

First of all, of course, there's a certain level of hormonal fluctuation in pregnancy that makes a person...well, perhaps less than fully rational. While I haven't started crying at kleenex commercials yet, I did get a little teary over an episode of "Law and Order" the other night. This is normal, and I'm trying to take it all with a grain of salt.

Second, and more importantly, is my sudden understanding of how everything in my life is about to change. Now, I'm not stupid. Obviously, it occured to me before getting pregnant that indeed, everything in my life would change. And yet, it seemed so abstract in a way, so removed from my actual life. Now though, the reality of what it means to a single parent is beginning to dawn on me. Sleep? Free time? Pleasure reading? Money? Vacation? Sex? Will I ever have any of these things again?

And then, there's the bitterest seed: I'm becoming a single parent, but I'm not really single. I have a girlfriend. A girlfriend I love. A girlfriend who is, at best, ambivalent about this pregnancy. And of course, I don't blame her. She didn't sign on for this - her vision of kids is still years off, cushioned by a stable, committed partnership and enough fiscal security to hire a nanny. A totally reasonable vision. Just not the one I've chosen to pursue. And so, the stakes are high: this baby may indeed cost me one of the most important relationships in my life.

On top of all this is the fact that I am currently 4 and a 1/2 weeks pregnant, which means that, given the high risk of miscarriage in the first trimester, it is still by no means certain that I'm actually going to have a baby. I have now passed the point at which I lost my last pregnancy, which is a great relief. However, I still have a good 8 weeks before I'm out of the woods, and that makes it hard to let myself get truly excited about this new life. And so, afraid to let myself feel the excitement of the process, I am instead just sitting around in the terror and panic.

And that, my friends, is a scary and uncomfortable place to be.