THWARTED REPEATEDLY

Celebrating 1 Year of Wildly Successful Blogging. What What.

2008-07-24T12:49:00.000-07:00

No Really, Who Am I?

2008-06-18T15:42:00.000-07:00

Our family has various names they'd like to be called by Evan, eventually. All types of creative names that are variations on the Original Grandparent (OG) names.

In my day it was like, Hey Gramps, turn up the A/C ya cheap old bastard, and Grandma, do my chores, I'm watching cartoons.

Not this generation of grandparents, though. These old hippies want names like Siti and BaBa and Poppyseed muffin. Hebrew names, Arabic names, Polish names, nonsensical names.

Oh but then there's my dad, who would prefer to be referred to as "Grandfather." Nerd-alert.

Nonfiction: I'm at work, uh, all day and night. Indeed, I've been watching that masterful little piece of cinematography you see below pretty frequently to remind myself of what baby looks like. That way, when I finally get home, I'm not all "hey, who are you, infant? You think you can just lay there all the time, you little freeloader? Beat it, you!"

Anyway, so I was watching it again a few minutes ago and suddenly felt all lost and weird inside. I was like...yo that's my baby. She my offspring, dude. As lame as it sounds, it sort of hadn't totally hit me until that moment. See, I don't really feel like a mama. That's what people are calling me these days, and I keep looking over my shoulder, all, "who? That lady over there? Yeah, she's kinda old and saggy, she's probably a mama."

At first methought I was more like dad. Cause I play Grand Theft Auto like it's my job and I think "Ain't No Fun If the Homies Can't Have None" is the best track on Doggystyle.

But then I realized, I don't feel like anything, really. Does having a kid automatically make you a mama, or whatever? Or do you earn the title once you've scraped fecal matter from the face of your watch a sufficient number of times (again, nonfiction. How does it get there so often?)? Because I don't feel like a mom. I feel a little like a shepherd. Occassionally minding a solitary, excessively small sheep, usually while E is in the shower.

But grandparents are totally cool with being grandparents. I was like: are you ready for this, parental unit? They're all, hell yeah I'm ready to be a Poppy/Siti/Grandfather. I was born ready. It's probably because they've done the whole parental thing already, and being a grandparent is some sort of custodial cakewalk in comparison. But still, their hyper-readiness for us to produce offspring makes me wary. What's in it for them, damnitt? Sometimes I think they're just reveling in the feeling of payback. Leaning back in their chairs, occasionally pointing and laughing as I stumble my way through taking care of this baby.

"Ha ha, look at you. Up all night, eh? Ya like that? Ah, ha ha. Oops, there's a little fermented regurgitated breastmilk on your arm there. Oh, ho ho."

Meanwhile, I just shuffle around with my staff, an inept shephard with no name of my own.

This is What I do on Friday Nights Now. Who am I?

2008-06-13T20:39:00.000-07:00

I'm only slightly freaked out that my Friday nights of late no longer consist of passing out face down on the sidewalk in front of my apartment building. Now I do this. It's more of a natural progression than I would have guessed.

Things Someone Should Have Told Me Before I Had a Baby

2008-06-10T11:27:00.000-07:00

1. You will never find the right baby sling, no matter how hard you try.

Baby-wearing devices were invented by either 1) an asshole or 2) a morbidly obese person. I've tried three, and each is a colossal failure of cotton dessign. The Hotsling worked the first time I used it, but now droops sadly when I stuff my poor baby in, who winds up lying flat at the very bottom of the fabric pouch, staring up at me with a look of utter disdain. Then we've got the Terra Cotta or something, which is as ineptly named as it is designed.

And finally, the Moby. Oh, where do I begin with the Moby? Why is the Moby so long? Why, God, why is it so long? One size fits all, in that it is so large that it is big enough for anyone on the planet, including a silverback gorilla.

I loathe the Moby with a violent loathing. I want to kick it in the face, but it is just a 98 foot long pile of cloth, so it doesn't care what I do to it. In fact I think it grows each time I begrudgingly extract it from its tiny cloth bag, just to mock me.

Seriously, who the hell invented this thing? All it is is a strip of fabric so long that if you tried to hang yourself with it, you'd fail, no matter how high your ceilings are. Oh, I should mention it comes with a 50 page instruction manual on how the fuck you use it, since that's how long it takes to explain why anyone needs a 98 foot long strip of fabric. Which leads me to...

2. Immediately dispose of any and all items requiring an instruction manual.

There is nothing so frustrating as scanning an instruction book while simultaneously trying to operate the device you have no clue how to use while your poor, patient baby waves her arms and grunts and begins to cry because it is taking you eons, EONS, to figure out said device, and baby needs snuggling or swaddling or food and there you are, futilely scanning the pictures of smiling moms, searching for the golden shred of knowledge that will TELL YOU WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW IN ORDER TO ACCOMPLISH YOUR GOAL SO THAT YOU CAN MOVE ON WITH YOUR LIFE.

If it needs a manual, toss it in the dumpster. Unless it is a car seat. Those really just ought to come with some sort of fairy or elf who magically manipulates baby's arms and legs through the various straps and buckles the various plastic elements properly because adult human hands are incapable of such precise movements without years of prior training.

Lo, the heartbreaking wail of a baby being strapped to a ~~torture device~~ carseat. Bet you didn't know that...

3. ...your heart will be broken, pinched, spit on, and bitch-slapped on a daily basis!

That thin little wail your baby emits when you buckle her into the carseat? Your fault, you sadistic asshole. Her wide-eyed look of alarm accompanied by outstretched flailing arms? Hey, that's because she thinks you're about to drop her! Nice going, idiot. How about when baby stops eating, turns bright red, shrieks, then starts eating again? Oh, that's just because it hurts to eat, people. It just hurts to eat.

Babies can't catch a break, and that shit is sad. Baby used to be all snuggled up cozy inside, sans bright lights or cold air or nurses who drop things on their heads or inept parents. And then they come out and you know what bitches? It's hard out here for a baby. She may not be dodging bullets, but the bathwater temperature can be dicey and her hoes are arguably more trouble than they're worth.

Due Time

2008-06-09T08:56:00.000-07:00

We're trying, with some success, to forget the whole hospital ordeal and move on. Thanks so much to those who commented - I can't tell you how good it felt to get reassurance from you that what happened really WAS fucked, and we weren't just psychotic crunchy people with a grudge against western medicine.

Anyway, it helps that Evan is so goddamned perfect it hurts. She sleeps, she eats, and she is awake, wide-eyed and mesmerized by light filtering through the tree leaves. She smiled yesterday -- her first true, eyes to mouth smile -- at the dog. She loves to float in a sink full of warm water, as long as she's got a two-handed, iron-clad grip on the finger of a larger, sturdier individual. She is instantly rendered unconscious, even in the midst of a full-blown hiccup attack, with a head massage. She tolerates kisses with a look of mild disgust.

As fucked-up as her arrival was, our 1 Great Triumph was that she never had one drop of formula. E pumped every three hours starting the morning after her birth, and her milk came in on day 3, which I consider a minor miracle due to the circumstances of her delivery. Evan was bottle-fed breast milk at the hospital, and once she got home she transitioned to breast-feeding within a week. Her diminutive stature and narcoleptic behavior made it difficult at first, but an extremely strict lactation consultant with many small plastic instruments and a bubbling cauldron turned things around, and then they were off and running.

Some minor bumps along the way:

1. Choking at every feeding. We realized that E's boobs were functioning like beer bongs, forcing milk down the poor baby's throat at a speed alarming to a newborn. E made some adjustments (switch sides every 2 feedings) and things have improved. She still chokes at the first feeding on the new side...any advice on how to prevent that? I've experienced few things as heartbreaking as listening to my tiny, hungry infant splutter and gasp for air. Although her milk-bong induced coma is sort of hysterical.

2. Excessive, at times scary, projectile spitting up. I'm embarrassed to admit that there were a few times in which I felt afraid of my baby. Note to new parents: don't prop up your baby and stare at her in the middle of the night in a darkened room. Babies look kind of creepy in dim light, and when their eyes suddenly cross and white liquid shoots out of their mouth, jesus christo, who wouldn't say a little prayer?

Anyway, we spent a couple of days worrying that she had reflux, so we called our lactation consultant who laughed and pointed her finger at us and laughed some more. You'd know if your baby had reflux, she said, cryptically. Just prop her up when you feed her, and don't bother me with such nonsense in the future, fools, for I am busy ensuring the babies of the world Gain Weight and Thrive, and frankly your baby's thighs are much too large for that preemie diaper she's wearing.

8 pounds, 2 ounces on her due date. I could not be more proud of E. She set about the breastfeeding thing with steely-eyed, lock-jawed determination and lucky for all of us her body cooperated and Evan is totally thriving.

And you know what? Since the day I met her, the longest this baby has cried is the time it takes to stuff a pre-fold diaper into a cover. Slap the diaper on, pick her up, and girlfriend's like, waa- what up, gangster? What was I crying about?

I don't presume that things will stay so easy forever...but it's hard not to feel like we lucked the fuck out with this one.

Follow the Yellow Brick Road: A Guide to Getting Your Baby Out of the Hospital. AKA, Part II

2008-05-29T13:52:00.000-07:00

I don't feel like writing about the NICU, thus the long delay in a follow-up post. But I'm going to do it anyway. I know that our NICU experience was a trip across the slip and slide compared to some other NICU experiences, and for that we feel deeply fortunate. But our time there shaped my initial experience of parenthood, big time, so it's worth writing about.

Let me start by saying that, of all the things we wanted for our baby's birth, what we wanted the most was for her to be with us right after she was born. We had gotten so much reassurance from our numerous OBs that baby would be fine that I was pretty flippant about this particular aspect of the birth. Every other goddamned thing had gone wrong, this would be the one thing that would go right. How ever she came out, at least she'd be here. With us.

The OBs assured us repeatedly that she may be a little grunty when she was born, a little lethargic, but that would just be "The Mag," and not a sign of any critical illness, as it can be for more premature babies. We extracted multiple promises that our baby would not be taken away due to magnesium induced sluggishness, and we reminded our poor L&D nurses over and over to bring her to E after she came out. These poor people must have thought we were insane.

Turns out all our fussing meant diddly. It was the pediatric nurse that made all the decisions about our baby, while the L&D people were busy with E. We were so wrapped up in the process of getting her out, that I forgot that in the alternate reality of Hospital-land, you must Talk to the Right People, otherwise fresh hell will descend upon you at every turn.

So, without further ado, I present you with PART II.

They carried Evan out of surgery and across the hall to the transitional nursery. The hour or so that followed is sort of lost, but I do remember sitting on the window ledge in our L&D room and wondering what the fuck just happened.

Once E was out of recovery we rolled our way over to the transitional nursery. Evan was the only baby there, stretched out in an open bassinet like a tiny bird. Her eyes were squeezed shut and smeared with ointment, an IV was taped to her hand, 3 monitors were strapped to her chest, and the CPAP (continuous positive airway pressure) device was pushed up her little nose. The sheet in her bassinet, as well as her tiny foot, were streaked with fresh blood from a blown IV. Two nurses sat at a desk at the opposite end of the room, surfing the internet. As we approached our baby, one of the nurses barked: "don't touch it!"

The L&D nurse who wheeled us in had to explain that we were the moms, and E hadn't gotten to hold her baby yet. The pediatric nurse looked up from her solitaire game and said: "you can't hold that baby. That is a very sick baby. She's going to the NICU."

I shit. You not.

So E cried, and we put our fingers in Evan's palms to feel her tiny squeeze reflex. She looked so small, and so much paler and more fragile than she did right after she was born. They paged the doctor, because these particular minions of satan were unable to explain what was wrong with her and why she had to go to the NICU, aside from repeating the words "she's very sick."

Sick. Such a helpful word. The doctor came and told us she had underdeveloped lungs, and why hadn't we gotten a steroid shot? Oh, only because the OB, in response to my query about the appropriateness of a steroid shot before induction, described it as, and I quote, "completely unnecessary."

She was moved to the NICU later that night, and her first nurse was the most wonderful person, so calm and gentle. I sat in a rocker for a while, and in my delusional state, I quite clearly imagined the gods reaching a giant finger down from the heavens and anointing her with every golden attribute that a NICU nurse should have. "She's fine," lovely nurse said, her halo shimmering in the dim lights. "She'll be home in no time. These doctors are just covering their asses." In that moment I felt love for this woman.

The NICU couldn't accommodate beds, only wheelchairs, so E couldn't visit the baby until she was off the magnesium sulfate, which wouldn't be for another 24 hours (E, btw, finagled this down to 18 with strong language and threats. She was, I imagine, what they call a "difficult" patient). I spent these 18 hours visiting our baby in the NICU and reporting back to the increasingly frantic E, who, by the time her mag drip was out, was in a sort of primal hysteria. Girl needed to see her baby. She was actually escorted to the antepartum unit by the attending physician, who surely did this kindly deed just to get E off her unit.

E's first visit with Evan in the NICU was one of the most heartbreaking moments of my life. I wheeled her close to Evan's isolette, so she could reach a hand through the porthole. She was silent for a few moments, touching Evan's tiny chest. But then she pulled her hand out and closed the porthole, dropped her head and stared at her lap. A minute later she started to sob. Great, big, slow sobs, a kind I'd never heard from her before. I felt a piece of my heart crack open then, seeing our baby like that, and seeing E so broken over it.

The first time I got to hold Evan, my heart was beating out of my chest. In fact, every time I held her for the first week or so, my heart would just hammer away, so hard that you could see it beating through my shirt. It was such a strange feeling, but it seemed to work for Evan, because when her little body was pressed up against my chest, her breathing rate would slow, and her heartrate would drop to the "sleeping range." It was strange and sweet, holding her like that with all her monitor lines draping out the bottom of her swaddle.

The ups and downs of the 10 days that followed will not be so dramatic, since you all know the ending, so I won't bore you with the details. But know this: the NICU is no place for the faint of heart. The lows are quite low in the NICU. The highs do not reach the same levels, because, hey, your kid's still in the NICU. But I swear to god if I were a writer I would have some amazing material from the days spent there, what with the beeping monitors, crazy family visits, drill sergeant nurses and condescending doctors, and just the blinding bewilderment of it all.

I learned many useful things during our time in the hospital, however.

I learned how to speak calmly to a security guard reluctant to grant me a my own official, laminated "Parent Pass," because, quote, there can only be one mom. Unquote.

I learned how to change a diaper. Through a porthole.

I learned that new babies don't really have a smell.*

I learned to dump out many a cc of bottled breastmilk behind nurses' backs to prevent the introduction of a nasal-gastric tube.

I learned how to reattach a monitor to prevent a desaturation alarm from causing my baby to choke on her bottle.

I learned how to silence a desaturation alarm (although I still have panicked moments of hearing a de-sat alarm as I stand on the corner with my morning coffee, looking wildly around to discover it is merely a car alarm).

Anyway, the day she was finally released from the hospital was totally momentous. We harassed the doctors to release her until they finally buckled, releasing her "WITH RESERVATIONS." Also, we were thoroughly underprepared, had no idea how to work the car seat, and were nearly demented from lack of sleep (I worked days and went to the NICU all night, E stayed all day only to wake at 3 AM and take a cab back to the NICU), so walking out of the hospital with her felt a lot like kidnapping a sweet child from some other, more normal parents.

I remember very clearly that as we finally walked out, this time with Evan, we were making fun of a capella music, laughing maniacally as we drove through the rain.

*this proved untrue, because once evan arrived home she almost immediately smelled of sugar cookies.

Hell in a Handbasket: The Birth Story, Part I

2008-05-21T14:49:00.000-07:00

E and I had the coolest birthplan ever. It wasn't a birthplan in any physical sense. We never wrote shit down or talked about it at any great length, but we both had a vision of how Le Fetus would get here, and I can assure you that it involved minimal medical intervention.

Ah, best laid plans. Slippery fellows.

As we get further from the days of Evan's birth, those days are losing their heiniousity in my mind. Heiniousity. Like that word? Yeah, you like it.

So I decided to post the story before it becomes happily distorted in my memory to something flowery and cliche, "but it was all worth it" style. As if being worth it makes it any less shiteous.

As I posted earlier, E became suddenly and severely preeclamptic at 35 weeks - she was as swollen as Violet Beauregarde at the end, poor thing. Evan (who should still be Le Fetus, dammit) was measuring big for her gestational age, and none of the battery of OBs who looked at her on the ultrasound were concerned about her readiness for New York City air. We followed the OB's advice and started the induction process.

The cervix softening drugs did their job, and when she was 100% effaced and 1 cm dilated, they put in the Foley catheter. What is a Foley catheter, you ask? Well, it is mostly a balloon! A fun little water balloon! Who doesn't love a water balloon??

Well this water balloon is a little different. Instead of preparing for a fun antic by filling up your balloon at the sink faucet, you stick this balloon up your vagina and into your cervix and then fill it up with a syringe. Instead of tossing it out your window at an unassuming passerby for a silly trick, you lie there and wait for it to force open your nethers until it slips out and lays limply between your legs.

Essentially, instead of getting your shirt wet, it pries open your cervix to 3 centimeters.

Good times. Anyway, Foley did it's jobby job and then pitocin was introduced and E's uterus was off and running.

36 hours later, E was getting rolled in for a section. E, as I may have mentioned before, swore up and down and backwards that she'd never get sectioned, that she'd push that baby out come hell or high water. I swear that had she been floating on an inner tube in Satan's flooded basement, she would still be pushing. But after 24 hours at 3 centimeters, her cervix began to swell, and poor E had no choice.

At that point, though, we were both ready to throw in the towel. E didn't want to be sectioned because she thought of labor as something she could do while standing, sitting up, or generally changing position. But because she was preeclamptic, her body was attached to approximately 29 machines (really), most of which involved catheters. She was also on magnesium sulphate throughout to prevent seizures from the preeclampsia. Magnesium sulphate produces a similar effect on the mind and body as the stupefy spell, as I understand it.

Poor girl was going no where.

She was a total champion laboring with all that shit attached to her, though. Had things gone differently, she could totally have pushed the baby out, I know it.

Anyhizzy, the section is where things got ugly.

We had a little pep talk right before they took her in.

We're gonna meet the baby, we said, smiling dumbly at each other. Tonight we'll have a baby in our pimped out L&D room. Yay.

So they prepped her for surgery, then brought me in. I sat right next to her head, behind the sheet that kept her from seeing her abdomen sliced open.

She was way drugged. The shit they pumped into her epidural on top of the mag made her Loopy Mcloopified, and not in the funny or good way. When they started cutting, she started moaning. They kept cutting, and she started screaming.

Bottom line: her epidural had slipped, and she had a window of feeling across the right side of her abdomen.

They gave her nitrous oxide to calm her, as she was distressed and tearing at her IVs. The nitrous, drugging her further, had the opposite effect. She started crying about the baby, asking me over and over what's wrong with the baby, what's wrong with the baby. It took them 3 hours to section her because her abdominal muscles were so tight. I felt like I was in a horror movie.

When they finally pulled out the sweetest little fetus, E was beyond reason. I didn't feel like I was soothing her at all, so I left her momentarily to go see our baby, and things got worse from there. I thought once the baby was out that E's pain would be over, but I had forgotten about the placenta, and the pulling of the abdominals to sew her back together. She was screaming while I met our baby for the first time.

I was wedged in between the pediatric team who were roughly rubbing her and clapping on her tiny body with a plastic cup. She looked wonderful to my untrained eye, pinking up quickly, crying her tiny bird cry, so mad. But the peds team frowned disapprovingly at her.

She's grunting, they said.

Of course she's grunting, you're smacking the shit out of her, I said.

No, no, frown frown, you don't understand, it's a medical term, they said.

I know that babies full of magnesium sulfate often grunt when they're born, please don't take her away, I said.

She needs to go to the transitional nursery. Don't worry, she'll be back with you within 8 hours, they said.

And our baby was taken away. At the time, I was preoccupied with E. I was on the other side of the sheet now, and I could see the nurses holding her legs down, and the surgeon sweating, white as a sheet. E's moans filled the room. I sat down on a chair in the corner until a nurse escorted me out.

Part II, in which our baby lives in the NICU, to come.

Home

2008-05-16T19:17:00.000-07:00

We couldn't take it anymore. We busted her out of the NICU, and I think she's as happy as we are that she's finally home.

Thanks everyone for all the sweet comments.

Getting so much better

2008-05-07T12:37:00.001-07:00

The birth story is long and horrific and I'm not up for writing it yet. Maybe ever.

But look at that baby. One look at her and I couldn't even remember what I was so worried about.

Evan Brooke

2008-05-03T11:51:00.000-07:00

The last three days have been the most relentlessly heartbreaking of my life. But our baby is here, and she's perfect.

2008-05-01T05:16:00.000-07:00

hi loves. I'm in the hospital and was frightened by the angry mob demanding updates so here I am.

E had a rapid onset of severe preeclampsia symptoms on Monday. After, I might add, we went camping all weekend and E rocked it out. But Monday found her swollen beyond recognition with headaches and abdominal pain, so we decided to get this party started.

Le Fetus, at 35 weeks, is measuring around 6.5 lbs, so we felt okay about inducing so early. Let's get this girl some fresh air before she busts E at the seams.

Last night was wicked, what with induction at 35 weeks being akin to prying open a tin can with your fingernails. But lo, Epidural made the sun shine on E again. The anesthesiologist totally hooked me up with some nitrous oxide, too, so 4 AM was party time in Labor & Delivery Room 10.

So, I am rolling with this baby coming early as all get out. I can still go to Kanye West on May 13, which is a huge relief. Priorities, you know?

So she's on her way dudes. What a wild fucking ride this has been.

I Think The Fugees Said It Best

2008-04-30T13:30:00.000-07:00

Ready or not, here I come.

You can't hide.

Gonna fiiind you, and

Make you want me.

-- Le Fetus.

E-sus Christ, Superstar, is in labor.

I Drink It Up

2008-04-11T13:19:00.000-07:00

Am I like a dead beat dad around these parts or what? Not showing my dirty face or sending the child support payments, just getting my drink on at all hours of the day and night, partying like the old bastard that I am.

Forgive me, dearhearts. It's just that I have been otherwise occupied lately. I'm spending my last few weeks of freedom as irresponsibly as possible, and blogging is way way waaaay too serious an endeavor right now. By my calculations, I've got approximately 8 weekends remaining without child. Tick Tock, friends. Tick fucking Tock.

You know what though? I can't wait to meet my little hija. The little breakdancer kicks the shit out of me each and every night. When E lays behind me, belly to my back, Le Fetus wakes me up out of my restful slumber at least 5 or 6 times a night. Girl's a little night owl, just like her Daddy.

The Kibosh

2008-03-18T08:42:00.000-07:00

As much as I've enjoyed the lecturing, I must now insist that it stop.

I take issue with the insinuations that my decision regarding adoption is irresponsible and selfish for the following reasons:

A. My choice not to adopt is by no means your first indication that I'm irresponsible and selfish. And immature. Read my archives, loves. In many ways, I'm a teen aged boy. It's why you love me.

B. Secondly, it isn't in my nature to submit to humiliating and offensive procedures for the sake of acting like a responsible adult. It's part of my charm. I applaud those of you who are responsible enough to do what you have to do in order to feel secure as a family. But because there are others who choose different paths doesn't give you license to pass judgment. In other words, don't hate!

C. I've put some thought into my decision. Me, E, and Le Fetus will have the same last name. We choose to live in a socially progressive state where lots of other gay people live. So it's likely that our experiences with child care, school, and hospital visits will probably be cool. And - I'm just gonna go here - if we were to have a problem, E and I are a force to be reckoned with.

Plus I've totally beat some ass in a Taco Bell parking lot.

Just sayin'.

D. New York precedent (as is the trend nationally) is that the gestational parent is the default parent, legally. Especially when the egg donor has waived all rights to any resulting child. The gestational parent's name is on the birth certificate. E is Mom, no matter how you slice it.

E. Finally, I must insist that you not worry yourselves. I promise to impart to my daughter that I didn't simply forget to adopt her, or choose not to adopt her because I didn't love her, but only because if she got too annoying I could claim no responsibility.

So there you have it. I trust I have now completely quelled any notions that I will be an unfit parent.

I will consider posting pictures. But only if you're good.

Nope

2008-03-12T09:21:00.000-07:00

Eliza, damn you, your comment is a thorn in my side. You suggest that a weekly post shouldn't be outside the short-armed reach of a Slacker. And yet lately it is.

At first I thought: Ha, weekly posts are no problem. (Phase 1: Denial)

Next, I felt curmudgeonly. Damn this blog and its constant need of updating! (Phase 2: Anger)

And lastly, grief. And self-flagellation. I cursed my feeble willpower for buckling under the slightest weight of, say, Intervention. Or a cocktail. (Phase 3: acceptance)

So anyway, here's my update: I can't do the damn adoption thing.

Firstly let me thank my readership for the excellent information you provided on second parent adoption. And secondly, I'll mention that I am frankly humbled by your depth of knowledge and your connections; those of you affiliated with the lesbian mafia of NYC are, like, hot.

But I just can't do it. I refuse to participate in this nonsense. There is no doubt in my mind that if I submit to the process I will, at one stage or another, do something inappropriate (i.e. listing a brothel as a former address, or telling the home visit social worker that my doberman eats babies for breakfast). And inappropriate behavior will likely fuck up my chances of becoming Le Fetus' legal parent. So I'm gonna try not to go there. I'd rather just wing this shiz.

However, I am considering dressing in drag at the hospital (my name can be somewhat androgynous, so this could work) and seeing where that takes us.

Stay tuned for that, friends. The thrills just don't die around here.

In Which I Regale You With Stories of India

2008-03-07T13:02:00.000-08:00

India was a trip. I went because I'm a world traveler, sweethearts. I went to tear up some stuff. Also to visit my dad, who is a nurse there.

But seriously, I stayed out of trouble and chilled out a bunch. I visited many a tomb, and paid some respect to the big dude himself, Guatama Buddha. I left him some rupees in a gesture of thanks.

I felt a universe away from New York. First of all, Indians are way calmer than New Yorkers. I loved the calm. When I flew back to NYC I realized how calm I felt and was sort of startled by the feeling. What's this strange sensation? Or rather, lack of sensation? I am somehow devoid of that clenching tightness in my gut... Dear god what's wrong with me??

I tried to keep it that way, but the calmness slipped away, like I knew it would. Nothing is permanent.

E didn't join me, for a few reasons. So I went with my brother, which was rad. He's a good travel partner. Except for when he woke me on the flight home, harshing my Ambien-fueled mellow. I forgave him though, because he is hilarious and obliged when I demanded that he entertain me.

One of my favorite pasttimes while traveling abroad is observing how non-Americans parent their kids. Indian people loooooooove their kids. Like, a lot. I never saw so much kissing and squeezing and ruffling of small heads.

Because so many people don't have money, and the traffic congestion is indescribable, many families use motorcycles as their primary means of transportation. Mom, dad, baby on board. It's awesome. Baby is usually squished between mom and dad, looking chill.

Now, I imagine if these families had the means, they, too, would drive large safe automobiles with appropriate-facing baby seats in the back. But that's just not possible, so they do what they can to get around.

It gives one a touch of perspective. I have a friend who RENTS A CAR whenever she travels through Manhattan with her baby. She does this because "the subway is too loud for the baby," and "cab drivers are too reckless for a baby."

Uh, okay.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for ensuring the safety of your offspring. But so much of this American-style parenting is just self-inflicted nonsense. We buy shit and stress the fuck out and buy shit and coddle and that's what makes us feel like good, responsible parents. I so hope to avoid this when E and I become parents. I cling to that hope.

In other news, I'm trying to figure out how to become a legal parent to Le Fetus once she's no longer a Fetus.

E reminded me the other day that I need to adopt her when she becomes a squirming reality. I was like, "Oh yeah. Adopt my kid. That little thing."

I asked her if I could just go to the hospital dressed as a boy and ask them to list me as "Father" on the birth certificate. She didn't like the idea, so I'm forced to navigate the treacherous waters of second-parent adoption. I have no idea where to begin, of course, so like anyone faced with a large-scale dilemma, I googled that shiz. When how do I adopt my kid and I'm not my child's legal parent, help and finally bullshit bureaucracy second parent adoption yielded nothing save for policy articles and HRC's less than helpful page on state-by-state adoption laws, I started getting annoyed.

1. What up with all the policy pieces on gay parents? The American Academy of Pediatrics published one of the plethora of detailed policy reviews in which the notion that both parents ought to have legal custody of the child they are raising together is heartily endorsed. Indeed. Why thank you, AAP, what wisdom you impart. I mean, hey, I'm glad for the vote of confidence. It's helpful to know that a group of pediatricians agree that I should be legally responsible for my child's care.

(By the way I'm just messing with ya. I'm totally glad they wrote it, because Kansas exists. And Mike Huckabee.)

2. How the fuck do I DO it? This information should be completely accessible - I'm talking detailed instructions, the step by step on how to accomplish the goal of adoption. Instead, I get policy articles and websites telling me YES! CONGRATULATIONS, NEW YORKER, YOU MAY ADOPT YOUR CHILD. Yes, but how?

Anyway, enough bitching. It just feels bizarre to have to adopt my own kid. It is so beyond the scope of my imagination that Americans live without civil rights. And we just suck it right up and do it. I have friends who live in other, scarier states, and tell me how grateful I should be that my state even allows second-parent adoption.

Um, grateful? Should New York get a cookie? In New York, an MSW gets to decide if I can be my kid's legal parent. That makes me feel...less than grateful. But what choice do I have? I will do it and move on, because at least it's not fucking Oklahoma.

Little Rap of Delight

2008-02-28T13:21:00.000-08:00

Untwist your panties, people, here I am. Backity back and in effect.

Sorry for my delinquent blogging, but I have been a virtual cocktail of Busy, Traveling, and, as per usual, Extremely Lazy. Do you know what happens when lazy people undergo the duress of extreme work hours in combination with international travel? We essentially implode with laziness, sleeping whenever we have two minutes alone, kickin up the feet and dropping the lids on the subway, in a car service, in airport restrooms.

I just got back from India, like 5 minutes ago. I apologize for worrying your pretty heads, because all appears well with E and the wee fetus. Her recent scan revealed the cyst on Le Fetus' brain is gone, which is what nearly always happens with these types of cysts, regardless of an underlying problem. But it was a relief nonetheless.

What's cool is that is that E feels her kicking now without having to lie face-down in public toilets. That's a major improvement.

So, In All Seriousness, thanks to my sweet lurking friends and others who expressed interest in my well being. You people don't know me and yet you took time out of your day to leave me some kind words. It was surprisingly touching to return home and discover that there are people in the world interested in my story, as boring and half-assed as it seems to me most of the time.

See how I'm like a loaf of crusty bread? My barnacly exterior shields a soft steamy interior.

Don't tell anyone.

Fear Lives In My House And Drinks All The Strawberry Milk

2008-02-04T09:45:00.000-08:00

E has her 23 week check-up with the OB tomorrow. More than halfway through her pregnancy, her anxiety has only marginally improved. To give you an idea of her mindset, know that she lay, facedown, on the floor of the Jeep dealership bathroom last weekend in order to feel the baby move.

She prepares for the baby in fits and starts. One day she'll demand a trip to Target for baby clothes hangers, the next day I find her teary-eyed on the couch amongst empty glasses of strawberry milk, claiming "The Baby Is Dead."

As an aside, can you imagine my blood pressure levels in these moments? Arriving home from work at 11:30 to find my pregnant wife tear-streaked and moaning? I try to remain calm while gently interrogating her:

Why, baby, why do you think she's dead?

I haven't felt her in hours!

When was the last time you got up and moved?

(Sheepish) 4 hours ago.

Okay, well, let's go walk outside in the fresh air and maybe she'll wake up.

And, of course, we're not halfway out the door when E's face lights up as she exclaims, There she is!

But the time that elapses between the tiny rolls and kicks she feels is enough to spiral E into fierce anxiety and depression. The cyst on Lentil's brain may as well be a cyst on E's brain, worming into her conscience and silently destroying her experience of this pregnancy.

It's cyclical, of course. Her paranoia peaks the few days prior to her OB appointment. Hopefully her fears will be put to bed tomorrow, if not until June, then at least until the next appointment.

In more uplifting news, I've recently discovered the indescribable joy of learning the search terms that bring people to this website. A few of my favorites:

satan guitar fuckers,

boy in a dress,

hairy monster cyst,

and, my personal favorite, holy cunts.

No wonder I don't have more commenters.

The New Ride

2008-02-03T05:31:00.000-08:00

Not exactly a monster truck, but I did feel slightly All-American when I bought it, and the 5-speed V-6 with shift on the fly 4 wheel drive feels like our old car on crack, so monster-truck or not I had the sensation I could crush everyone in my path on my test drive.

We are intensely happy with our car purchase decision making skills. The boring Toyota stayed on its stupid boring lot. We vowed to each other that this will be our last non-biodeisel vehicle, which eases the guilty pangs over the gas mileage. And we're praying to the God of Parking Spots that he will have mercy on us, as parking an SUV on the street in Manhattan is akin to sliding an Apple IIc into a manila envelope.

But fuck it. If I start heading down the straight and narrow path to parenthood, lined with Precious Moments and "Baby On Board" stickers, just take me out and shoot me.

And besides, driving home from Ikea with a diaper pail and changing table is way more fun when you're listening to Biggie in your pimped out monster truck.

Welcome to Misfitsville, Population: 1.

2008-02-01T12:38:00.000-08:00

I'm not much of a mommy-type. I work a lot and I have no plans to stay home to wipe a butt, slice oranges and host playdates. Not that there is ANYTHING wrong with staying at home, it's just not the sort of life that appeals to me. Then again, neither does festering away in a cube, eyes running red before my computer as I slowly and methodically climb the ladder to the corner office. But I digress.

So I'm trying to get in touch with the mommy in me, in the only way I know how. This weekend I'm upgrading our vehicular transport to something that will accomodate a baby seat. This endeavor has progressed from researching a very reliable and responsible Toyota, to deciding that we SIMPLY MUST HAVE a V-6 with headlamps, just because how cool would it be to pull our little rocker baby out of a big black monster truck?

And besides, maybe I'll quit my job and race dirt bikes or perhaps become a living rock legend, and in either case the pimped out truck will be a necessary evil.

Not that it is really a monster truck. But it does have headlamps. And, by the way, it is RADICAL.

Anyway, we'll see which one we come home with this weekend. The car hunt has taken on a deeper meaning for me, obviously.

So lately the pressure is on to momify myself, and it's irritating as shit.

For example, I don't do babyshowers.

I never have. They are perhaps the most unappealing of all events that end in "shower." I've never been a fan of purse-related games, tea parties, or wearing a pacifier as an adult. I'm not generally even sociable at 11 AM on a Saturday, much less a willing participant in a retarded game involving a diaper and teams of three.

If I were to attend a baby shower, I'd be the hungover one who has slunk outside for a cigarette after downing my and my neighbor's mimosa. And no one wants that girl at her shower. They want fresh-faced, sundress clad marys at their baby shower. Girls who can't wait for babies of their own, with smiles that stretch their faces as they watch mommy-to-be claw open her gifts.

So baby showers aren't my style, BFD. All my gorgeous friends who love me enough to tolerate this aspect of my personality don't heckle me about it. But now that E is the one with the showering, I'm getting seven kinds of shit for not being in attendance. (And not from E - she loves me despite it all, oh, despite it all).

The crushing injustice! Were I a man, would I get the heckling? The evil-eye? The shrill demands that I simply must attend? No. Because men aren't expected to partake in any baby shower action. And I envy them that.

So I say to these hecklers, put your make believe hat on and pretend I'm her husband. And by the way, I will catch your ass later, because I'm going to the monster truck rally.

Will The Miracles Ever Cease?

2008-01-22T11:29:00.000-08:00

When I was a wee lad I used to watch the Transformers cartoon after school. Because it was one of the more awesome things on television at 3:30 PM.

I always sang along with the theme song in my head without really knowing the words (Transformers...Mordenmeetsdeiye!). I have a very vivid memory of laying on the brown wall-to-wall in my living room one afternoon, the Decepticons acting like fucking pricks, as usual, and feeling like the unluckiest person on earth.

A) I had no transformer friends,
B) I did not yet have the hang of tying my shoes properly and
C) my beloved 2 year old cat was crushed in my driveway. Assassin unknown.

But after watching the madness and mayhem unfold on Transformers, I would stand on the brown sofa and say I AM OPTIMUS PRIME. And I'd feel marginally better.

For those of you who manage to slog through the singular tediousness of this blog month after month, you may recall that we lost our cat in October.

We sometimes take long weekends to country town to escape the city. In early October, E went up to country town with dog and cat in tow, while I stayed at work. In the throes of first trimester narcolepsy, E apparently arrived at country house, walked in the front door, opened the cat carrier, sat on the bed, and thereafter slipped into a four hour long coma.

E having failed to close the front door after stepping in, our cat made her way outside and Into The Wild, as it were.

Our cat had not been seen or heard from since, until we got a phone call this weekend.

She weighs a fraction of her pre-adventure weight, and is also freakishly strong. Although this is heartbreaking on the one hand, it is probably better for her long-term health on the other hand. A mere 3.5 months ago she most closely resembled a small beached seal strewn sideways across our couch who rarely trotted for the swinging of her stomach got in the way of her legs.

She's now lithe and muscled, but back on our couch where she belongs.

I am the luckiest person on Earth. Or, as I said again recently, having just watched the intoxicating adventure that was the Transformers movie, I Am Optimus Prime.

Dog Is My (Awesome) Co-Pilot

2008-01-16T18:58:00.000-08:00

We love our dog. He's one of the coolest individuals I've ever met. He's massively popular. He probably has more friends than I do. But not because he's a wiggly waggly retriever-type who loves everyone so everyone loves him back. You've got to earn this dog's love. And everyone wants a piece.

Many of our friends come over specifically to see him. Not us.

Many of our friends ask to borrow him for days at a time. There are a few who actually argue over who gets to take him when we go on vacation.

He rocks.

He's mellow and chilled out almost always. Unless you get him out in an open field with a tennis ball/stick/frisbee - then he's got the focus and drive of a West Point cadet.

Or unless someone is knocking on our door, and then he's got the intensity and thinly veiled malice of a sniper with a touch of 'roid rage.

But because he's big, and he's a doberman, anyone not well acquainted with his awesomeness asks us what we're going to do with him when the baby is born.

Huh?

E always responds with something like: "we're going to put the baby in his bed with him" or "we're going to let him clean her butt off when we change her diaper."

Ha, ha, the person laughs.

But what they don't know is that she sort of means it.

Aside from the irritating breed-ism inherent in this question, I'm always shocked at how it is posed. What are we going to do with him? The better question is what the hell are we going to do with this poopy little creature who is suddenly the center of our household?

The dog I know I can handle. The baby...not so much.

The three of us are a pack. There used to be four of us, until we lost our cat. Me, E, and our fucking awesome dog, aka Aiden, Gene, Todd, or Deborah (see? we don't even gender our dog). And our tribe totally has room for another.

But I wonder...how do we do right by him? Sometimes when I watch Cesar Millan I'm convinced that the best thing for him is to get another dog. But then I realize I may be exhibiting signs of insanity.

I know we'll be preoccupied and exhausted, and I don't want him to feel left out. He's been our only child for 7 years, and I imagine he might experience a little shell shock if we don't do this right.

So I'm reaching out to those of you reading who have words of advice...what was your experience when you brought your baby home? How did you integrate baby into your pack without excluding your BFF?

I'm Starting To Think Sleeping Is Overrated

2008-01-15T08:42:00.000-08:00

I've always had anxiety dreams, for as long as I can remember dreaming. Long, epic, apocalyptic dreams. But since E has been pregnant, my anxiety dreams have quadrupled in frequency. As morbid and horrendous as my "last man on earth" dreams are, the baby anxiety dreams are worse.

I've become sort of accustomed to thrashing out of bed prepared to go hand-to-hand with the zombies beating down my door. But dreaming about neglecting a little baby? That shit is alarming.

The latest:

E and I adopted a baby. He was very cute, about 6 months old and chubby and adorable. But he had a butt chin, which was a problem for us in my dream. We sort of didn't take care of him. We held him and squished him and played around with him, but didn't really take care of him. Not necessarily because of the butt chin, but just because our lives were all messed up and we weren't good parents.

And our baby died. It was so horrible and traumatic that E and I broke up as a result.

After we broke up, this 50 year old, overweight, wealthy, semi-famous woman asked me to marry her and I said yes. And when we were out together I thought: this is fucking weird. But then I remember thinking that it might work out okay because she wouldn't mind if I wasn't, uh...faithful.

Dream over. I'm a horrible person.

In E's latest anxiety dream she repeatedly dropped our new baby out the car window as we were driving. We kept having to turn around and go look for her, and every time E would find her on the side of the road in a puddle or ditch, and she'd pick up our poor baby on the brink of death and nurse her and she'd get better. Only to get back in the car and drop her out the window again.

Dream over. E is a horrible person.

We wake up feeling like we'll be unfit parents. Giant, hideous, hairy monster parents.

I've consulted with two friends so far on the meaning of last night's heinous dream. They assure me that I won't neglect our little baby, butt-chin or no.

But I sort of feel like my sub-conscious is reviewing a 2,000 page report on me and my demons.
And so far...so bad.

One Night Down. A Jillion More To Go.

2008-01-14T13:24:00.000-08:00

Last night was my first night without Theraflu in...many nights. Most of those nights I've been sick and in need of a cough suppressant. But, I'll admit, some of those nights I have not been in need of a cough suppressant, and only in need of a sleep aid.

I hit rock bottom this weekend. If you've ever found yourself clutching an over-the-counter medication to your chest while your loved one carefully and slowly wrenches it from your grip, saying "I'm not going to enable you anymore," then you know what a low moment feels like.

Theraflu! How I long for your steamy yellow self! Your hot lemon flavor! How I miss being comatose exactly 30 minutes after ingesting you!

I've been cut-off. So now I'm back to experiencing Level Orange restlessness starting at 11:30 PM.

Last night my friends S and R came over to entertain me while I detoxed. As gay boys are wont to do, they held me down and forced me to watch 2 girls, one c.u.p. and its hideous sequel, 4 girls f.in.ger.paint.

Dude. If I can save one innocent soul from experiencing 2G1C or 4GF, then I did not watch (and puke a little in my mouth) in vain. It's not the kind of gross that makes you say "ew, nasty!" it's the kind of gross that you want right the fuck out of your sight RIGHT AWAY. Just don't watch it, friends.

This PSA was brought to you by GS, a concerned citizen.

Best Friends Forever

2008-01-11T11:31:00.000-08:00

Thank you for the sweet comments to my last post - she's a cutie, right?! Cysts on brain be damned, the baby looks adorable.

Name poll is over there. We got a little swept away with the primary buzz, so we decided to start a poll of our own. Vote if you're so inclined. We had the world's greatest boy names lined up, but the girl names are a little shadier, so we're happy for input.

E has - I shit you not - created an excel spreadsheet tallying the votes from this website along with votes from our friends/family. That's what the MBA is for, folks.

I've had a head cold since my recovery from New Years Eve, so I've been walking around in a foggy, mucousy stupor for the last week and a half. As much as I loathe a cold, I have a sort of fond affection for this one, because this one introduced me to a new cherished companion.

Theraflu.

I used to flat out refuse to drink that hot, piss-colored, medicinal liquid, no matter the strength of my cold. I never understood how some nasty lemon powder mixed with water was any improvement over the old hot toddy standby.

At the start of head-cold '08, I self medicated with hot toddies. I'd make one large one in the morning and carry it around in a thermos, drinking it all day. After toppling over once from the force of a sneeze, I decided to cut back on the hot toddy regimen.

But then, on night 4 of my cold, the annual Nocturnal Non Stop Coughing Party began. (This happens to me every year: I get a cold, which eventually peters out and leaves me with a month long nocturnal cough that WILL NOT DIE. One night last year I caught E hovering over me with a pillow clutched in her hands and a wild look in her eye, necessitating my transfer to the second bedroom.)

So this year, at the first sign of the annual night-long coughing spasm, I brewed myself a hot steaming cup of Theraflu.

And lo, sleep - sweet, dreamy, didn't-move-once-until-the-alarm-went-off sleep - ensued.

I've had my cup of hot piss every night since. And I like it. Now it's a delicious lemony adventure that I look forward to all day long.

There's even a leftover cozy-warm tingle in my brain during the daytime. So what if it leaves me slightly bereft of reason? So what if I forget the word for "contagious" and instead tell anyone within arm's length not to worry, I'm no longer "infective."

This morning, my colleague with a newborn baby was talking about how the baby won't sleep in his "pack and play," but he really likes the "carrier" and the "moby." At first I blamed my Theraflu-induced dementia for not being able to understand what the shit he was talking about. But then I realized, no, I really don't know what those words mean.

So I asked. He looked at me with a mixture of pity and alarm and asked me when E was due.

I'm in a tender state, Theraflu aside, so his alarmist attitude first irritated me, but then I started to worry. Does a baby need more than a moses basket and a couple dozen diapers? Seriously, what are those things, and will I need them?

Anatomy Scan

2008-01-08T13:09:00.000-08:00

Her foot measures 3 centimeters from heel to toe and her upper lip periodically stretches out into the shape of a pterodactyl beak and she spent much of the time with her forearms crossed across her face, casting hexes against the treachery visited upon her twice in one week.

She has a long neck and a beautiful aortic arch and a swimming fish for a heart. She also has a small cyst in her brain; a choriod plexus cyst.

This cyst is a soft indicator of trisomy 18, but is more likely nothing at all.

Everything else looks perfect.

We're not going to get amnio. We think everything will Be Okay. How's that for a New Year's Res?

Part of me feels that after the chaos of miscarriage and IVF, nothing can fuck with my panic button anymore unless there's a damned good reason behind it.

More importantly, I feel like we owe it to ourselves and to Lentil to let go of the pregnancy stress. This shit isn't just stress, it's the angst and worry and ambivalence and heartbreak that has been accumulating since 2005. That accumulation changes our perspective on everything, changes E's experience of pregnancy, and makes the news of the cyst all the more sinister. And that's just not right. It's too much for little pregnant E to bear.

And it's altogether too much weight on one little person with a 3 cm footprint.

Buzzkill

2008-01-07T11:26:00.000-08:00

Amazing what a weekend does for one's perspective. A little time spent outside the office walls and the blood starts rushing back to my cold, deadened heart.

I'm feeling less:

1) irate at learning the sex over the phone at my desk instead of together with E, Fig tagging the u/s screen in the background,

2) ambivalent about parenting a girl,

3) scared shitless in general (this, of course, is subject to change at any given moment).

I tell you, the level of hand-holding I've required throughout this pregnancy stuns even me. Every step of the goddamned way I've got to have reassurance from all sides. It's unbelievable.

The good news is that I'm getting the reassurance from all sides, like the lucky fuck that I am.

My family and friends are supportive. My family in law is supportive. The inexhaustible E is supportive. And of course all of you who read this and support me with your kind words of wisdom.

All these people, endlessly listening to my adolescent distress. But each word I say or write leaves me feeling less restless and panicked. So thank you.

I'm toying with the idea of posting a poll on here with our potential names. It doesn't seem like very many people do this sort of thing. I imagine that's because it is a pretty bad idea...but hey - since when have I shied away from acting on a bad idea?

Speaking of Bad Ideas, The L Word premiered last night. Woah, nelly, was it bad. The L Word is my favorite show that I Love To Hate. It acheived its greatest buzzkill heights last night, though, what with the Hollywood executive/creative author relationship storyline. YAWN.

You know I won't miss it next Sunday, though. Damn you, Ilene.

113dp3dt

2008-01-04T09:09:00.000-08:00

To the Tumbling Little Hoodlum in E's Uterus,

We learned your sex today. Which, of course, is unimportant in the grand scheme of things, but because it gives us more insight into your mysterious self it is bewitching nonetheless.

Learning your sex was different than how I imagined it would be. I had many idealized visions of how the learning would happen. Mainly I envisioned being on the receiving end a lot of hand-holding and reassurance and calming words, but that is beside the point. I had a plan for the learning, because that is how I roll. That is how people taking baby-steps roll.

But the learning didn't go according to plan, and instead happened while I sat at my desk, which is where I find myself during many of life's big events.

(I promise not to be at my desk during your arrival. Swear.)

How strange and sad it was to feel my heart in my throat because the learning was different than anticipated.

Because what's the big deal about your sex anyway? It might not even be the right one -- who knows how you'll feel once you're out here experiencing the world in your body. (You can tell us later if it feels all wrong. Don't even stress about that. )

We assign all this significance to your sex. We have the big anatomy scan. Get a jump start on the gender thing. Meanwhile, you were probably in there thinking to yourself "Ever heard of the Fourth Amendment, people?" while we're rummaging about in your business, checking out your sex organs.

Creeps.

What's really important is meeting you in the flesh. You, out here, acting your own actions and thinking your own thoughts. Doing your little thing. That's what counts. What I'm trying to say is to hell with the plans. I'm certain this was merely the beginning of things that won't go according to plan, anyway. Welcome to being alive.

Plans don't matter. Nothing really matters, in fact, but being a good parent to you, your own little self.

Nothing matters but all of my actions from now until I die. Oops. There goes my blood pressure again. I should sign off before I start fucking you up a bit early.

See you on the other side, L.

With all the love in my racing heart,

GS

P.S. I've enclosed a photograph of your brother/manny ringing in the New Year. He is thrilled to learn that he has a sister on her way to this wild world.

Gender Trouble

2008-01-03T09:45:00.000-08:00

I continue to recover from New Year's Eve.

Christmas week stories to come later. New Year's stories not forthcoming.

--

E's ultrasound is next Tuesday. This one is the biggie, the "anatomy scan," which means this one will reveal lentil's sex.

I think I posted before about my deep faith in the Chinese Fertility Calendar. It doesn't lie. And it tells us lentil will be female, unless you calculate the "maternal age" as the egg donor's age, in which case it indicates that lentil will be male.

I think I'd rather have a boy, for reasons enumerated a few weeks ago. E has changed her mind and now also wants a boy. We were having a rare moment the other day, standing in the baby room and talking about lentil. People gave us a lot of baby shit for Christmas and we were looking at it with our usual disbelief.

We got some really fucking adorable stuff, btw. A tiny onesie with a guitar on it. A long and skinny hare clad in highwater jeans and a turtleneck sweater.

I used to have this t-shirt with "I'm Kind of a Big Deal" written across the front. Everyone loved it when I wore this shirt. The shirt has since been lost, but one of the shirt's biggest fans got us a pink onesie that says the same thing.

As we stood there looking at this stuff, I told E this pink onesie would be cutest on a boy. And -- like I knew she would -- she freaked out.

E: "A boy cannot wear this onesie."

GS: "What are you talking about? Because it's pink?"

E: "Yes, because it's pink. And the writing is in cursive."

GS: "Are you serious? Listen to yourself."

E: "Don't start with me."

GS: "He will wear it, and I will buy him a matching purse to carry if he wants to accessorize."

I enjoy tormenting E by telling her that if we have a son I will buy him a purse if he wants one. For some reason this really sets her off. This is odd behavior on her part, since I know for a fact that she doesn't have the same gendered ideas about a girl child.

For example, she has expressed a wish that if we have a girl, she hopes that she will take after daddy and be a little tomboy. I assume she'd prefer that to a daughter who takes after her young agoraphobic self.

Another thing I like to say to E is that I hope our child is intersexed. I think that the CFC's confusion about our child's sex could actually be the Chinese Fertility Fairy communicating to us that we're having an intersexed child. This REALLY gets E's goat.

You know what, though? I'd be a fantastic parent to an intersexed person.

If our child is intersexed, my small area of expertise will be utilized and I may begin to look forward to parenting a bit more. How useful would I be to an intersexed kid in this junked up world? Pretty useful. I predict that I would unleash some kickass parenting skills upon my intersexed child.

I was doing some thinking about my thoughts on our intersexed child. I wonder if this means I'm afraid I'll be a useless as a parent, and my hope for an intersexed child is me looking for ways in which I can be useful? Like, besides being a pair of hands to change an ol' crappy diaper.

So, whatever we have will be right. Male, female, intersexed. But if we have a boy, I will buy him a purse.

Because E is the one with the hang-ups.

My First Meme!

2007-12-19T17:37:00.000-08:00

I've been a lazy fuck and not updating. Have you missed me?

Here's a short list of what I've been doing instead of blogging:
1. watching TV
2. playing Zelda
3. rocking around the Christmas tree and spreading Hanukkah joy.

Lucky for me Daisy tagged me for a Christmas meme (my first ever!) so I don't have to ask much of my atrophied brain cells.

1. Egg nog or Hot Chocolate?
Soy nog. It is nog sans the dairy coated tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth.

2. Does Santa wrap presents or just sit them under the tree?
Santa has no time to wrap, people. He's just one man!

3. Colored lights on tree/house or white?
White lights in the tree. I have no house. I drape many many lights in my tree to compensate.

4. Do you hang mistletoe?
Yes. And I strictly uphold the mistletoe rules whenever people are at my house.

5. When do you put your decorations up?
Weekend after Thanksgiving! But no Christmas music until December 1.

6. What is your favorite holiday dish?
Latkes.

7. Favorite Holiday memory as a child.
Driving between my parents' houses with my brother and sister on Christmas Eve singing Christmas carols in the car.

8. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa?
Some part of me knew, since our stockings were always full of the fruit that was in the fruit bowl on Christmas Eve. But I clung on. When I was 7, my parents were like: you're getting too old for this shiz.

9. Do you open a gift on Christmas eve?
One for everyone!

10. How do you decorate your Christmas tree?
Lights wrapped around the trunk and all around the branches. So many lights. Then lots of ornaments from our friends and family. Most of them are horses and dobermans.

11. Snow! Love it or dread it?
I adore snow. I will sled on 1/2 inch of snow on a plastic bag.

12. Can you ice skate?
Poorly, yes.

13. Do you remember your favorite gift?
Probably my plastic rocking horse. I used to ride that thing like I was headed to China.

14. What is the most important thing about the Holidays for you?
Seeing lots of family.

15. What is your favorite Holiday dessert?
Pumpkin pie and fingerprint cookies.

16. What is your favorite Holiday tradition?
Stockings. Hello, what could be better than a dangling sock full of presents.

17. What tops your tree?
Ambrosia the Holiday Hooker. She is a trashed-out Barbie complete with smeared lipstick, a leg burned to a stub, and pubic hair. Our friends delivered her to us in an empty 6-pack. She is the most beautiful tree topper in the world.

18. Which do you prefer giving or receiving?
I'm starting to much prefer giving. That's when you know you're getting old.

19. What is your favorite Christmas song?
Noel

20. Candy Canes! Yuck or Yum?
Delicious. Until I stab myself in the roof of the mouth with the pointy-ass tip.

Dude. This was harder than writing an actual post. But I did it! And I tag starrhill girl.

The Wrath of the Righteous

2007-12-09T18:40:00.000-08:00

So why is every last birthing book on the planet written by Judgy McJudgerson?

E just finished The Thinking Woman's Guide to Pushing a Baby Out Your Vaghine. She read me random sentences from time to time, and the damn thing read like a Scientology pamphlet.

"Some women believe they will bond with their baby EVEN if they have an epidural. Sadly, this belief is INCORRECT and these delinquent whores will never successfully bond with their baby and are doomed to an unrewarding lifetime of exorcising their demons for having foolishly subjected their unborn child to spirit-altering substances." I swear that's a word for word sentence. Almost.

E very much wants a natural childbirth and is horrified by the prospect of a c-section. But - never having pushed a human out of her body - she reserves the right to sink her talons into my flesh and demand an epidural once labor kicks in. Fine. To each her own, especially in the throes of fucking childbirth. Right?

I was with my sister while she labored with her baby daughter at home. That was a whole other universe of awesome. But I readily admit that if I had a vial of painkillers handy I would have shot her up myself. It was agonizing to see her labor, and I had to fight the instinct to wrestle her unwillingly into a burlap sack and cart her off to the nearest hospital for immediate anesthesia.

Not because I thought it was unsafe for her to deliver at home, but because I wanted to rescue her from her dark island of pain. She was the only one there. I felt a harsh kind of helpless, watching her struggle.

But I suppose that is what childbirth is all about. Doing that shit all by yourself.

So, attention all birthing book authors: the sneak-attack proselytizing needs to stop. Seriously. Save that shit for the born-agains. At least I know I'll never buy one of their books.

E's 15 week appointment is tomorrow. Normally wary of impending bad news, we're feeling kind of heartened and reassured by E's belly that has become slightly round. She's not supposed to get an ultrasound, but she may or may not demand one...talons exposed.

Mischief Is My Middle Name

2007-12-07T09:14:00.000-08:00

Next week is E's 15 week OB appointment. This is maybe the most bizarre milestone yet. She is officially in her second trimester. I cannot overcome the feeling of disbelief that she is pregnant and our life has transitioned from trying to get E pregnant to her actually experiencing pregnancy.

I feel a bit lost in the woods sometimes. I think because she is just beginning to show, and it has been so many weeks since we had confirmation that all is well, it's difficult to entirely release myself to the idea of parenthood. Holy uncharted territory, batman.

A friend has told me that it may feel more real when we know the sex. I've heard conflicting reports on whether or not the sex will be visible at 15 weeks.

It is endlessly thrilling to wonder at the sex; and also, like Charlotte said recently, it feels crazy luxurious.

E recently decided she hopes it is a girl. This is classic for reasons disclosed below.

I would prefer a boy. Not because I'm into sports and stuff. In fact, I sort of hate playing sports. I have a major block about partaking in activities at which I suck. I HATE to suck at things, so much, in fact, that I'll avoid doing them at all costs. Softball? Suck. Won't do it. Football? Can't throw a decent spiral for shit. Won't do it. Golf? I will curse, then beat the earth with my leaden club. I loathe it. Because I suck.

So, if we had a son, I would totally shirk the required Saturday afternoons of "playing catch," and I'd likely show up with a buzz and a flask if I had to go to a bunch of Little League games.

But before you think I'm a lump of sodden potato fermenting on the couch, know that there are sports at which I excel. I know how to ride horses. And I rock - hard - at Badminton. How hot is that?

And if Rough-Housing and Horsing-Around count as sports, then I would be Champion of the Universe. Actually, I have been known to be such a starship shenaniganster that I have developed a reputation for unintentionally riling up other people's pets. I can't help it. It is my sheer enthusiasm for messing around that radiates from me and infects unassuming nearby animals. Dogs and horses alike respond to my presence by Acting Fresh.

One of my all-time favorite activities is riding a high-strung horse on a windy day adjacent to a corn field. Whee!

E stifles this aspect of my personality. She is the Anti-Horser-Arounder. She quashes my revelries with the dog with stern shouting, furrowed eyebrows, and a well-aimed pointer finger. In response, I call out that my spirit will not be broken and we, dog and human renegades, depart for the park across the street.

So if E has a boy, it would totally be two against one on the tomfoolery front.

In any case, the Chinese Fertility Calendar, in which I am a big believer, tells us that lentil is a boy. Mystery solved. Unless you consider the "mother" to be the egg donor. In that case, lentil is a girl. Mystery unsolved.

Again, hark! the luxury. I love that this is a total mystery. Part of me doesn't want to know at all, because somehow I feel like knowing the sex will suddenly make the reality of impending parenthood a bit more of the Crashing About My Head variety. For some reason having the ability to picture the kid as a boy or a girl magnifies the image of said child talking ceaselessly into my ear.

But as things stand now, I'm doing really well with our kid...lemon-sized and silent, you know.

I wonder if my powers of spreading hyperactivity will permeate E's womb.

photo credit.

Pheeble McGeeble the Lesbian Dweeble

2007-12-02T14:26:00.000-08:00

Someone who reads my blog (a cookie to him) asked me to provide an example (I have many) of the festival of awkwardness that is coming out to strangers. I told him my favorite story is less of an awkwardfest and more of an inappropriatathon. He looked a little deflated when he said he thinks awkward stories are funnier.

Fear not, my friend, and read on.

A while back E and I were at a party with a lot of people who were meeting us for the first time. As is my fucking lot in life, I got trapped in a conversation with an Annoying Person. He was in his 40s, probably, and I think he lived in Manhattan, or perhaps Jersey, which may or may not explain some things. He was a triathlete (I know this because he spoke of it all evening), and was clearly taken with E and I, as he was hanging around us a lot, talking of his Iron Mans. I demonstrated some genuine interest in the conversation -- a colossal mistake, btw, when an annoying 40 year old man hangs about you and your wife and without having much of a reason to.

Annoying Person approached me *again* later in the evening and squatted down next to where I was sitting. He leaned in a bit, rather conspiratorially, and said: "So, do you know [insert female name here - let's say Phoebe McGee]?"

GS: "No. Why?"

AP: "Hm. Well, are you sure? Her name is Phoebe McGee. She's a lawyer at a law firm in New York."

GS: "Still not ringing any bells. Should I know her?"

AP: (slightly flustered) "Phoebe McGee. She works at a big law firm. I think it's downtown."

At this point I'm confused. Who is this McGee person? Why is he being so damn persistent? I'm terrible with names, so I was straining to remember this person that I must have met and now can't remember and I'm such an asshole for not remembering anyone I meet!

GS: (making an effort) "What's the name of her firm?"

AP: "Gee, I can't remember. It's a big firm, though, and I think she's a partner. I read about her in the paper. Her name is Phoebe McGee. Are you sure you don't know her?"

For the love of Stan, why does this guy keep repeating her name? He doesn't even know her -- he doesn't know the name of her firm or whether or not she's a partner. And did he just say he read about her in the paper? I was suddenly suspicious of Annoying Man. I looked at him blankly.

AP: (with desperation creeping into voice) "Yeah, she, um, has a partner, and I think she is a partner..." He trails off.

Ahhhhh. The many twinkling lights of understanding shine about my head.

GS: "Oh, I see. She's gay and she's a lawyer so you thought I'd know her?"

I cannot believe this just happened.

A) Why didn't he just say she's a lesbian? The conversation would have been over 5 minutes ago!

B) There are probably ten thousand lawyers in New York. This guy thinks that, what, 15 of them are gay? 20, tops? And we all know each other? And hang out? We probably meet up weekly to have gay parades together.

E is elbowing me ferociously in an effort to prevent me from saying something inappropriate. As if I could top this douche-bag.

GS: "No, I don't know her." In my effort to keep from laughing, I contorted my face into a frown.

AP: "Oh, really? Well. Okay." Without the frown he undoubtedly would have stayed and pressed on. But he took his cue and toddled off, not in the least sheepish. I think he even smiled and waved to me from across the room later on, probably as I was rolling out the door.

I was probably heading to the evening Gay Meet-Up.

Spawn of the Wolf Mother

2007-11-26T10:35:00.000-08:00

Since my last post (to which some of you revealed you were also Geminis) I've conducted further investigations into the weird and wonderful world of the Gemini. And guess what? I discovered that what I initially thought was an affectionately agreeable attitude towards the Gemini could actually be perceived as a full blown fetish. I ADORE GEMINIS.

Several of those on my Most Favorite People list are Geminis. This is probably true because they are 1. notorious conversationalists -- let's face it, borderline "talkers," and 2. outlandishly intelligent, often bordering on brilliant.

And who, may I ask, doesn't love a brilliantly witty talker?? I love talkers if they're funny and interesting, and damn, Geminis are bizarre and hilarious. And I'm a Libra so I get along with everyone anyway, so set me up with a Gemini in a good mood and I'm happy as a pig in shit, as my dad would say.

ANYWAYZ, I bring all this up because of two things.

1. E is 13 weeks pregnant today. Does this get weirder and weirder or what? I am increasingly mystified by her pregnancy. How do bodies do this shit?

2. We got our nuchal fold scan results, which were outrageously good. 1: >10,000 for all three genetic abnormalities.

These two facts make us feel like Everything Is Going Our Way. Everything about this pregnancy has kicked ass, from E's sky high beta numbers to the unveiling of ONE little beating embryo, to the awesome results of the nuchal fold. And we all know that when Everything Goes Your Way, at some point, Things Will No Longer Go Your Way. It has something to do with physics.

So, of course, because this is what 3 years of Draconian education, one motherfucker of an exam and $150,000 of educational debt will get you, I attempt to rationally deduce at what point in time things will go wrong again.

It has occurred to me on more occasions than I'd care to admit that I'm afraid our child will be the spawn of evil.

My rational mind reminds me of the sheer number of evil spawn that exist in NYC, and I automatically must consider the likelihood of our child joining those ranks. For example, I saw one on the subway this weekend. It was like the Aryan Damien Thorn. And I was afraid. To be fair, the subway is jammed with the freaks and hos of this great metropoblitz. BUT STILL.

And then, of course, there is the small small worry we both still have, but mostly E, that it won't make it all the way. And that is a scarier thought.

So I've decided that the radical betas and the excellent nuchal fold is not about Things Going Our Way, and instead because our fetus is a Gemini-in-waiting. It's just that wicked smart already. It is likely our beautiful, A+ embryo, and it has basically been kicking ass and taking names since its petri-dish days.

So everyone better stand back, because it's gonna have some shit to say.

Gobble Gobble, Bitches.

2007-11-20T18:15:00.000-08:00

E is twelve weeks pregnant this week. Do you believe that shizzle. I understand this may or may not mark the beginning of the second trimester. "Understand" being a rather strong word.

I have allowed myself to begin reflecting on the fact that our baby will probably be a Gemini.

Are Geminis not fantastic? I've known just a few intimately, but they are each spectacularly weird and wonderful people. People you remember your whole life kind of people. I would love a weird kid. One scenario I can actually imagine involving parenthood is having a moment with E in which we look at our kid doing something annoying or bizarre and then look at each other and just shake our heads and give each other a look that says: where the hell did this weirdo come from?

I can picture that.

On another note, I've thrice evaded death this week.

1. An elevator I was riding in free fell 20 stories before bouncing brutally to a halt. Nearly crapped myself.

2. On the way back to my office from Starbucks, a pair of electrician's shears came falling from the sky and landed -- point down -- mere inches from my feet. Hazards of working in midtown Manhattan, I suppose.

3. I just choked on a Smartie.

I have many blessings to count tomorrow.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends.

I Heart My Commenters

2007-11-20T07:22:00.000-08:00

You all are so damn right, as usual. You all with your words of wisdom are no match for my emotional outbursts.

Thank you for the reminder that I signed up for this crap. I so did.

(Which, by the way, is partly why I am bitching and moaning and flinging myself around like a fucking ninny. I just got on board, people. I've been doggy paddling around the ship for a while, so being on board is a new and fragile feeling. The Shit Commentary sent me into a fit of despair mostly because I am -- remain calm, wildly inconceivable information coming your way -- a small quivering mouse inside about impending parenthood. How dare these people mess with my delicate high??)

Thank you for your war stories. They are preparing me for the worst of what I'll hear...and I am so grateful for that because there is nothing I loathe more than thinking of the knockout comeback three hours after the fact. God I hate that.

And thank you for reminding me that it will take more than a little old lady with mental incapacity to bust my damn bubble.

Bubble intact. Onward.

And Thus It Begins

2007-11-15T09:50:00.000-08:00

E and I have been cocooned in what has felt like a bubble full of good energy since we learned our second IVF cycle, finally, miraculously, worked. E is pregnant, and we're both invested and excited and electric with terror. It's wonderful.

11 weeks and 3 days in, the bubble has burst.

Pthhhhbt.

For all the invasiveness of our IVF cycle, E's pregnancy has felt so natural. So natural, in fact, that E and I pretty much forgot that we didn't just have sex and get E pregnant. Figs is from my egg and donor sperm. It has felt so natural, that we forgot that there are people in the world who were going to Act Shitty about that fact. Two recent Shitty Comments made my head reel.

First up, Giant Ignoramus at a baby shower asked E who the father was. I told E that in response she should have made a confused face and said: "GS, of course."

Seriously, I know I shouldn't be shocked that people are going to ask the question in this way, but I can't help it. Unmindfulness makes my skin crawl - it's pretty much the ONE THING we owe each other as human beings. And while I'm at it, I'll add that I feel the same way when I meet someone who acts awkward when they find out I'm gay, presumably because they don't know any/many gay people. Not only does this endlessly irritate me (who doesn't know any gay people? leprechauns? cave-dwellers?), but I instantly have a low opinion of this person, and they have to work to make it up to me.

Second, and much worse, was E's 85 year old Grandmother's reaction upon learning that her granddaughter, the absolute apple of her eye, is not pregnant via her own egg.

"Why didn't she just adopt?"

Um...ouch.

This is the same Grandmother who refused to attend our wedding 4 years ago, but who has since embraced me lovingly, referred to me as E's "partner," and, on occasion, has been known to boast of our wedding to others. She was once happy about this pregnancy. No longer.

This hurts for two reasons: 1) It is my opinion that it is beyond primordial to be less enthusiastic about a child who does not bear your genetic resemblance than one who does. This is one of the ways in which humans are more highly evolved than other species in the animal kingdom. 2) It is inconceivable that she would have uttered those words if I were a man, and E needed an egg donor to conceive.

Pray tell, what in the fuck is the difference between a woman and an infertile man when trying to get a woman pregnant?

Moreover, if I were her husband instead of her wife and we had the same failures to get E pregnant, we would have tried with an egg donor. What is the fucking difference here?

E wanted a baby yesterday when we started trying, and, by the looks of things, getting pregnant via her own eggs would take some time. So we used mine. Why? Well, I'm younger, my FSH is better, and hmmm...oh right! WE ARE MARRIED.

More than anything, I can't understand why people focus on the things that don't matter. E wanted with all her heart to be pregant. She had to wait for years, but now she's pregnant with our baby, and she is overjoyed, and that fucking rocks. Why isn't that the focus?

And I'll just end by saying that almost everyone has been loving and thrilled for us, genuinely. Our family, our friends, all of you people out there who, amazingly enough, read this and sometimes share your thoughts with me (you people, by the way, are the best thing going). I feel so vastly fortunate for all of that.

But the small, moronic comments can cut deep. Deep enough to pop a happy little bubble, that's for sure.

Fig-Sized Lentil Lives On

2007-11-13T13:22:00.000-08:00

Unbefuckinglievable.

That there is a living beating little human inside E is kind of rocking my world right now.

It is unspeakably small - 4 cm from crown to bum - and yet it has long spindly legs which it stretches against the wall of E's uterus (damn you, woman, empty your bladder! I have no room in here already!), and long praying mantis arms that alternate between waving wildly (I will commit an aggravated assault if you come any closer with that god-forsaken wand! I have a cord with which to wring your fat neck!) and shielding its tiny head (don't look at me! I don't have my face on!).

E had her first OB appointment this morning. She was pale faced and grim when I met her in the waiting area of Big Fat Hospital. She was certain it was dead. I tried to reassure her by saying she was looking more pregnant by the day, and all was well. I received the stink-eye in return.

E: Stop telling me I'm fat.

GS: Exhibit 79: you are emotionally abusive.

Our u/s tech took us from the waiting room to the examining room which has been carefully preserved from the World War II era. She laughed frequently and at a decibel inappropriate for the AM hours. At first it grated at my fragile morning nerves. But it grew on me by the end.

Laughy: Pull up your dress, please. This will be a little cold! *LAUGHTER*

E: I'm nervous things aren't going well in there. Please just tell me right away if things are bad, alright?

Laughy: Oh, OK! *LAUGHTER*

E: (turns to GS, eyes very wide) Um, ok.

Laughy: Are you ready to see your little one? *LAUGHTER*

E: (with a deathly frown) Mm hm.

Laughy: Oh, why so nervous? Don't be nervous! Cheer up! *LAUGHTER*

She pushed the wand against E's belly and swivelled the screen towards us. There, laying alongside the bottom of E's ute, was a motionless little fetus.

E: (pushing herself upright) WHERE IS THE HEARTBEAT?

Laughy: *LAUGHTER*

And she pointed at the little chest area where a barely visible light flickered. It was so much less visible this time, I suppose because there's more body around it now.

E: WHY ISN'T IT MOVING?

Laughy: *LAUGHTER* That's normal! He's just comfy down there!

She wriggled the wand and poked down on E's belly.

Laughy: Hello in there! Wake up, little guy! *SO MUCH LAUGHTER*

And the little thing stretched its legs and flailed its arms before settling right back into its warm and snuggly uterus bed. The relief that washed over E was palpable.

Our u/s tech continued to poke and molest E's belly area to get the little fetus to roll over, turn, move around, or do anything besides lie there like a lazy ass. She was trying to get the nuchal fold measurement, and the fig-sized one was uncooperative.

Which, btw, I understand completely at such an ungodly hour of the AM.

Guest Poster #1

2007-11-11T08:59:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone. This is E, the chosen guest poster for today. GS is busy working (yawn) and she’s asked me to submit a post for consideration. She stressed repeatedly that it may or not be approved, so the version you are reading now may or may not be my words at all. But I digress…

We’re 10w6d into this pregnancy and things have seemed pretty textbook – both in terms of symptoms and feelings. The symptoms part isn’t really that interesting – nausea, tiredness, heartburn, etc. But the feelings, well, I think GS has beautifully outlined the giant mind-fuck that is infertility. We can never be purely happy about this…Even after the last ultrasound of lentil at 9w2d where I saw it moving around, and heard it’s heartbeat on stereo. The thrill of that visit and the certainty of the success of this pregnancy faded with each day that passed and I woke up yesterday certain that lentil was dead and that our first visit with the OB – scheduled for this Tuesday – would be a festival of sadness leaving GS and I broken once again. Yup.

I want to be clear that we have a great life – and I mean that without irony – it’s great by any measure; we have been wildly happy together for nearly 7 years, illegally married for 4.5 years, we each have crazy, fun, bizarre families, we bought a beautiful apartment that we can almost afford and decorated it in ways that reflect “who we are.” We are privileged to harbor the most magnificent beast on the planet earth, and after trying to get pregnant for what felt like eons, we’re finally here. And I’m deeply grateful – I know GS is too. But wouldn’t it be nice to be able to enjoy it? Wouldn’t that be novel?

So, I’ll spend the next two and a half days stuffing my anxiety behind my swelling heart and hoping it doesn’t burst through my ribs in the middle of a meeting about financial goals or maximizing the efficiency of our operation and GS will report back to her faithful readers with our news on Tuesday. Until then, thanks for reading and stay tuned for your regularly scheduled programming.

No Hero

2007-11-09T08:13:00.000-08:00

I am a kid. I am fickle and changeable and lazy and impatient and so so imperfect. And I am scared shitless about being a parent.

But I am doing pretty good, considering.

Am panicking only slightly. Am keeping it together, for the most part. Swallowing the fear. There are only so many ways to say holy fuck, before the phrase loses its meaning and you feel the need to get original or stop freaking the fuck out.

And I have nothing original to add to the cacophony of tired, cracked old voices telling me this is a bad idea for me. This kid didn't ask you to be born. It didn't ask you to be its parent. This is a responsibility you are so not cut out for.

So I'm taking deep breaths. I'm remembering why the place I'm going is going to be amazing.

I want to be a parent because I want to love E in new and yet-undiscovered ways. I want to experience a vastness of heart that I didn't have before. I want to learn and be humbled. I want to see where I go with this Great Human Experience.

But most of all I want to to be pulled into myself with all the force of love or anger or adrenaline.

E is happier than I've seen her in more than a year. She's so ready, and that makes me feel strong and ready too. She's right there, and she's amazing. She makes me feel like I can do anything, and that's...um...beyond awesome.

Why do/did you want to be a parent?

Home With Satan

2007-11-06T08:52:00.000-08:00

I spend a lot of time at work.

A whole lot.

Sometimes, when the image of my desk feels as though it is burned inexorably on my retinas, Motley Crue's "Home Sweet Home" starts rolling through my head.

Home Sweet Home
Yeah
I'm on my way
Just set me free
Home Sweet Home

And I start a little pity party for myself, because I don't get to go home. I lob complaints at anyone who will listen. I especially enjoy complaining to my friend who works as much as I do, for about 5 years longer than I have. I whine at her and ask how she has done it for so many years without curling up on herself and crumbling into dust.

She rolls her eyes at the melodrama and sends me here. And I feel better.

But sometimes I feel the need to Buy Something to make myself feel better. Ah, the salve of consumerism. It soothes so.

The last few weeks at work have been rough, and the tiny violins weren't helping, so the time came to Buy Something. Last Tuesday I rolled out of work and down to the Nintendo store: Guitar Hero III was finally released for the Wii. And I bought it.

Life has been really good since then. And not only because I freaking rock at Guitar Hero.

See, usually by the time I get home from work, E is comatose on the couch. After working for 14 hours, I can't just go to sleep. I need some form of entertainment, and when that endless source of entertainment - E - is otherwise occupied ... well, the pity party begins again.

So now when I get home from work, E is jamming to "When You Were Young" by The Killers. She's rocking out. And when she finishes her song, she passes the guitar to me, sweating slightly and breathless.

E: Here you go. I suck.

GS: Watch and learn, E, watch and learn.

And then I crush Lucifer in a Battle in Hell. By the time I'm doing my victory kicks, E is passed out and snoring behind me on the couch.

I merely shrug. My encore duet with Satan, "The Devil Went Down to Georgia," is beginning.

Home sweet home indeed.

Traveling Women

2007-11-01T13:35:00.000-07:00

I have absolutely zero desire to birth a child.

Pregnancy, I can understand. I can even reach down deep and find a shred of desire to grow life from just my own blood and thrumming being. I've even had the pregnancy dreams, although those are pretty weird for me. I never wake up all wistful and wondering. No, I always kind of thrash awake feeling vaguely violated.

But it's really the birth part that I don't get. To me (I speak only for myself and from my own thoughts and experience), it seems nightmarish. The inspiration behind Alien and Dawn of the Dead.

You grow. And grow. And continue to grow, until you are literally stretched to bursting. And that thing in there that's stretching the shit out of you must, sweet BBJ, get pushed out of the one place that should, it seems to me, remain free of such brutality.

And come out it must. Your bellybutton doesn't stretch wide to accommodate it. You don't have to take the biggest shit of your life. No. You must push that sonofa out, no matter the earthquakes of your bones, no matter the stretch, tear, or shred of your flesh.

And I don't wanna.

But that's just me. I bow down to the women who have done it and who will do it. (E! You will be amazing).

And don't worry, I'm going to get all kinds of shit from my sister for this post, who not only pushed her baby out without so much as a Tylenol, but she did it right there on the couch.

After 32 hours of labor.

My mom did it too. Pushed me out in her own bedroom, surrounded by a dozen high hippies chanting and swaying and tie-dying. My dad broke her waters with his fingernail.

How cool are these women? They are Great Arctic Warriors. They have traveled to the yawning abyss and back. They've gone where I will never go.

My lack of posting is due to some weariness that has draped itself over my cerebral cortex.

The weariness lifted briefly last night, when E showed me a 3-D ultrasound picture of our embryo, who stands (floats?) on the brink of fetus-hood. The lentil lives, and in fact wriggles its body and waves its beanpole legs.

It has legs. It is the size of my thumbnail.

I am overtaken with the arresting strangeness of this. E is pregnant. It is looking like there may be a baby in my near future. And right now, that baby is shimmying inside E with the force of its hammering heart.

My mother and sister, those Wise and Terrible forces of nature, have already sent extremely tiny shirts to my house.

And some of them are tie-dyed.

All The Waste And All The Thunder

2007-10-26T15:19:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time I owned this city.

My computer has inherited my waking hours. My computer and my chair.

I can literally feel my ass flattening.

Tonight, the hours at work are stretching before me like a desert. Again. Friday night in my office, 40 floors up, under florescent lights. I have a Very Important Deadline.

I feel like throwing this fucking Aeron chair through the window and following it out.

Saturn's Bitch-Ass Return

2007-10-22T08:09:00.000-07:00

My mood has greatly improved since my last cuntish post. This is mostly because the lovely Meg reminded me that Saturn is in Return for me.

For those curious, it takes 29 point something years for Saturn to rotate around the sun. So right around our 29th birthday, Saturn is returning to its position at our birth. This signals Big Changes and Grownup Feelings, which may or may not induce one to toss oneself under a hurtling bus. Depending on one's maturity level.

Thus my feelings of hysteria and impending doom are completely normal, and I'd like to take this opportunity to point my finger in blame at the second largest planet for any bad behavior I may exhibit until I turn 30.

And during this time of growth and transition, Saturn urges us to do an "internal spring cleaning."

So to dust off the old cerebellum, we visited the gorgeous Pioneer Valley on Saturday. Hiked with our doberson, and lord was it spectacular. For all the love in my heart for NYC, fall in New England stands alone.

This made me want to quit my job, buy 10 acres and start a goat farm:

Well that, and this:

On the real, though, I worship this city. And it helps that I live in the last legit neighborhood on the island of Manhattan. But, be it the trees or the trails or E's pooching belly, holy moses did I feel like moving this weekend.

And I'm not one to think that raising a kid in the city is a bad idea - au contraire. City kids rock. I'm jealous that I didn't get to grow up in this metaphysical racket.

But the idea of being swept up in the NYC parental attitude skeers me. We have friends who have yet to BEGIN to TRY to get pregnant, whose future child's name is already on the application list at 5 preschools.

Cause that's how long the wait lists are.

And we so aren't about that. We're more of the our-kid-rides-his-bike-the-6-blocks-to-public-school type of people. And let's face it, regardless of the strength of one's bike-lock, one's bike is not one's own in this great city.

(If you've lived in New York whilst owning a bike, your bike has been stolen. Unless you have magic powers.)

So all that is to say, it was a good weekend for internal tidying in response to Saturn's counsel. The sun shone and then it rained. The trees were crimson and gold, like my new bike. I thought about the city. I thought about the not-city. I thought about our peanut-sized embryo. E vomited for the first time.

Life was good.

Disillusion Comes Only To The Illusioned

2007-10-18T07:52:00.000-07:00

Last night our friends S1 and S2 came over to chill out. S1 is unbearably handsome and hilarious, and was also our #2 potential known-donor. Back in the day when we dreamt of a natural conception, we asked him, and he rejected us.

Lo, the heartbreak. For he is good-hearted and gay, if slightly mysterious and perhaps a wee bit of a druggie.

Anyways, after S1 did some prodding about the status of E's womb, E revealed that she was indeed just under 2 months pregnant, and there was much whooping and squeezing and excitement, which was sweet.

Then we started talking about how it happened...you know, how it came to pass that I managed to impregnate E.

Since, like, I'm a girl.

So we kind of had to educate S1 and S2 on IVF. And fuck if that wasn't a weird experience.

For all us who are intimately acquainted with IVF -- or have real life or virtual friends who are -- it's just IVF. One of the many tortuous ways one attempts to get pregnant when nature, for one reason or another, isn't helping.

Yes, yes, nightly shots, yes, daily wanding, yes, foot long needles. BFD.

I was sort of dismissively explaining the process, but the more I talked, the further their jaws dropped. They were fascinated, and couldn't seem to wrap their heads around what in the holy hell IVF is.

"What?!"

"Are you serious??"

"Needles where?"

"How often??"

"Surgery??"

And so on.

It was bizarre to revisit IVF through the eyes of a person who had never been there. I felt myself becoming re-acquainted with that feeling of utter disbelief and shock when first faced with an IVF protocol. The visceral rejection of such invasive medicine, a reaction stemming from belief and trust in our own bodies.

But the amazing part is how distant that feeling is now. How quickly we adapt to the fucked up stuff we face, and never really give ourselves credit by looking back and saying: holy christ, we did that, and it's over.

Because we're not really sure it's over. How long do we leave those drugs in the fridge? How long do we hang on to all those needles and alcohol wipes? When can we ship them off to someone else who needs them?

From cocky ignorance to miserable uncertainty in a year flat.

So all that shock and awe felt pretty validating.

"You really did all that?"

Fuck yeah, we did all that.

The Poster

2007-10-16T17:00:00.001-07:00

Are you wondering if I own that outfit?

The Birthday

2007-10-16T12:01:00.000-07:00

So, the dreaded birthday came and went and I didn't have any major breakdowns. I claimed to boycott it until I woke up on Friday, October 12 and ran out to the living room to rip open my presents like a 13 year old boy (ah, only one of the numerous ways in which I am like a 13 year old boy, truly).

I could not have asked for a sweeter Craptastic birthday. The night before the big day, E picked me up from work in a white stretch limousine. There were hits of the 80s. And twinkly lights. And champagne. It was prom all over again, which rocked, since I never went to to the prom. And never rode in a limo.

On Friday, my work friends took me to my favorite Turkish restaurant for lunch. My co-workers (my co-workers!!) threw me a surprise party with a gigantic cookie-cake emblazoned with red and yellow frosting. I cannot overemphasize the bizarre wonderfulness of this - I work with corporate lawyers, people. I was completely surprised and kind of embarrassed for the stuffy old partners eating their frosting covered chocolate chip cookies with plastic forks.

But damn it was cute.

Then E and I went to the Berkshires with my brother and his lovely girlfriend. Our arrival was met with a "balloon-kitchen surprise party," which was as merry as its name implies. The lovely girlfriend had created a poster that will go down in history as the best poster ever created. I'll post a picture of it. And you will gasp for the cuteness of it.

As birthdays tend to do, mine extended into Saturday. The weather could not have been more Northeasternly Fall gorgeous. And. Saturday morning, I walked outside to get some firewood and was met with the glorious sight in the above picture.

An original. 1981. Schwinn Stingray.

A gift from my awesome family. (The only thing that made this present more perfect was the image of my 6'2" brother riding it over the Williamsburg bridge - his only means of getting it home).

Dope.

6 Weeks, 3 Days

2007-10-11T11:45:00.000-07:00

Dear Rockstar Embryo,

We saw you today, you little lentil with the flickering heart.

This is not, technically, the first time we've seen you, since we have a gorgeous picture of you at merely 8 cells. That's just a head-shot, if you will, not much action happening in it, but it captures your round perfection quite nicely.

But today...well, today we saw you in real-time. And you are nothing if not a rockstar.

You are .47 cm long, and your heart is storming away. We scoffed at the need to measure it, for it beats at the speed of light.

There's just one of you in there, no sign at all of any comrades. This news was received by your mom with a teary gasp.

"Just one?!"

Knowing her like I do, I assumed this was a teary gasp of relief; but to my great dismay her chin started to quiver and her eyes began welling up.

"I really thought there'd be two and now I'm sort of disappointed..."

And she clutched at her midsection, looking down at her belly and crying out:

"No matter, I'll just love you twice as much!"

Thank you for staying, our thunderous little Rockstar.

With preposterous amounts of love from me, E, and your many other swooning fans,

GS

Random Bad Things

2007-10-11T07:28:00.000-07:00

I'm in kind of a bad way this day. This day of our first u/s.

During this last week we've spent waiting for it, lots of Fucked Up Things have gone down. I won't detail most of them here. Some were just annoying, some were heartbreaking.

But shit is starting to get weird, and I'm trying not to feel like this series of Bad Events are leading towards bad news today.

A synopsis:
1. We lost our sweet cat. She's gone. I can't even begin to go into it, for the guilt is nearly suffocating me.

2. My son, my beating heart, my doberman, had a hideous experience this morning. He's a huge, healthy, strapping dog, but we've started to suspect that he has a mild form of Wobbler's Disease, a degenerative neurological condition that disrupts their balance and ability to walk. He's completely unaffected 99% of the time, but there have been a couple of occasions where he seems to lose control of his hind end for a few minutes. Those instances have been scary, but he usually regains control quickly, so we've never been downright panicked.

We took him to the Animal Medical Center in NYC last year and they diagnosed him with mild Wobbler's. They told us to use a harness and keep an eye on him. Nothing else to do.

This morning, after throwing a tennis ball for him a couple of times, I watched as he went from standing still to suddenly staggering sideways at nearly a full run, his head cocked grotesquely. He was clearly unable to control his big lopey body, and he slammed into a fence, and then collapsed, all his muscles seized up, his eyes glazed, and he drooled uncontrollably.

All I could to was hold his head in my lap and soothe him until his muscles relaxed and he came back to himself. It was horrible.

And tomorrow, I turn 29. I looked in the mirror this morning and thought, "damn, I look a year older. At least." Trying to get E pregnant this last year took a toll on me. I look older. I feel older. For the first time in my life I made E cancel our birthday party plans.

I reject turning 29.

Ultrasound at 2PM today. Any life in E should be the size of a lentil.

I hope they are living lentils.

The Chorus of Voices Has Spoken

2007-10-10T07:05:00.000-07:00

All right, all right, already! I'm deaf from the noise of your protest! You twisted my arm! You've entangled me in your intricate and irrefutable web of truth! I won't push back the appointment!

In all seriousness, though, thanks for your thoughts. Bleu is right, I would be antsy if I didn't go. But it's early, so things might be vague and that will introduce its own kind of drama. But I have my legions of readers to think of, no? I will stand firm and attend the ultrasound on the eve of my birthday, if only to put your minds at ease.

Tomorrow is the big day. Infertile Pediatrician, you give E great hope, and I thank you for that because she was becoming a bit of a Debbie Downer with her twin-griping.

Although I must tell you that irony ruled the day yesterday. E had to attend a Fancy Fundraising Event last night for...of all things...the Multiple Birth Center of a major metropolitan hospital. Thus she spent the evening interrogating parents of twins and triplets, all of whom glowed with delirious joy about the wonders of parenting multiples.

She came home a wiser woman. And I'd wager - particularly after yesterday's post - we are all glad for that.

Twinphobia

2007-10-08T19:20:00.000-07:00

All is well here on the pregnancy front. All signs indicate that E is still pregnant.

The ultrasound will be at 6 weeks, 3 days. Rescheduled to Thursday, the day before my birthday. That way, if it shows an empty sac we can spend my birthday drinking heavily. Or we may see three occupied sacs, in which case ~~E will jump out the window~~ just I will be drinking heavily.

I'm kind of thinking it might be multiples. Not just because of her freakish HCG numbers. Mostly because I think God is going to punish E by giving her multiples.

See, E has a...um...let's call it a "weird thing" about multiples. Twins creep her out. Identical twins, fraternal twins that are dressed alike, and don't get me started on trips or more.

She used to be rather vocal about her "weird thing." Whenever she was witness to a set of multiples, she would...protest. This would lead to whatever companion she was with at the time of such multiple-sighting questioning her about what she would do if she herself became pregnant with twins.

Innocent companion party: My goodness, you are quite averse to multiples! What would you do if you had twins one day?

E: (deadpan) I'd throw one in the garbage.

Innocent party: (aghast) You wouldn't! Why, how could you choose which to dispose of?

E: The ugly one goes.

Invariably, her companion would laugh, until companion looked into her eyes and discerned that she was quite serious. The laughter would turn to a nervous chuckle, then to a concerned frown.

So I've debated moving the ultrasound to next week. That way, if there is dead baby inside her, we won't know until after my birthday. Additionally, if there are 2 or more sacs in there, I don't have to manage any panic attacks until after my birthday.

I'm more of the opinion that twins are kind of cool. I mean, I'm all for baby having another soul around so E and I aren't the only available sources of entertainment. (Anyone read The Golden Compass? They'll be each other's daemons!) And besides, two for the price of one, people.

So I can't decide. I want to know now. And I don't want to know. I don't need any drama fucking up my birthday. But then again this birthday feels weird already. I'm almost 29 and my wife is pregnant. It's the end of an era.

A magnificent era.

By Jove That's A Lotta HCG

2007-10-01T16:10:00.000-07:00

E's beta today, at effectively 21 days past ovulation, was 4398. We have <40 hour doubling time.

How the hell many are in there? One? Two? In the name of all that is holy, three?

Given the choice of anytime in the next two weeks, E chose a week from Friday for the ultrasound. 10/12. AKA, the greatest day of the year. AKA, my birthday.

E scheduled her first pregnancy ultrasound for the day I turn 29. That foxy girl. Happy Birthday, honey, I'm carrying ___ of your seed! Let's go to Penthouse Executive Club!

Hahaha. The seed joke (yes, yes, my own joke) gets me every time. I will full-on elbow people in the ribs and wink if she is pregnant with multiples.

I so knocked her up.

14dp3dt, or How Long Will I Use dp3dt as a Time Reference? 112dp3dt?

2007-09-27T21:03:00.000-07:00

E's second beta was today. At 14dp3dt, it was 828. That's about a 42 hour doubling time (or so E tells me; I am incapable of that sort of calculation).

These numbers seem so strong and good. The last week feels fantastical, bizarre, surreal. I keep thinking something jarring will wake us from this perfectly unfolding scenario. And at the same time I felt completely unsurprised by the positive hpts, by the good numbers. Each little hurdle cleared feels like stupendous, highly anticipated People magazine gossip that I already knew from reading Perez Hilton. There is just something that feels so right about this pregnancy.

It doesn't feel like reading Perez, btw. Not really. That was a retarded metaphor.

It's more like a swelling of the heart with just a little biting fear right behind it.

And yet I can't believe it worked. I feel bewildered. I feel stunned. I was so prepared for negotiating the next steps. What's next. What's next. What the fuck is next. I feel like that's been our mindset for eternity.

And while I'm at it, I just want to give a shout out to this embryo. I am so in awe of these little clumps of cells that are esentially just set down inside E's uterus and they really do just go about their business, do their thing. Those wild little fuckers. They just do their thing. They're like - eat this, clinic! We don't need you and your assy petri dishes!

E also feels stunned. But she also feels pregnant, I think, because today she called me, nearly hysterical, demanding to know if I was going to leave her if she was pregnant with twins.

What the?

She feels things happening in there. Pokes. That's especially exciting because it means it's still there. With every moment that passes, I think a little more uncertainty creeps in. Is it growing. Will it measure well in the u/s. Will its heart beat. Will it stay.

And with the swelling of our hearts, we hope it stays.

12dp3dt. Beta = 373.

2007-09-25T10:35:00.001-07:00

Dear SuperStar Embryo(s),

Have learned of your intent to stay in E's uterus for a while. Please make yourself at home.

I'd first like to commend your superior dividing skills - you were a mere 8-9 cell embryo on moving day, and by this time I understand you may actually have a distinguishable "head" and "tail" area. Impressive work over 12 days time, my little friend(s).

Secondly, I find your adaptability noteworthy. To say nothing of the brutal lasering you endured (that was to help you hatch out of your dratted shell, but doubtlessly traumatic nonetheless), your tiny self was quite forcefully removed from your bright and sterile petri dish and flung into the dark, warm depths of E. It was then that you were faced with a rather important decision for one of only 8 cells.

You could have merely fallen away. Mistaken this severe shift in environment for the end of your tiny cell-span, and cried, "goodbye, cruel world!" before flinging yourself into the abyss (which I suppose would only be the center area of E's uterus, but an abyss all the same to one as small as you).

Or, if you took much after me, you might have arrived and decided that the business of attaching yourself to the wall on top of having to divide yourself sufficiently was entirely too much work. In that case, it might have seemed preferable to instead just catch a quick nap and perhaps lazily drift around, do a bit of sightseeing.

But no. You decided to forge ahead, plow on, despite the strange circumstances of your beginning. And in that regard, you take after E. We knew you would truly be our creation.

We are so very happy with your decision, SuperStar Embryo(s). Just remember, as smart and diligent as you have shown yourself to be thus far, don't screw this up now. You don't want to wind up like those fugly embryos: in the dumpster out back. Right?

Onward!

With love,

GS

11dp3dt (and some Feelings)

2007-09-23T19:19:00.000-07:00

Summer of 2005 was a rough one. I was studying for the bar exam, and was in an advanced state of self-pity. I was watching my life crumple up behind me - my freedom, my tendency to irresponsibility, my fondness for wild and raucous partying.

My career was to begin in a few short months, and those months were dedicated to studying how to master the King of All Standardized Tests.

I was tired. I was scared. And I was more than a little cranky.

Summer of 2005 was also our earlier-agreed-upon time-frame for beginning our quest for a baby. I was slippery when E would raise the subject. Wily. Had so much studying. Last few months of semi-freedom. Please, let's discuss later.

E broached the subject in earnest approximately halfway through the summer. I was shoulder-deep in my books and flashcards and misery. The thought of a screaming baby sapping every last drop of our energy sounded worse than forcefully embedding one of my highlighters deep into my brain via my ear canal.

So we had The Conversation.

The Conversation wherein I told her I wasn't ready. And my E, my sweet E, was so ready. Had been ready for years. She was angry and heartbroken and devastated.

It was a rocky summer.

This morning there is a neat little row of home pregnancy tests lined up in the bathroom, each with a progressively darker second line.

And I am excited.

I've been trying to pinpoint the meaning behind the shift in my feelings. I'm still excruciatingly, gut-churningly aware of the fear, very deep in my heart, that I will not enjoy parenthood. But I am less haunted by it today. Rather, I have begun to embrace that fear as something many, many people (perhaps more men than women?) experience, and yet they become loving and witty and wise parents who hold on tight to their own identities, the one they had their whole lives before this other person came along and mixed all kinds of shit up.

That this process of conception has taken so long has graced me with the opportunity to face up to my fear, to dissect it and call it by it's true name. Because at first it seemed like a deep-seated ambivalence towards children. They're boring. They have poor vocabularies. They are terribly self-focused. They poop their pants.

Then it transitioned into becoming repulsed by parents (bear in mind I live in NYC - there really is a problem with the parents in this city). Pushing their 8 year old twins in double-wide strollers, scowling at their nanny from behind their venti non-fat lattes as she unloads 90 pound boxes of Pampers from their Suburban double parked in front of their door-man buildings.

But, of course, I began to realize that these Park Avenue mommies are not the norm. Lots of parents maintain their identity and continue to care about important things (like, say, the planet Earth) even after their child is born.

And finally, I began to see it for what it was. Fear. I won't know what the hell to do. How do you raise a person? I am wracked with guilt when my poor dog doesn't get his hour of off-leash time. Imagine the guilt involved in child-rearing? Holy mother of god, I'll be disabled with a fear of fucking them up.

And strangely, that seems more manageable to me. Everyone is afraid of messing up this kid that is their one and true responsibility in this life. I'm just like everyone else. And hey, who doesn't like being a part of the majority once in a while?

So anywayz. These little positive pregnancy tests. They are rather thrilling. E obsesses over whether or not each day is darker than the next. This morning, bent over and squinting at today's and Sunday's tests, she proclaimed today's test to be certainly NO DARKER than yesterday's. She is a little fearful. Her broken heart from January's miscarriage is slow to heal. We are both still painfully aware of the number of things that could foil this fragile little pregnancy.

But her sleepy smiles are coming more easily and frequently. And yesterday, when I turned to her as I felt the warm weight of her palm on my shoulder, she was looking at me with green eyes shining -- "I really am pregnant." As if she still can't really believe it.

Her beta is tomorrow.

9dp3dt

2007-09-22T05:36:00.000-07:00

Darker.

Going to Ramapo Reservation with our firstborn son to celebrate.

8dp3dt

2007-09-21T04:20:00.001-07:00

The picture sucks and is blurry. My iphone doesn't really do closeups, but from any further away it disappeared when viewed through the camera.

But we have a line. A very faint line, but a line nonetheless. Perhaps this picture does the line a disservice by showing it even fainter than it appears here in front of me. But maybe not. A faint line is a faint line, and a little bit more faint than faint seems like splitting hairs. Faint pink hairs.

It's there.

We realize this faint little line means not much in the grand scheme, the long run, the big picture. But we're still very glad it's there. Hopefully tomorrow it's there. And a little less faint.

7dp3dt

2007-09-20T07:09:00.000-07:00

I forced poor E, traumatized from so many negative pregnancy tests, to pee on a stick this morning. It's early, I know. But I demanded she provide me with some concrete information about what the hell is going on in there.

FOR GOD'S SAKE, WOMAN, WILL I OR WILL I NOT BE DEALING DIRECTLY WITH LOOSE STOOLS SEVERAL TIMES DAILY NINE MONTHS FROM NOW?

But the damned thing didn't work. No second line and no pricking control line.

I'm certain she sabotaged it by not peeing for 5 seconds. Perhaps unintentionally, but one would think - due to her vast experience - she would have the skills to properly complete the necessary steps of a home pregnancy test.

I prefer not to think she misunderstood the simple instructions, and instead "accidentally" held the stick under the faucet, fearful of seeing another lonely line.

I say this because last night I read the "FAQ" section on the test instructions. One question asks:

What do I do if the test remains blank after 3 minutes?

Answer: read the instructions again, fool, and try again with a new stick, but this time put your tiny feeble brain to use and do it right.

And I thought to myself: what kind of imbecile screws up a home pregnancy test? And I laughed, cruelly.

So I'm going with sabotage.

5dp3dt updated to protract the gloom

2007-09-18T09:54:00.000-07:00

E is struggling a bit. And that makes me want to kill someone. I will start by punching our Doctor in the face if this doesn't work.

She has few indications that she's pregnant. No boob soreness. Aside from a few waves over the weekend, no nausea to speak of. Still some cramping low down in her abdomen...but that's a classic progesterone side-effect.

She cried this morning. I will punch him in the face.

What makes IVF so vicious is the sheer amount of information one has in one's clutches. It is a strange circumstance to be utterly powerless with so much information at hand.

Watch me obsessively pick apart the minutia:

We know how many embryos. (3)

We know their quality. (A+, A, A)

We know how many cells they consisted of. (9, 8, 8)

We know what she felt last time. (Not much. Some pulling and pinching on her left side)

We know what she felt the time she was pregnant. (Very painful boobs starting between 5 and 7 days past ovulation.)

We know my egg quality. (Normal FSH but thick zona pellucida - or "shell" - for my age)

But we also know they have a way of breaking free. (We did assisted hatching)

We also know we have none frozen. Zero. All but one arrested prior to blastocyst stage. The one that made it looked "abnormal."

I feel like we're already staring down the barrel of IVF #3.

We're 28 and 31. What. In. The. Fuck.

I pushed off starting for years because I thought it would happen instantaneously. I had no doubt. The stars have aligned for us over and over throughout our relationship. Fertility abounds in E's family. She has those sick child bearing hips. She'd be an elvin princess wood nymph mama. It was all there in the cards.

So I pushed it off. Pleaded with E to wait. And wait she did. It was rough for a minute but then we were happy. We had such good years before this shit.

But O, how little I knew. From the very beginning we stumbled.
Known donor said no...high FSH (fuck, did I make us wait too long?)...negative test after negative test...IV assing F...my donated eggs funkdified.

Our 40 year old friends have lapped us.

And I sit here thinking to myself: this is our life now. We just do this. At least it has made me confront my ambivalence about procreating. But there are - honest to god - times when I have to remind myself this isn't a damned competition. What we're working for is a human, not a positive. It's hard, though, when your love is a mess, a wreck, a broken little shell of herself because she wants the one fucking thing that you can't give her.

Taking years out of our young lives for this feels all wrong.

I feel ancient. And I feel like we've just begun.

The Interminable Wait To Learn Whether Or Not Your Entire Life Is About To Change In Ways You Could Never Begin To Imagine

2007-09-17T07:40:00.001-07:00

We are 4 days past 3 day transfer (4dp3dt) today. E's symptoms include intermittent low grade nausea, lots of cramping, and boob "twinges." All potentially attributable to the progesterone, of course.

More serious side effects are the chronic google-ing and the violent boob-squeezing.

The googling is non-stop. She googles first thing upon waking. She won't fix me my ever-loving dinner because she's googling. She sits down to "read Harry Potter" and googles. She googles during the curb-stomping scene in American History X. She googles whilst brushing her teeth.

I swear, if I'm not walking into the kitchen to find her squeezing the christ out of her boobs, I'm wandering around at 2 AM, looking for my wife, only to find her on the toilet squinting at our damned laptop.

Today E decided it was time to visit the esteemed and trustworthy magic 8 ball website to determine if she was pregnant. When she typed in "am i pregnant" it responded with "My Sources Say No." Feeling angry and skeptical, she typed in "does GS love me," to which it responded "No Way!" After this rather cruel exchange, E decided the magic 8 ball was full of shit and navigated away to google.

This two week wait (tww) bullshit is risickulous. What really gets me is the constant wondering when you'll have your partner's body back. It could be 2 weeks! It could be 2 years! My readers familiar with IVF will know of what I speak:

...the wretched suppositories.

E claims she'd prefer the daily progesterone ass-injections. That's right, she'd prefer that a 2 inch needle inject PIO (progesterone IN OIL - all kinds of nasty viscous) in her ass every day. That was the protocol for IVF attempt #1, and she had angry purple welts covering her ass for a month after her negative beta.

That's how repulsive it must feel to insert vaginal progesterone suppositories thrice daily.

In other news, our clinic refuses to call us and let us know if any of our embryos made it to freezing. It is day 7 for the stragglers. They are already either in the dumpster or in the frozen cell aisle, since the embryologist made the decisions on days 5 and 6. I get little twinges in my heart about the ones in the garbage. I can just imagine them, the little hoodlums, acting like criminals and then getting the heave ho to the garbage, calling out on their way down:

Hippie Embryo: (bitterly) That's harsh, dude!

Ghetto Embryo: You don't know me! You don't even know me!

Loser Embryo: (whinily) Don't judge me. I don't judge you. Quit with your judgments.

Poor little cells.

Lazy, Fickle Embryos

2007-09-13T06:47:00.001-07:00

So it's a 3-day transfer, not 5-day. She's getting 3 embryos put in today, instead of 2 put in on Saturday. We are so very caught off-guard. We did not even plan for 3-day. Lovely Acupuncturist is on her way to our apartment, though. Love her.

Of the 11, only 3 look good. One is "beautiful" (tremendous improvement over the 3 fuglies we put in last time) and two look "almost perfect."

The rest are dividing slowly. Again. Doctor said he wouldn't make the decision to toss them until day 5 or 6. But so far so bad. I don't know what exactly this means. I want to grab his fucking microscope and see for myself what those little shits are up to in their petri dishes. I will kill them, those lazy sons of bitches. Don't they know what I went through to create them?

I'm so pleased with our 3 pretty ones that I give them little gold stars of their own. They are ready for the flashcards and the baby sign language.

But 2 things, and for anyone who has traveled through this particular circle of IVF hell, I'd be so grateful for any words of wisdom:

1. Why does he want them in today? Why not day 5? In his words, it's because they look so good that there is no reason to let them sit around in culture for the next 2 days. He claims there is no advantage to waiting, especially when we have so few to work with.

But I thought the purpose of the 5 day transfer was to give them a better shot of implanting. Why aren't we letting the good embryos develop into blastocysts so they are more likely to implant? Then maybe we could put 1 or 2 in and freeze the other(s).

To me, this 3-day decision sounds like he's concerned they'll stop growing and then we'll have nothing to transfer and nothing to freeze.

2. Why 3 in if they look so good? He says we should put 3 in due to our poor result last time. He also claims his clinic has a <4% triplets rate. Is he just being aggressive, or does this sound like he's concerned that none will take, so he's just tossing all the good ones in there? (And btw, 4% triplet rate?? Yowsa. To me that sounds like a lot of people having frigging litters, no?)

Thank you, exceptional people.

16 with update

2007-09-11T07:29:00.000-07:00

Thank you, sweet well-wishers.

It went well. The experience was weird (how could it not be?), but ended quickly and relatively painlessly and I got to sleep on my couch all day, which doesn't ever happen unless I'm donating my eggs. So that's a bonus.

I promised I would recap the experience on here for a couple people who love me enough to always be interested in my navel-gazing stories.

Arrived at clinic a mere 10 minutes late, and was called in about 30 seconds later. E could not come with me, since "they can't be responsible for more than one person." Fine. I usually act like an idiot under anesthesia anyway, and E saw too much last time, so I was actually kind of grateful that she wouldn't see me act foolish a second time.

Nurse led me back to the "surgical suite," and on the way there I passed 3 of the many doctors who have been up inside me the last couple of weeks. Each of them cheerily waved and called "Hi, GS! See you in a bit!" I was slightly confused, thinking there would only be room in there for 1 doctor with a foot-long needle. But I smiled and waved back anyway.

At my clinic, there are about 7 doctors, and you see whoever is available at the time for your scans and for the retrieval and transfer. I had attempted to learn who would be doing my retrieval, but couldn't really get an answer from any of the nurses. Apparently all 3 of these doctors thought they'd be the lucky wielder of the foot-long needle that morning.

So I got ready, little socks and gown and fluffy hat donned, and I climbed aboard the retrieval table. And then I got kind of excited. Not for the retrieval or the transfer or the potential of this IVF working...no.

For the drugs.

I know I'm sick. I remember being a kid and getting a tiny bit thrilled when I had a cavity because I knew it meant getting the laughing gas.

Then our sweet doctor - the one we started with - walked in just as I was getting the IV in my hand. Of all the doctors there, he is the most gentle, the least offensive wielder of dildocam, so I was very happy, since last time I bled heavily afterward and didn't feel right in there for weeks.

He asked how I was feeling and I told him OK but about to feel a lot better, as the anesthesiologist was preparing the first of several injections into the hand-thingy. For a sick moment, as I saw syringe after syringe headed toward my hand (why so many separate drugs?), I imagined lying on the executioner's table. What's wrong with me?

When he noticed my drugs were flowing and that I was chatting away happily with the anesthesiologist, he gripped my knee and said "Is E in the waiting room?" I guess I looked loopy.

The anesthesiologist had me talking about something, and then the next thing I knew I was in the recovery area, with our sweet doctor telling me he got 16 eggs, and that was great, and good job in there, but I don't know if I said anything coherent back because I had cotton mouth.

Anyway, I get the report on how many were mature and fertilized this afternoon.

********************************************************
Updated to say that of the 16, 14 were mature and 11 fertilized (with ICSI).

AND, all 11 look not in the least bent or androgynous.

Granny would be proud!

Retrieval Monday

2007-09-08T07:36:00.000-07:00

This morning when I woke up I was curled on my side, knees up. I awoke with the distinct sensation that my lower abdomen was being squeezed to the point of popping. Remember Indian Burns? When some asshole wrung your arm like a towel? That was sort of the feeling, but right below my belly button. It was comical. I think I even looked at it - just to be sure no alien was about to sprout from my gut.

At first I thought I had to pee terribly (I always wait too long), but as soon as I rolled over and stretched out flat, the pressure just eased away.

I guess it was just my ovaries telling my bladder to back the fuck off or it was going to get ugly in there.

Green Eggs and Qi

2007-09-06T07:13:00.000-07:00

Doctor this AM. How many eggs? "Plenty." Whatever that means.
They think I'll be ready sooner than Monday...probably Sunday instead.

So now that we're almost to retreival #2, let's relive the fun of #1. Back in June, when they measured my follicle sizes the day before trigger, there were a smattering of 12s, several 16-18s, and a couple of 20s. Dr. Inappropriate estimated he'd get 10 - 12. That sounds pretty good, we thought.

Ah, the young and naive.

He retreived 7, and 2 were immature. We did ICSI, and all 5 fertilized. But my eggs were bent. Our embryos were crappy. We put in 2 of "pretty good" quality, and 1 of "shitty" quality. The other 2 clearly took after me, as they were only seen sagging about in their petri dish and dividing wanly before the embryologist gave them a scorching look of disdain and scrapped them.

The rest is history. The 3 we put in didn't stick around. They didn't even try. There was no grabbing on and clinging for a second (ohmygodyouguysmyarmsaresoweak!) before dropping off into the abyss (wheee!).

Aside from the very serious and concerned expression Dr. Inappropriate plastered on his face while giving us the news, there was no real explanation for why my eggs were weird looking. My FSH is normal and all that junk.

I told E it's because they keep trying to force their little round egg bodies into sperms.

My Lovely Accupuncturist told me my vegetarian diet was not affording my eggs enough protien to grow properly, and that I needed to kick up the tofu intake. She claims that every vegetarian she's treated through IVF had bent eggs until they got a solid 40 grams of protien a day. I thought I was a good vegetarian (I don't love carbs) but cramming 40 gs of protien is no joke. That shit is hard.

So I've tried to be good, but these drugs have killed my appetite, so these last few days my eggs have grown from a steady diet of Reses Pieces that I choke down every afternoon (5 gs protien in a little bag!). Good vegetarian, goooooood vegetarian.

And the accupuncture. E and I find needles loathsome (especially after our many encounters with them) and were not looking forward to loads more of them. Well, my tune changed straightaway after I started with Lovely Accupuncturist. I heart her. She taps those needles right into my qi and I get this hugely heavy painful pressure that just blisses me out. She's like a sadist I hire to spank me.

Anyway, hopefully these measures will help my eggs grow into nice, round, female-identified ova. We'll find out soon enough.

Stay tuned.

Funk

2007-09-05T08:40:00.000-07:00

I seem to have run out of things to say.

Actually, I have a great many things to say, all in half-written, unpublished posts. Most of them are bitchy. Some are sort of funny, but they're mostly dumb.

It's all the same shit. Shaking my fist at universe. It's tired.

Maybe it's because these drugs make me feel slightly comatose. Or maybe it's my fear creeping back in. We could be pregnant this month. Holy fuck. Parents don't go to strip clubs.

To quote the very great Timbaland, who always knows what to say: Dirty babe, see these shackles baby I'm your slave, I'll let you whip me if I misbehave, it's just that no one makes me feel this way. *take em to the bridge!*

I don't know.

But, in efforts to keep track of the "JOURNEY," I shall record where we're at. I started stims a week ago (Repronex and Gonal F). Doctor: Everything Fantastic! Cetrotide last night and everynight to retrieval, which is scheduled for Monday. Transfer Friday, barring withering embryos.

Izzy izzy ahh zizah zizah za.

We are Hovering

2007-08-22T08:42:00.001-07:00

around what would have been the due date of our first child.

Last Christmas, E and I were spending the holidays with my family in Country House outside of Small Town inside of Large Midwestern State. Let's call it Monotony.

E had done her 5th IUI, medicated, a few weeks prior. She had gotten her period a few days before we left, and the disappointment was threatening to suffocate the few days we had off for the holidays.

Christmas was celebrated with the family, who were bouyant and compassionate about our repeated failures to get pregnant. They consoled E and engaged in much frank discussion about the trials she had endured thus far to get pregnant. Which was good, because I had grown surly with the perpetual talk of frozen sperm and anonymous donors and injectables and the whole damned medicalized process.

Frequently, when I woke and stumbled to the kitchen for coffee, I would find E and my mother quickly hushing their conversation and rather loudly discussing the weather or the dogs. I'd scowl and march off.

At this point on our path to parenthood, I was rather ambivalent about the whole baby thing. Moreover, I was almost wholly uninvolved. Our initial plans to do home inseminations with a known donor did not work out. Having been initially quite determined to make it happen naturally, we were disheartened to have to find an RE, and the news that E had high FSH was an even bigger blow. We gave up the notion of making it ourselves, and started medicated cycles. My job prevented me from attending E's frequent doctor appointments, and trying to conceive was nearly the only thing she talked about. I was feeling more and more peripheral to the process.

That, in a recap, is where we were when it happened.

A couple of days before our holiday vacation ended, we were milling about aimlessly in Monotony. E popped into Depressing Drugstore for some Advil before we drove back to Country House.

Later that afternoon, E approached me, wild-eyed, and asked that I accompany her to the bathroom. There on the counter lay a stick, with two very dark blue lines. What she thought was her period was actually implantation bleeding.

"I'm pregnant!"

This was the first time in her life she had ever been pregnant, and she was lit and shining with the thrill and the terror of it.

And there it was, for a long and wild 6 weeks. I was alternately sick with apprehension and filled with a a soft, warm, spreading happiness. What a ride it was.

Our first ultrasound showed a little sac, the fetal pole just a bit small for what it should have been at that point. Just a bit.

The second appointment was the biggie, The One When You See The Heartbeat. E was nervous, but oh, we had hope. It had only been a bit small.

When we got there, E clutched my hand, glowing as she had been for weeks. I looked at her - she was pregnant, without question. The physical manifestations were there: she often had a faint sheen on her face (sweat from the persistent nausea), and her belly felt hard. She had changed shape somehow over the last few weeks, although obviously what was there was not big enough to show. Maybe it was just her happiness.

I squeezed her hand and felt only blind optimism.

It took a while for the doctor to do the ultrasound. He kept moving the wand, and there was what felt like a deafening silence.

There wasn't a heartbeat.

E folded in on herself when the doctor left the room, and I wrapped her up and took her home.

Her body clung to that little fetal pole for three weeks. We refused the D&C, and instead she took one tiny pill on a Friday night, and we holed up for the weekend. We called it our Miscarriage Party. I rolled a joint, and we took the dog for walks.

And we loved eachother endlessly.

Congratulations...It's a Gay!

2007-08-21T09:53:00.000-07:00

So the little social science community is all a-flutter as of late, what with the scandalous Dr. Bailey being semi-exonerated by an ethics scholar who just published a paper about him and the controversy surrounding his work.

For those unfamiliar with Dr. Bailey's "science," he wrote a book a few years back in which he hypothesized that (I'm summarizing, here) transgender women are actually just male cross-dressing fetishists, motivated to change their sex by the sexual arousal they feel when perceived as women.

So, whatever your thoughts are on that asinine theory, Dr. Bailey also expounds the belief that sexual orientation is genetic (stay with me here), and, once the gay-gene is isolated, parents' determination of their fetus' sexual orientation and subsequent selective abortion based on the results of that test is "morally responsible."

Let's be clear here. We're talking about an educated white straight man who has made a name for himself by categorizing trans and gay people essentially as "genetic mistakes." Talk about exploiting those a wee-tad bit lower on the political-clout totem pole.

What a douche-bag. I feel like calling him up and telling him that, given the choice, most gays would stay gay. I know I would. I'm not one of those lesbians who snub other lesbians because "my orientation is the least interesting thing about me." I'm just not interesting enough to feel that way, I guess.

But also I think sexual orientation is pretty deep. It informs nearly every part of my life, down to the most widely-experienced life events: making friends, buying a coop, interviewing for a job. Having a baby.

I look forward, with great interest, to confusing the shit out of people who will doubtlessly question the origin of our child (for this will surely happen, even in enlightened NYC).

It's pretty freaking interesting, watching the world react to gay people.

Anyway, the Dr. Bailey scandal made me think of the whole infertility thing again. Part of why I feel so connected to the world of infertile people (even though I'm sort of reluctant to become a parent in lots of ways) is that people who struggle so hard for a child are more likely to love that child no matter its orientation.

Imagine a poor infertile woman busting her ass to get pregnant finally becomes pregnant and takes Bailey's gay-gene test only to discover her long-awaited fetus is, lo, a 'mo.

If she's a homophobe, she may grit her teeth, sock money away for ex-gay camp, and line up Billy Graham himself to christen the wee baby, but she sure as shit isn't aborting.

And my guess is she'd probably love that baby anyways. Because we infertiles have a lot of fucking love to give.

Victory is mine...for a minute.

2007-08-20T11:13:00.000-07:00

I stood up our new doctor today. I was supposed to come in for a "swab," but, curiously, I didn't feel like it.

On the phone with the clinic last week, I questioned the necessity of said "swab." Oh, we just need to be sure you don't have gonorrhea or chlamydia, Nurse chirps. I tell Chirpy I'm quite certain that I'm not infected with an STD. She responded that she, too, was certain, and yet I still needed to come in for the necessary swabbing.

I told her the clinic's repeated attempts to get me in the stirrups was becoming suspicious.

When the alarm went off at 6 o'clock this morning, I was like, Swab? I think not. I shut it off and rolled over. E intervened.

E: Get up.

GS: zzz.

E: Get up! You have an appointment.

GS: It's 6 AM. I'm not getting up at 6 AM for a damn swab.

E: They said you need a swab. You have to get one.

GS: Why? Why must I blindly follow their commands? I refuse.

And I slept until 7:30.

So, I know, it certainly isn't interesting enough to blog about, and yet I do it regardless. Why? SEE EARLIER POST!! Despite attempts by E to thwart me, I wrestled a little dignity and control from the iron-grip of Clinic, and it feels good!

But I still have to get that fucking swab tomorrow.

IVF v. Intuition

2007-08-17T14:01:00.000-07:00

IVF should stand for Intiution Very Fucked-up.

Babymaking is, on the whole, an instinctive kind of thing. Papa Wildebeest doesn't read little Willy "Where Did I Come From?" before he trots off to the praire for some grazing with the girl wildebeests.

The sheer amount of deliberate fuckage one must do with their mind and body to conceive through IVF is off the damn map of Intuition-ville. IVFers are milling around in the stratosphere.

Instinct tells us not to poke ourselves in the sensitive belly area with shiny, extremely pointy objects which must thereafer be disposed of in biohazardous waste containers.
It suggests we not shove little hormone-saturated pellets up our vaginas.
It encourages us not to spread our legs for strangers with a camera .

If you were to make yourself small and sit on the shoulder of an IVF virgin you would doubtlessly hear her mutter: "I'm supposed to stick that where?"

And yet, and yet.

We brashly defy our intuition: deliberately shoot ourselves up nightly with drugs that make us miserable and fat, purposefully paste in pantyliners to soak up our melting suppositories.

Seriously, who regularly injects drugs that provide not a modicum of pleasure? Not even the tiniest hint of euphoria, here, people. No wonder it's legal.

I'd like to announce that my instincts, my reflexes, all those handy self-protective resources written onto my genetic code, have surrendered. My IVF cherry was popped 2 months ago, and now I willingly hop into my stirrups. I pop my pills, easily surrender my veins to satanic phlebotomists.

But injecting myself with those anti-pleasure serums? That still really gets my goat.

Poop-on Lupron

2007-08-16T06:38:00.000-07:00

This try is going muuuuuch more smoothly than the last one. Probably because I'm not on Lupron.

I was a holy cunt on Lupron. I alternated between knashing my teeth whilst kicking those in close range in the shins and sitting limply in my chair, staring at the wall with glazed eyes.

"YOU ARE IN MORTAL DANGER!" I would cry out when E approached me with the syringe each night.

And she would soothe me and after my shot bring me a gin and tonic and I'd clutch at her and apologize for being a monster. It felt like my time with Lupron lasted 8 months. I think in reality it was closer to 2 weeks.

E, of course, is having no similar symptoms, because she's a better person than I.

She enjoys pointing out that "fits of violent irritability" and "lapses into semi-concious stupor" are not included on the list of potential side effects.

Lupron is a gonadotropin-releasing hormone agonist that, over time, downregulates the release of FSH and LH, which are hormones that stimulate the ovaries to produce eggs. It "shuts down" your reproductive cycle so the doctor can ramp it back up with a cocktail of stimulating hormones.

This is called an agonist protocol, and apparently it is the most common protocol used in IVF because:

1. It is more controlled, thus easier to prevent ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome (OHSS) which, as I understand, is no diddling flu (with a moderate case, you can put on 2 pounds a day - yippee!)

2. It works with most people.

You fail your agonist cycle (i.e., you produce few eggs or poor quality eggs)? You're given the glamorous label of "poor responder," and may be told you need an antagonist cycle, which, your doctor will surely point out, is generally used for elderly ladies with shrivelled up raisin ovaries so desperate to become with child that they'll try anything. An antagonist cycle stimulates the ovaries without shutting down your system first, so you're more at risk for OHSS.

I'm not on Lupron because our new doctor has put me on an antagonist cycle. To be honest, I threatened suicide if I had to go back on Lupron, so he had little choice. If I've learned anything through this process, it is self-advocacy, and I was determined to avoid Lupron this cycle.

Not only because it fucked with my head, but it also gave me huge cysts on my ovaries. During monitoring one day during IVF #1, our old doctor, weilding dildocam with a vicious glee, proclaimed that I had Lupron-cycts. "Holy God! Look at the size of that one! That's gotta be ASPIRATED!"

"Aspirated?" I moaned.

"YEP. Don't worry, I'll prescribe you some VALIUM. You might even enjoy it!"

That sicko.

1. He prescribed me one feeble little Valium. Although I'm a relatively small person, I have a strangely high tolerance for drugs and alcohol. I need a horse tranquilizer to take a nap.

2. He refused to give me the pill until after I read my consent forms, so I popped it as I signed. I was strapped to a gurney with a foot long needle between my legs about 15 minutes later. I was feeling EXTREMELY UNRELAXED.

Lupron was cruel to me.

Anyway, I was pretty convinced that my Lupron-cysts had something to do with the fact that we only got 7 eggs from the egg retreival, only 5 of which were mature. It seemed like such a small number after so many drugs.

Hence, the antagonist cycle. E takes the Lupron to align our cycles and I start stims next Friday.
I'm glad that my old mate Lupron and I have gone separate ways. So is E. Things are looking up.

On the Road Again, or, My Blog is My Toilet

2007-08-09T09:55:00.000-07:00

Thus far, I've used my blog primarily as a place to bitch and moan about various items of minimal interest to anyone aside from myself. I'm cutting myself a little slack, since it's brand spanking new, but I do feel the need to clarify its purpose a little.

When E and I decided to go the "let's split this baby down the middle, shall we" route, I poked around the net for others who've done the same, but didn't find much. I did, however, find loads of people blogging about their IVF experiences, which was enormously helpful, and especially consoling after our first go didn't work and we were struggling.

So I thought I'd try it out - to talk about the experience of IVF, in particular the experience of sharing the IVF-related responsibilities with my partner E. Initially I had lofty goals of creating a resource for other lesbian couples going this route, but it quickly became clear that I would instead be regularly abusing my readers with verbal diarreah of the bitter variety.

And that's okay too.

Because what other bloggers have taught me is that infertility (whether due to troublesome reproductive organs or the general sameness of your partner's sex) sucks a whole lot and so does IVF.

Infertility kicks the shit out of you and leaves you doubled over on the sidewalk, crying like a ninny. Then IVF steps over you, walks over to your car and takes a dump on the hood.

E and I have been married for four years tomorrow. Which is astonishing, since I feel sometimes like I am just beginning to know her, a feeling this ordeal has intensified. We laugh a ridiculous proportion of our time together, hysterically; we are mirrors of eachother's twisted and juvenile sense of humor. We cannot ever seem to get enough of the other, despite being tired, overworked people.

And o, our love for eachother. It's fierce. That our love is incapable of creating our family is profoundly unfair. Just as it is for so many infertile people.

So there's stuff to bitch about, in other words. Reading others' stories of their experiences makes this whole bumpy-ass ride less desolate and the disappointments less devastating.

And frankly, it just feels good to know that we're not the only ones with busted lips and shitty hoods.

So the time has come. Today our second IVF cycle begins.

We met with our doctor today (wait time: 3 minutes - i heart him) for my day 2 ultrasound (time spent with dildocam: <1 minute - i heart him so much) and bloodwork (satanic phlebotomist scrubbed my arm with steel wool then poked my vein with her pitchfork: i will seek my revenge with holy water).

We next met with the Protocol Nurse who is also Adorable and who Loves Us Very Much, and she informed us that E would be on Lupron this time, not me, which I think is best for all involved (although I admit I am slightly evil because I hope E experiences a taste of the ferocious Lupron-induced crankiness).

So, I'm doing my best to be hopeful and positive in the face of the barrage of drugs and dildocam appointments and blood tests that lay ahead.

But ambivalence spreads its wings right in my chest when I remember all we put ourselves through last time, for nothing.

But what the fuck else are you going to do? You get to your feet, wipe the shit off your car with a bit of newspaper from the curb, and then you stab yourself in the gut with your Gonal F pen.

Thoughts on Dudley Dursley

2007-08-06T10:21:00.000-07:00

I've always shunned parenthood. To me it always appeared awful and boring. Small, snotting, angrily screaming people who comprehend nothing but their own needs. Dear god, the monotony. O, the obligation.

In fact, parents rarely seem happy to me. The vast majority of moms I encounter appear either:

1) Exhausted and miserable, or

2) as if her one truest hope is that every person in the immediate vicinity is watching her and her offspring interact and acknowledging her nobility of purpose as a mother.

And it is far from noble.

These shrieking mothers, catering to their obnoxious children's every whim at top volume, ensuring all the poor souls trapped on the bus can hear, they sicken me.

(to morbidly obese child) HERE, SWEETUMS, WANT SOME YUMMY CRACKERS? EAT SOME YUMMY CRACKERS! ARE YOU THIRSTY? DO YOU WANT YOUR SIPPY-CUP?

*ignoring mom completely, red-faced child repeatedly kicks elderly lady in adjoining seat*

OH, LOOK AT THAT, SWEETUMS. DO YOU SEE THAT BIG DOGGY? LOOK AT THAT BIG DOGGY SWEETHEART! LOOK HONEY! LOOK AT THE DOGGY!

*further kicking of small granny, who appears to be losing conciousness at the hands of vicious child*

(proudly) DON'T KICK THE NICE LADY SWEETUMS!

and on.

In fact, when I read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone many long years ago, I thought it would revoluntionize parenting in the United States....because to me, nearly every parent-child operation I encountered was the spitting replica of Dudley and Aunt Petunia.

But throughout the years, my revulsion eased, my gag-reflex relaxed. I started to see that it wasn't the children's fault that their behavior was so abominable, it was their parents'. As that realization sunk in, I began to understand that cool people could be cool parents. And that gave me hope.

E, of course, was a constant source of patient and sincere encouragement.

(E) "Think of it as expanding the tribe. Creating a couple of groupies. We won't morph into mini-van owning childbots with matching Tevas, I swear."

(GS) "Do our dog, cat, and fish mean nothing to you? Are you saying that our thriving family of five is insufficient for your purposes? Are you a Mormon?"

One day, during one such soul-searching conversation, E turned to me and asked: "Do you really want for it to be just you and me for the rest of our lives?"

Hm. That's the question, isn't it sweetums?

48 Days and Counting

2007-08-02T09:53:00.000-07:00

I'm fat and cranky. I passed out last night, facedown, after nary an alcoholic beverage, at merely midnight. On E's birthday. Something is awry.

It's been almost 50 days since my last period. I blame it on round 1's daily drug cocktail, still fucking up my stuff. Round 1, that cunt, haunts me from her grave.

Round 2 begins when my period begins. So E has been harping on me to get going. Nice. I swear she was actually trying to squeeze my uterus last night under the auspices of snuggling.

Although at this point I'm also ready to get this period party started. Nausea, nasty attitude, and exhaustion notwithstanding, it's going to be a hairy monster when it comes, so...you know. Let's get this over with.

Round 2

2007-07-27T12:35:00.000-07:00

So it begins again.

The last joint has been smoked, the cigarrettes hidden away, the blender is at the ready to prepare each morning's ashwaganda tonic, and tonight marks our first hers and hers accupuncture appointment. Couples accupuncture, if you will. Just as relaxing and romantic as a seaside massage, n'est pas?

But then again, the whole process of IVF, the stabbing oneself in the gut each day, the daily visits to the Doctor, with his evil vagina wand and the harried nurses with their own pinching needles, the drug-induced hour-long brain farts, the seething and terrible irritability....not so unlike the ol' down home method of getting pregnant! Right?

Or completely and profoundly opposite. Infuriatingly, maddeningly distinctive. For fertile straight people, getting knocked-up just "happens" (Jim, can you believe it?? We have returned from holiday with child!). No such luck for gays. We work hard for our offspring.

Our IVF goodie bag includes: bruised, lumpy, purple belly, long, frighteningly retarted afternoons at work, where each day you aren't fired is a small gift from god, and unbidden intimate relations with your chubby, inappropriate doctor who shops at Loehmanns.

Hello IVF my old friend! How I wrestled with you philisophically the first time we met, thumping and raging against the unfairness of not being physically able to stopper up my girlfriend's desperate urges for children! How dare science neglect this yawning gap. Shame upon it for not devising some drug that turns lesbians into the baby machines that so many straight people are. Those fucking homophobic scientists. Bastards.

I used to be so care-free. Traipsing about NYC, generally acting fresh. But IVF, that cruel and fickle little fucker, came along and tortured us for months and then failed us miserably.

It changed me.

Turned me into a shrill old bitter raisin, demanding success from our doctor, beating my fists on his cluttered desk, lined with little crystal awards, engraved with crap like "2002, Best At Telling His Patients The Myriad of Things Wrong With Them."

I'm 28, for chrissake. E is 30. My bright shiny new eggs, her clingy uterus. How could IVF fail us?

E, my girl, my fierce and gorgeous partner in crime, will carry my eggs through in vitro fertilization, after 6 failed "natural" cycles. Um, by natural I mean a Chubby Inappropriate Doctor Squirted Anonymous Sperm Up Her Girly Parts Whilst She Reclined On A Gyn Table Feet High In Plastic Stirrups kind of natural.

Chubby told us she had high FSH, declined ovarian reserve, perimenopausal ova, schmigldy lodarious pie, whatever other numerous indictments of her body and ovaries he could think of to explain why he was having about as much success in knocking her up as I was.

So we moved on to IVF with my eggs, and when cycle #1 fizzled, Chub McInaproppriatson turned his stubby finger from her to me, shrugging his meaty shoulders and saying, delicately, my eggs were not "quite what he'd hoped for." We turned tail and walked.

So Long to your ghetto staff, port-a-potty smelling waiting room and hour-long waits, all suffered through to no avail. This is NYC, afer all. There are doctors here who could impregnate my shrivelled old granny with semen from a condom discarded in Inwood Hill Park.

And thus, we're on to #2. This go I'll have my eggs hoovered by a tall and thin, softspoken (sans inappropriate comments re: how he'd like to get me and E preg) doctor who looks like he could be my age. This new clinic is tidy and fresh smelling; the girls behind the desk are sweet and informative; the wait, thus far, has not exceeded 10 minutes. Gratitute for these small wonders is softening my deep scowl lines.

Optimism, though, feels like a little bitty birdie that took flight many months ago. I thought maybe he'd be back for the summer months by now, but I think he likes it down there in Boca. He's kickin back by the pool, sipping a Gimlet. Maybe he'll fly back in August, maybe even September or October, cause he likes the fall colors in the Northeast. We'll see.