Everything but the Sperm

I’ve known that I wanted to be a mother for as long as I can remember. Of course, when you grow up you imagine that your family involves a white knight and rarely a princess.

Having found the perfect woman and recently moved into a perfect (two bedroom) apartment, the only other natural thing is the baby, right?

When I say what I’m about to write out loud I feel a little silly, which I suppose is the benefit of blogging with a stock photo as my profile picture, but I’ve got everything in order. There, I’ve said it. I’ve done everything.

I have a birthing plan; I have a midwife and a back up midwife. I have a doula and a postpartum doula. I’ve decided on a home birth, but have checked out all of the birthing centers in Brooklyn and Manhattan.

I’ve seriously weighed the options of cloth vs. disposable diapers. We’d like to cloth diaper. I’ve found ways of making reusable baby wipes and have watched countless PBS shows and YouTube videos on how to make green cleaners for your house. Apparently lavender oil is a great scent.

I’ve read almost every blog and forum about lactation and possible lactation problems and as a result looked up and am very well versed on both Easter and Western remedies for slow lactation.

I’ve read Mayim Bialik’s “controversial” book on AP and have decided with my partner to pick and choose aspects of AP that work best for us.

I’ve discussed the desire to get pregnant with my acupuncturist, my ob/gyn, my secret bunch of friends, you and they all have the same question-When are you starting?

Good question! And just as I assume the position and reach for the syringe and speculum I stop short and remember…I don’t have sperm.

Sperm! Duh. How did I forget that?

Sperm. That weird-smelling, gag-worthy ball of nasty that I actually used to swallow. To quote Bette from the L-Word, it’s repugnant. I have very vivid memories of the horrible decision I should’ve made long before going down on a guy-spit or swallow. Which always ended in one way: pause-gulp, ugh. I swallowed.

If memory serves correctly sperm is weird-looking, viscousy and smells funny and I have to put it into my vagina with the aid of my partner for us to make a baby!? I’ve only been out of the closet for seven years, I’ve barely waved my queer flag proudly and I have to play with sperm? Again?

Yes again.

Every time R and I get busy I secretly wish we were making babies, it sometimes comes out of my mouth. Of course, we’re not making babies (yet) we’re just putting those oh, so important first steps into motion. Top on our list, the quest for sperm.

My instinct is to use a known donor over frozen goods. We’d like a gay couple who’d act as uncles. I’m constantly catching myself checking out effeminate men on the street and assessing how and if it’s appropriate to slip them a card that says something to the affect of :Two Jewish Ladies seeking man for sperm donation: Is this you?

First Post Introductions

Why, hello there, blog world!

I feel a bit like Julie Powell in the movie Julie and Julia-is anyone going to read this? Does anyone care? Do I care if you care?

Unlike Julie Powell, I don’t think I’ll get a book deal followed by a movie option staring Meryl Streep simply because two Jewish lesbians are trying to get knocked up. I’m writing this blog to talk about it.

As two women living in Brooklyn you’d think we’d have a big support network of other lesbians trying to get pregnant and in some ways we do, but in many other ways we do not. We have lesbian friends who are new moms with toddlers and infants. We know another couple only a few months into their pregnancy, which is supposed to be a secret but the person who told us is clearly a lesbian who can’t keep a secret. We know two other lesbian couples with children-but none of these couples are women we’d consider our “good friends”and while I’ve extended invitations to these couples to come for Shabbat dinner and talk about baby making, they’re lives are busy with new babies. Our straight friends who are pregnant don’t understand and we’ve only told a select few of our close friends that we’ve moved beyond thinking about making a baby to officially talking about making a baby and frankly, I’m not sure if we’re that ready.

The list of items we’d like to have completed is quite long-we want to own a home, I would like to go into nursing, my partner is getting an advanced degree, do we want to stay in NYC forever…the list goes on and on.

 

But when you’re approaching your mid-thirties and every child that passes on the streets of New York gives cause to stop, crouch down and coo it’s time. When you look at your male Facebook friend’s photos critiquing their baby photos only to determine that they’re not the right guy to ask for his sperm it’s time. When you spend work hours scouring sperm banks and donor profiles it’s time. When you spend the hours after a dinner party discussing the gap between the teeth of the gay man you’ve only just met it’s time. So,yes, it’s time and no, we’re not really ready, but when are you ever?

So here we are, the first stages of trying to conceive or “TTC” in blogterms. I’ve been to the ob/gyn who believes I have fibroids. The next step is to get a sonogram of my uterus when I’m on my period, but unfortunately this hasn’t happened yet. The first time I got my period we were traveling and the second time…we were traveling.

In the meantime, I’ve purchased a basal body thermometer and at the urging of my ob/gyn and the select friends we’ve told I’m taking folic acid and prenatal vitamins. I’m trying to lose about 15-20 lbs to get me at a more ideal weight and…I’ve purchased a few books-The Ultimate Guide to Pregnancy for Lesbians by Rachel Pepper is on my Nook and Labor of Love: A Midwife’s Memoir by Cara Muhlhan is on it’s way from Barnes and Noble.

Next step, something I’ll hopefully stop saying in a few months, waiting for my period.