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?
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?