Waitin' for a Superman

Monday, the 25^th, we inseminated.  Two ICIs at home, just me and Heather.  It was a peaceful, low-key experience, and we had a lovely long nap afterwards while it stormed outside.  In a way, it was so calm that I’ve half-forgotten it; it was my day off and the procedure was just a blip in my marathon of sleep.  When I went to the bathroom this morning, it all came back.

It didn’t come back because I gave birth on the toilet, as in a classic episode of I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant, but because I was cramping and wondered if my period was due.  It used to be that I could track my cycle based on where Heather was in hers (don’t ever let anyone tell you lesbian relationships aren’t glamorous), and I thought about it for a second before realizing that maybe she wouldn’t get her next period.  What if the time came and there was nothing?  What if we had the strength to wait all the way till the 9^th before testing and she hadn’t bled yet?  What would those days feel like?

We don’t know, and we can’t imagine.  After inseminating, we lay in bed, musing over how a positive test would feel, and neither of us could put it together.  We’re so used to not being pregnant that the idea of a negative test is less scary than it is expected.  We’ll cry, take a few days to feel bad, then start checking our bank accounts to see how the hell we’re going to pay for more sperm.  That much we know how to do.

As my boss was telling me yesterday about his baby learning to crawl, I was soaking in this familiar brew of wonderment and jealousy when the tub flipped over like our redneck pool and I thought, “Hey, screw you.  Next year I’m going to have a baby and tell people what she’s learning and how we take her to parks and choose our next high chair."