Blog comments, browbeating, and Giuliana Rancic's breasts

Last night I was trying to complete Practice #2 from The Self-Compassion Diet (we'll talk about that some other time) and, no matter how hard I tried to imagine a conversation with my erstwhile and beloved therapist, I found myself distracted.

First, I couldn't get the Avett Brothers' songs out of my head.  That album is so fucking good.

Really, though, my mind was snagged on a comment on a previous post.

Now, I imagine that there are about three regular readers of this blog, and a couple other sporadic ones (Heather, I'm talking about you), but, as ready as I am to quit answering other people's phone calls and write these droll masterpieces full-time, I never think there's anybody else reading them.  How would anyone even find the blog if I hadn't sent them the link and browbeaten them into reading it? 

All of which is to say that a comment from a stranger totally flusters me.  Accordingly, when I saw I'd gotten a comment on my post about sperm donors with lots of kids, it kept me up a few hours.

Bev wrote:
Hi! I just stumbled upon your blog. We used a sperm bank and are completely satisfied. Yes, our kids have half-siblings, but that has actually been a positive experience as we've gotten to know some of the families via Facebook and e-mails. We have met one family in person and plan to meet others. We have happy, healthy children and we don't care how many half-siblings they may have out there. Good luck with your making a family, whatever way you choose. 

This has me concerned because I wonder if I was harsh or close-minded about this half-sibling business, and because Sperm Donor: 74 Kids and Counting is still on our DVR, unwatched.  I can't bear to hit play.  Something inside me cries out, "I don't want to be a sister wife!  I don't want our child to be one of seventy-four!"

I guess I'm shocked at the idea of our child-- the creation of absurdly artificial materials and methods that are designed to carry on his mother's DNA when nature can't-- being anything less than unique.  This baby isn't going to be thrown together from just any egg or any sperm; every single element will be custom-designed.  How could he possibly belong to a group?

That's where I feel like a jerk.  It took, honestly, a bit of a paradigm shift for me to realize that our child deserves to have a group.  He shouldn't be alone if he doesn't want to be.  Why would I want to isolate him any more than he's already going to be?  An IVF baby of lesbian parents in the South needs as much support as he can get. 

Oh, my god, I'm going to be one of those moms who don't think anyone is good enough for their sons.  And we don't even know if we're going to have a son.  To be honest, I'd rather have a girl so she could do glittery holiday crafts with me without getting beaten up.

Meanwhile, Giuliana Rancic has breast cancer, discovered just before her third attempt at IVF.  All my anxiety about how fertility drugs can screw up a woman's body has flooded back, and I hit that goddamn Google magnifying glass.  Just as we were feeling energized by our decision to pursue IVF, I read that folks are speculating that fertility drugs can cause/bottle-feed/promote to Team Captain cancer.  I'm going to watch Chelsea Lately and pretend I don't know about any of it.