Tuesday, April 16, 2013


We live in the south-- in one of what I'd guess is the top four homo-hating states, just incidentally-- and people here tend to be folksy.  I know it's supposed to be charming, but a) it's easy to associate folksy values with the homo-haters and b) it's a bit of a struggle for those of us assiduously trained by Yankee parents to enunciate.  Moreover, folksiness usually translates into chattiness, and ain't nobody got time for that.  Or, anyway, I don't.  Tell me what you want without referring to your 15-year-old "baby" or your 70-year-old "daddy."

Yes, I appreciate the irony of saying I don't appreciate chattiness when I'm responsible for frequent and frequently lengthy blog posts.  I'm kind of an ass.  Sorry.

My psychiatrist is not folksy.  I don't know where she's from, but she's a purposeful lady who wants to find out whether I'm especially fucked-up, write notes, then transition into an unnatural chat about goings-on.  I both appreciate and fear those moments.  This past visit, we talked about what medications would need to be changed to accommodate a healthy pregnancy.  She said Xanax is out, so that's one less prescription I have to fill, and said we should cut back on either the Lamictal (a mood stabilizer) or Lexapro (a vanilla anti-depressant).  We halved my dose of the latter, with the understanding that I might experience "brain flashes" of some sort, wherein turning my head could cause an imagined, peripheral flash of light.  Cool!

My unfolksy, purposeful psychiatrist continued taking notes as she casually said, "And you're planning on losing some weight, right?"  Like, "And you'll breast-feed, right?"  Um, whore.  But it's true: I'm supposed to be all healthy and whatnot if we're going to do this.  I've been in the habit of shelving all the baby crap because of Heather's ambivalence, so I guess I wasn't taking any of that seriously.  We have all variety of baby-making supplies-- not just the speculum collection or the pregnancy tests, but fertility tea and wildly expensive prescription vitamins.  Our kitchen still bears signs of IVF, with dregs of Follistim rolling around in the crisper of the fridge and the last drops of Lupron in a bottle on the window ledge, mainly because we spent too much on them to casually toss them in the trash, whether or not they have any value to us currently.

Distractions, all.  None of the novelties will justify me eating Reese's Pieces.  I'll have to wait till I'm pregnant and I can blame it on the baby.

Monday, April 8, 2013

Everlasting bullshit

Another celebrity is pregnant.

This one just had a baby.

Oh, and here's a baby bump.

And here's another baby bump.

What is up with these b*tches?  I'm told by a very reputable source that it's not cool to use that word, but I find it hard not to be hostile to my fellow womyn when they're all fucking pregnant or showing off their babies or talking about how they co-sleep.  It just feels like a slap in the face.

And I say that as someone who isn't even trying yet.  It's the idea of it, though-- the reminder that our time and money over the past several years have paid no dividends, and the profound fear that it'll go badly on this next go-round.  What will it feel like when it's my body that fails?  What will it be like to get my period instead of a plus sign? 

I mean, no kidding, of course I'm anxious to get this going.  I know how long each month is-- the wait from period to ovulation, from insemination to period-- but I don't know how long it'll feel when it's me.  Also I'm super-fucking-impatient.

Who's at fault in the baby hunt?

There is a lovely, if somewhat disheartening, Aimee Mann song called "Momentum."

Even when it's approaching torture/ I've got my routine.

It's one that I find poignant, as I am an exceedingly risk-averse person who seeks out ruts and stays in them.  The baby thing kicked off with enthusiasm but took surprisingly little time to become a torturous routine, and this break we're taking hasn't done anything to take it off my radar.  There is no true back burner.  A baby is on the list and I am going to find a way to cross it off.

Earlier this week, Heather told me that the baby thing had always been my thing-- that she wasn't obsessed the way I was and hadn't been as traumatized by her miscarriage as I was.  As though she could take or leave the baby that we've been pursuing doggedly for years now.  Has she just been accommodating me?  Is that why she was hostile to all the appointments and tests?  Did she want a break because she didn't care that much?

It took a moment for me to process the idea, given that she was talking about having a baby on her own when we got together.  We put it off for the sake of building a relationship, setting a timeline that still traumatized my parents.  There seemed to be a shared enthusiasm for the project.

I wonder about straight couples, too.  If you believe Sex and the City or Friends, women are baby-crazed, immune to logic when reproduction is on the line.  Everything hangs in the balance.  Men, however, have a practical approach-much like the fellow in our IVF class who said he hoped his young wife's surgical procedures wouldn't get in the way of hunting season.  Is that a common attitude?  Are ladies just unreasonable?  Is it stupid and selfish to want a baby when biology is fighting it?  Should we all just accept that it isn't in the cards?  (Or would that defeat the purpose of marriage?)

Heather is adorable with kids.  Her reverence of our baby-replacing kitten is a sight to behold.  Maybe Cleo really did replace a baby for her.  I just can't help thinking what a terrific, funny mom she'll be when I see her coo and snuggle the cat, then lovingly reprimand her for being bratty.  "You turkey butt!"  She's the best, and I want to raise a child with her.  I don't want it because I'm in the habit of wanting it.  It's on my list for a reason.


Thanks, Eonline: "Halle Berry Pregnant at 46: Here Are 5 More Stars Who Had a Baby After 40."