Thursday, May 30, 2013

(Over-30) baby-mama drama

So First Response, a company which profits from the pee of emotional women, is conducting an awareness campaign in Britain to alert women that their fertility will nosedive after 35.  "Better get crackin'" is the unofficial slogan, I believe.

The article I read came from Bust magazine, one of the best things in the whole world, and the author writes

Get Britain Fertile has already begun courting controversy ahead of its June 3rd launch date. Most notably, it's irked Think Progress writer Aviva Shen.  Shen has a very strong stance against the campaign:
“First Response has decided the solution to the trend of women waiting longer to have children is to criticize them, prey on their fears of ageing, and exploit social disgust for even moderately sexual old women,” Shen writes. She argues the campaign does not tackle the “real fiscal issues young women explicitly say are keeping them from having children earlier.”

And that's totally fucking true.

Happy birthday to me: frosting, apps, and TTC at 30

Last Sunday, Heather and I celebrated my upcoming birthday with my parents.  Mom and I had pedicures, Dad made a special dinner, and I was granted my wish of a cheap grocery-store cake that sagged with frosting.  It was terrific.

Somewhere in the back of my mind-and sometimes in the front-was the idea that maybe by my next birthday, there'd be a baby in the mix.  Would I get to dab frosting on the little one's nose, or at least smear some on a fat, pregnant belly?  Birthdays seem like the kind of benchmarks that tell you if you're gettin' it done, and I'd like to complete my 30th year by gettin' conception done.  Heather has kindly accommodated this particular (and particularly tender) birthday by arranging a European extravaganza, landing me in Rome as the new decade dawns.  We just need my ovaries, some dude's sperm, and the skilled wielding of a syringe to accommodate my 31st.

Friday, May 24, 2013

Back in the stirrups again: ob-gyn appointments for ME!

Now that it's my turn 'round the reproductively-challenged carousel, I get to go to doctors' offices on my own.  I don't have to wake Heather up with lattes for bribes, or explain to nurses why the fuck there's a bystander to her pap smear.  I don't have to call these offices under her name, or keep tabs on her Social Security number.  I know my own information, I can fill out my own paperwork, and nurses will totally understand why I'm there.  It's my vagina this time, y'all!

I made an appointment at Dr. King's office, feeling less like I need an ob-gyn visit than that I need to get a foot in the door so she can monitor my pregnancy and deliver our baby and generally participate in the fantasy world I'm building.  Based on our experience with Heather's womb, I have very limited expectations of the day coming when we will need someone to deliver our baby, but hell if my low expectations are going to stick me with a back-alley ob-gyn when the time comes.  We're going at this full-tilt.

(Full tilt.  Hehe.  Like Heather's uterus, or my position while in stirrups.  Hehe.)

In fairness, we're not at full tilt yet.  Heather is just now taking an interest, having played it cool for the past several months- and sometimes actively discouraged discussion of our newest effort.  Once bitten, twice shy, I suppose, even though it's occasionally hurt my feelings when she's squashed the topic.  Her recent comment that she's getting excited had me giddy.  Still, I'm trying to keep my mouth shut (trying) so she can feel comfortable with it on her own, and that's kind of inhibiting any momentum from building.

Fuck that.  I'm going to put my own name on the paperwork.

Wednesday, May 15, 2013

Amazing. You're welcome.

Okay: amazing.  Heather and I went to a new guy to get our hair colored earlier this week, and he is not a fella who cuts corners when it comes to time or highlights.  Heather was in probably phase 948564 while I was on a break between phases 93495734 and 9934753497, so Barry and I sat together for a few minutes chatting.  (I'm using his real name, which is unusual in this blog, because he's so good that I can't bear to hide his light under a pseudonymous bushel.)

Barry knew that we were trying to make a baby and asked me when we were going to start that up.  I said it would be after we came back from our vacation in June.  That is a mere footnote to what came next.

Monday, May 6, 2013

Expectations: pregnancy post-miscarriage

Last week I had a full physical, more because my insurance paid for me to wander hallways in a light robe and FitFlops between spurts of blood-draws and chest x-rays than because I really care about my health.  Or, that would be the case under other circumstances.  Such as it is, I have to try to care about my health for the purposes of baby-making.  Just... under the radar.