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.
The waiting game is one that we've played ad infinitum: waiting to
return from an Alaskan cruise three years ago to start the TTC game with
Heather; waiting for ovulation; waiting for her period; waiting for
money; waiting for appointments and test results. In August, we decided
to wait a year before re-entering into the hellhole of lesbian
reproduction, and now this new cruise is the new trigger. I've been
unobtrusively charting, just using the fertility monitor and keeping a
calendar, but we've learned to expect so much more work, and in about a
month, Heather will have to start regularly checking my cervix, then
solemnly discussing the quality of the attendant mucus.
I downloaded an app. That's how you know it's serious.