QueerBabyMaking

Have you hugged your blog today?

2008-04-27T19:14:00.001-07:00

Okay, I'm a bad blogger. And I can't even be original and claim blogger's block, since another delinquent blogster I know has just dedicated a long overdue post of his own to such topic.

In my defense:

1. I am in New York, spending 12-hour days in the archives, trying desperately to get my dissertation research done before I'm too pregnant to move.

2. I have actually started several posts. Interesting, thought provoking posts, even. I just never finished them. I know, this doesn't bode well for the dissertation.

I will endeavor to be a better blogger. Really. In the meantime, I will leave you with this brief gem:

Recently, in an attempt to address the weird aches and pains that seem to accompany the disappearance of my waist as I once knew it, I attended a pre-natal yoga class. Instead of just doing yoga, which is what I wanted, we began with "sharing." The topic for our share-fest was nesting, that mythical condition that supposedly sends pregnant women into flurries of house cleaning, nursery-decorating, and diaper acquisition. So, I sit there with all of these straight, married women, listening to them talk about how pregnancy has suddenly compelled them to bake casseroles all of the time, and about how this makes them feel like "real women," and all I can think is, even here, even in this moment of supposed sisterhood, I still feel like such an outsider.

I'm not complaining. I don't want to nest. I hate casserole. And I have no interest in being straight, or married, or demanding, in a fit of hormonal rage, that my husband paint the kitchen ceiling RIGHT NOW. But for those of you who think that being pregnant will suddenly make you feel like you have SO MUCH in common with other women, I've got to tell you, for me at least, it just ain't so...

And on that cheerful note, I leave you, with promises of more posts as soon as I escape from the archives.

DWP: Dating While Pregnant

2008-03-21T14:17:00.000-07:00

Awkward topic, right? Indeed, it's awkward for me to even write about, since people I know in real life read this blog. (Hi Mom...) And yet, with a dearth of available sources on what it means to date while single and queer and pregnant, I feel a sort of responsibility to document some small piece of my own experience. Mainly, this post is for those of you who don't know me, and rather, have found this blog through your own interest in queer single parenthood. You know, all four of you. Because, if nothing else, I want it to be a part of the public record that you can indeed date while pregnant.

Which is not to say that it isn't complicated.

The first thing to know is this: You will want to have sex while pregnant. In fact, you will want to have a lot sex. As soon as that first trimester nausea passes, you will become more sex-obsessed than a 16-year-old boy.

You will not find this information in What to Expect When You're Expecting. (Nor, for that matter, will you find the words "queer," "gay," "lesbian," or "trans," but that's a post for another day.) In fact, many pregnancy books focus on telling you that it's okay to NOT want to have sex, or that gentle, non-penetrative sex is what many women prefer while doing the important, nurturing work of growing a fetus. My friends, not only has this not been my experience, but once you get pregnant, women everywhere (queer, straight, single, and partnered) will all let you in on a little secret: pregnancy makes you want to get it on.

The problem, of course, is that those of us becoming single parents don't necessarily have a sex partner on tap.

When I thought about being pregnant and single, it honestly didn't occur to me that this would be a time in which I'd want to date. The emotional complications seemed huge, especially after having experienced so many ups and downs in my last relationship, most of which were due to my desire to have a baby. It seemed so much simpler to imagine waiting until after the kid was here, a known quantity. And then too, I couldn't imagine feeling hot in maternity wear. I mean, can you really get laid while you're wearing leggings, or jeans with an elastic waistband?

Amazingly, the answer is yes.

Dating while pregnant is great in lots of ways. In a moment in which your body is changing dramatically, and your self-image requires constant re-negotiation, being with someone who thinks you're sexy is a really powerful thing. In addition to feeding the aforementioned sex obsession, dating can be a fun and playful way to explore the ways in which your body is changing, with someone else. And in my case, dating someone who thinks that becoming a parent is cool has been an incredibly validating experience.

But there is, of course, a flip side. And that, for me at least, is that pregnancy brings out emotional vulnerabilities you never knew were there. Dating while pregnant is thrilling one moment, and terrifying the next. Because here's the thing: you're embarking on one of the biggest, most exciting things you've ever done, and sharing that, even a small part of it, with someone who might not stick around until the end can be a very scary undertaking. You have to constantly ask yourself, is this worth the risk of getting hurt?

I don't know the answer to that question. Most days, I feel like I'm fumbling blindly down an unmarked path. There are so few role models for making a family in this way, I often have no one to turn to for words of wisdom or advice. Even my therapist said the other day, "Well, there's certainly no textbook answer for that!" All I can do is continue to make the best decisions possible for myself, my baby, our future. Who knows how it will all turn out? In the meantime, I'll keep you posted...

Queer Birthright: San Francisco

2008-03-19T20:41:00.001-07:00

Okay, so things have been a bit quiet here at QueerBabyMaking. That, my friends, is because Baby Fang and I have just returned from ten glorious days on the west coast, most of which were spent in San Francisco.

Now, it's true that the Fanglet's first exposure to my favorite of all cities happened in utero, and thus, I recognize that she might not remember it all. But I like to think that, in addition to the lovely California sun shining down on Dolores Park, perhaps my developing fetus will be ever so slightly influenced by all of the happy queers with whom we passed our week.

In any case, I certainly was. It was so nice to spend a week someplace where pregnancy isn't equated with straightness, where queer and genderqueer families are par for the course, where I not only don't look weird, but might even look kind of... normal.

What would it be like to raise my kid in such a place? What would it mean for my kid to grow up surrounded by other queer families, queer single parents even?

My last night in town, I was hanging out with a good friend who lives in Oakland and is single fathering a 14-year-old. As we were walking to the ice cream parlor, his daughter asked me if I planned to move back out there. She then said, "You really should you know, for the baby. There's no place else I'd want to grow up."

Indeed.

But Please, Hold the Pink

2008-03-05T08:01:00.000-08:00

It's a girl! Or rather, it has a labia, and no visible testicles.

I'm pretty excited. Though, still feeling weird about using gendered pronouns for something yet to be born...

Mom, if you're reading this, I really don't want you to make it lots of pink frilly dresses, okay?

(I am now resuming my "no blogging during the workday" rule. More to follow soon...)

Ladies and Gentlemen, Place Your Bets

2008-03-02T09:49:00.000-08:00

Alright folks, the countdown is on. This Wednesday, just three short days away, is The Ultrasound.

I'm having a lot of guilt about the fact that I cannot wait to find out the sex of the baby. Good gender theorist that I attempt to be, it seems pretty clear that I shouldn't care what genitalia this week's ultrasound reveals. Finding out ahead of time, and indeed, obsessing about it as I've been doing, makes me feel like I'm beginning the process of gendering the kid in utero. After all, why does it matter if Baby Fang has a penis or a vag? Aren't I going to treat him/her/hir the same regardless?

I like to think that I will. And I certainly don't presume to think that whatever the scan reveals will actually tell me anything about my kid's gender identity. (Truth be told, I hope that I get a really butch girl, or a super femmy boy.) I justify my obsession with the sex question by telling myself that finding out ahead of time will give me a chance to think through what it would mean for me to raise a boy, or a girl. But of course, there's no reason why I couldn't think those things through without knowing what's between the kid's legs.

So, I'm trying to make peace with my curiosity, and to use this time to examine my own prejudices and fears. And mostly, I'm just excited to know a little bit more about the person who will soon be joining me. But deep down, I still feel the voyeuristic guilt of the spectator who seeks the thrill of meaningless gossip, and I worry that I'm on my way to unhealthily gendering my kid before it's even born.

In spite of all this, I have no doubt that I'll post the news just as soon as I know. So in the meantime folks, place those bets...

Letting Go of Everything but Love

2008-02-27T11:35:00.000-08:00

Today: Trying to live intentionally. Trying to fill my heart with love, forgiveness, compassion. Being overwhelmed with excitement about the life inside of me. Loving my friends. Loving myself. Setting new goals that have to do with love, and letting go of everything that isn't.

Past Due

2008-02-25T15:49:00.000-08:00

I wanted to blog over the weekend, but my internet was down. I had planned to write about the fact that yesterday, February 24, was the due date from my first, miscarried, pregnancy. It's funny to think of that, because right now I can't imagine being ready to actually have a baby. You know, like one that's out of the womb and in the apartment. In my mind, the five months that stretch between now and my new due date are somewhat eternal, and hold endless possibility for the cleaning of closets, the acquisition of supplies, and the reading of all of those books that I keep requesting from the library.

In an interesting coincidence of timing, France's high court ruled today that parents have the right to official recognition of miscarried and stillborn fetuses, regardless of their stage of gestational development. This means that in France, someone who miscarries a pregnancy will now have the option of naming, registering, and burying the fetus. Proponents of the new law say that it will help families deal with the grief of pregnancy loss. Critics worry that assigning the fetus such rights will chip away the legal status of abortion.

Unfortunately, I think that both sides are correct. I've spent enough time in the world of intentional conception lately to know how pervasive and devastating the pain of pregnancy loss can be. I have no doubt that many women would indeed take comfort in a recognition that yes, they were pregnant, and the life that they had hoped to welcome into the world was lost to them. Knowing how important this is to many women, it's hard for me to argue the official recognition of such "lives." And yet, I remain committed to a world in which abortion is a safe, legal, accessible option for any woman who wants one.

Part of the problem is that the abortion-rights lobby, in the United States at least, has tied itself to the rhetorical strategy that life begins at birth. While this makes sense as a justification for the legality of abortion, it simply doesn't resonate with the experience of many women who have been pregnant. Anyone who has seen a ten-week ultrasound is shockingly aware of the striking resemblance the fetus bears to an actual person.

And so, my own position is somewhat less morally comfortable. There is no doubt in my mind that there is a life growing inside of me right now, a life that has been growing for the past 17 weeks. And similarly, there is no doubt in my mind that I should have the right, that any pregnant woman should have the right, to terminate such life.

It's a hard thing to write. It's a hard thing to say out loud. After all, so much of the language of choice avoids the issue of life, the issue of a living being. And perhaps that's simply a political necessity. But as I grapple with the messy edges of my own feminism, I feel like I have to acknowledge this contradiction, to own the uncomfortable space between my lived experience and the rhetoric of a movement I vehemently support.

Between Ellen Page and Jennifer Garner: Some Kind of Funny Single Parent

2008-02-22T10:31:00.000-08:00

What with the Oscars coming up this weekend, I've been thinking a lot about the movie Juno again. I saw Juno a month or so ago, and, in spite of being occasionally annoyed by the preciousness of Ellen Page's character, I really liked it. Indeed, I was so moved by it that I was that crazy person who stayed sobbing in her seat after the movie had ended. Remember? You probably had to climb over me to get out of your row.

In trying to make sense of my emotional response to the film, I realized that my first point of identification had been with Ellen Page's character, the teenage Juno who finds herself unexpectedly pregnant and not sure what to do. Of course, I realize that I actually have far more in common with the Jennifer Garner character, Vanessa, a woman in her thirties who goes to great length and expense to become a parent. Her process was, like mine, quite intentional. As Vanessa ends up unexpectedly single by the end of the film, she becomes a single parent by choice with courage, grace, and determination.

And yet, even as I thought of all the ways in which we were alike, I couldn't help but feel that something was amiss in this comparison. After all, even as she ends up without a husband, Vanessa is the perfect parent-to-be. She owns a beautiful, spotlessly clean home, and a brand new, well-maintained SUV. The nursery is already well-stocked and painted in several complimentary shades of yellow. She has a successful career, a well-paying job, and enough maternity leave and savings to provide safe and loving care for her new child.

I, on the other hand, live in a beautiful but decrepit one-bedroom apartment, and am not sure that I could afford to rent a new one, let alone buy a home. I drive a ten-year-old Nissan Sentra with almost 150,000 miles on it. My baby stash is being accumulated from the hand-me-downs of others, and I live on a graduate student stipend. Now certainly I've got the cultural capital of a lot of high-end education (and hopefully soon, a PhD), but as we all know, cultural capital alone doesn't pay the bills. And so, even as I become a single parent by choice in one of the most intentional processes possible, I'm fully aware of all the ways in which I don't fit the "respectable" single parent mold.

Thus, some part of me still relates to Juno, even as I realize how vastly different our situations are. Though I'm 15 years older than her character, somewhere deep inside I secretly expect to be judged for getting "knocked up" without a partner. Or a job. Or a house in the suburbs. In becoming a parent in this non-traditional way, I have rejected a politics of respectability in favor of a new vision of family. Somedays, I worry about the backlash.

Parenting in this liminal space, with full intention but outside of the mainstream, is a challenge. I almost never see examples of families that look like mine. It also makes me critically aware of the ways in which queer family making, and indeed, queer love in general, is a radical political act. Having the courage, strength, and creativity to re-imagine our families, our communities, and our partnerships requires a particular type of bravery. I like to think that it also, potentially, can impact how others imagine the world, and its possibilities. As I prepare to raise my kid in a type of family that is barely visible, barely recognized, I can only hope that our presence, the tiny bit of space we carve out in the world, will create a little bit more space for someone else with a family that doesn't quite "fit." This is, after all, the radical potential of this queer new world...

Okay, now this is just ridiculous.

2008-02-21T06:45:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry, someone upstairs clearly did not get my memo- I DON'T GET SICK! Which is why I was completely shocked to take my temperature last night and see that I was running a fever.

First of all, mad props are due to my friend E, who rummaged through her medicine cabinet and bravely risked the cold at midnight to drop off some Tylenol for me. Due to the aforementioned lack of goods in my own pharmacy stash, I was completely unprepared for this turn of events. And while my usual strategy is just to wait out a fever, apparently this is not so good for the baby. So thank you, E, for saving us from roast Fang, and, even more importantly, answering my desperate phone call in the middle of the night. Some days, I'm so grateful for my friends it makes me cry.

And speaking of crying... The onset of what can be termed an actual illness may help explain my extreme emotional state during my midwife's appointment yesterday. Thus far, I have managed to contain my breakup tears to relatively private spaces - alone in my apartment; while being comforted by friends; at my therapist's office. Yesterday, that all fell apart at my 16-week check up, which was supposed to be the first appointment that my ex attended with me. In a case of particularly bad timing, this was also the check up for which my physical was scheduled, and so, in the middle of my breast exam, I completely lost it. I don't mean a couple of tears. I mean full-on, body-shaking, snot-gushing sobs that probably had my midwife ready to call the crisis line.

It's funny, I have done so many things in my life by myself. As a small child, I took the public bus all around our city on my own. As an adult, I have traveled all around the world, often without company. For years I have cooked for myself, cared for myself, paid my own bills, managed the details of my own life. I like this independence. It's something I value in myself, and in others. But yesterday, sitting on that table in this sad-looking medical office, I just felt so, so alone.

Sick?!?

2008-02-20T09:13:00.000-08:00

I never get sick. Unlike most of America, my medicine cabinet is not stocked with pain relievers, sinus remedies, cough and cold formulas, decongestants. In fact, secretly, I don't believe in the common cold. I've always thought it was just one one of those things other people made up in order to have something to complain about.

Ha ha. Joke's on me now.

My head is full of bricks. My nose is like a leaky faucet. I have a terrible, wracking cough that hurts. And my neck feels like it is being firmly squeezed by a boa constrictor. How did this happen?

I suppose it makes sense that pregnancy lowers your immune defenses. After all, with so much energy going to the little Fang, how could my poor old body defend itself against the ravages of germs, mucous, and boa constrictors? And of course, I can't imagine that a break up has ever done anything good for the immune system.

To top it all off, when I sat down last night to comfort myself with heating pad, tea, and some netflix, I discovered that the DVD I had been looking forward to all week was scratched, and thus, unplayable.

Please send sympathy, love, and chicken soup. And I promise never to make fun of your cold again.

The Truly Single Single-Mom

2008-02-17T20:24:00.000-08:00

So, for me, one of the hardest and most complicated parts of becoming a single parent by choice is the fact that, until now, I haven't actually been single. Though I started thinking about having a baby when I was entirely unattached, in the year that it took me to make that idea a reality, I met someone I liked, started dating her, fell in love. By the time my first insemination rolled around, we had been dating six months. Our one year anniversary coincided with the beginning of this pregnancy. And thus, though this was always my idea, my project, my debt to the sperm bank, and, for now at least, my child, I was not, in some ways, becoming a parent alone.

Yesterday, we broke up.

The details of why and how and what didn't work are not ultimately so important here. We were two people who loved each other, who weren't meant to be partners. Certainly the fact that I am having a child played a role in that. But then, so did many other things.

The issue now is that, suddenly, at 16 weeks, I have finally become the single parent that, all those months ago, I thought I was choosing to be.

What I am losing here (aside, of course, from a person I loved) is not so much material support. Indeed, I have gone to most of my appointments alone. My friends have been at my side for inseminations and ultrasounds, and have committed to being there at my labor classes, and for the birth itself. My mother plans to move to my city in the summer, to help me care for my new child. I have plans in place for health insurance, day care, diapers. None of these are things for which I relied upon my ex.

But what I did get from dating her was that seductive sense of possibility, that dream that perhaps, just maybe, this could be the relationship that turned into a family. Being with her gave me this glimpse, this tiny taste, of what it might be like to do this with a partner. It allowed me to fantasize a world in which the person I loved, with whom I'd share my life, might also be the person squeezing my hand during labor, cooing at our newborn baby, and helping me through the wondrous messy joy of parenting.

Now, the reality is that she, although great in many ways, was never going to be that person. And somewhere deep down, I've known that for a long time. But of course, the challenge is to reconcile the head with the heart.

So today I am sad. Sad for the loss of someone with whom I shared so much, and sad for the loss of what never came to be.

And, I am scared. Scared of having a child alone. Scared of never meeting the right person. Scared that perhaps, I have made a huge mistake in becoming a single parent.

But, I am also hopeful. I know that in making these hard choices now, I am preparing myself to be an emotionally healthy, loving parent. And, I am grateful for my family and friends, and the amazing network of support that I have. Because as I've said before, I may be parenting without a partner, but I am certainly not doing this alone.

And so tonight, I grieve the loss of my ex. But, I am also full of love: for myself, for my child, for our future. In the midst of this sad, sad moment is an opening, a new beginning, a new sense of possibility. It's a whole new world today, and somewhere deep down, I believe that it's a good one.

Fighting the Power

2008-02-05T19:36:00.000-08:00

Today, at the urging of a good friend, I testified at the State House before the House Corporations Committee on House Bill 7293, which would expand Rhode Island's infertility coverage to include lesbians and single women. Unlike many states in the country, infertility treatment is a state-mandated benefit in Rhode Island, which means that insurance companies must pay the costs of medical interventions necessary to treat infertility. If, that is, you are a heterosexually married woman.

Now, we have a lot of problems in the world, and in the grand scheme of things, access to fertility treatment is not at the top of the priority list. Quite frankly, I think that a lack of universal health care in this country is a much bigger problem. However, this issue of who is given access to reproductive technologies and who isn't lays bare the ways in which family-making has become a privilege of class and sexual orientation. The governor, in his veto of this bill last year, wrote:

This legislation, by removing the requirement that women be married, forces health insurance companies to subsidize out-of-wedlock births. As a matter of public policy, the state should be encouraging the birth of children to two-parent families, not the reverse.

Well thanks, Gov.

Now I approach our republican leadership with a healthy dose of cynicism, but it's hard not to feel stung by so clear an insult. What the governor is saying, in no uncertain terms, is that my family is not worth paying for. And of course, that makes me wonder what's next. Indeed, why provide maternity benefits at all for unmarried women? Indeed, maybe we should just allow the state to pay for their birth control and abortions. Oh, that's right, the governor doesn't believe in those things either. Well that's okay; why have sex outside of marriage anyway? Oops, you queers can't get married? Hmm, guess it's a life of celibacy after all...

What follows is my testimony before the House committee. I'm honestly not sure that it will make one bit of difference. But somewhere deep down I do still believe that telling our stories can change people's minds, people's hearts, and can ultimately make a change in the world. Here's hoping...

I am here today to support expanding infertility coverage for lesbian couples and single women. I am a lesbian, and am currently fourteen weeks pregnant with my first child. I want to tell you very briefly about my decision to become a parent. A year before I began trying to get pregnant, I started researching the process of donor insemination. I also began reading books on parenting and childhood development, began researching the best options for everything from diapers to pediatricians to day care centers, and engaged in a very serious process of thinking about what my future child’s family would look like. It was from this place of reflection and commitment to family that I decided that I was ready to become a parent. And I can tell you that before my first insemination, my child already had more god-parents in waiting than I could count on two hands, not to mention grandparents, aunts, uncles, babysitters – all eager to be a part of my expanding family.

When my baby is born this summer, he or she will have a safe and secure home. My baby will have a family that loves him or her very much. The only thing my child won’t have is the $6,600 I spent on getting pregnant. I don’t regret spending my savings and borrowing money to become a parent. And as you know, many single and lesbian women spend much, much more. It does make me sad, however, that we operate on an unequal playing field, and that when it comes to paying for childcare, buying the best food available, starting a college fund, my child will begin at a disadvantage. This inequality can be leveraged in part by changing our insurance laws to provide coverage to all women in our state.

Our governor has said that gays and lesbians won’t make good parents, won’t bring up their children in “normal” families. I don’t know if my family is “normal,” but I do know that it is filled with love, and that every child in this state would be lucky to
be so wanted and so loved. For the sake of the many other women who will make wonderful, loving parents, I urge you to support the expansion of this insurance coverage. Thank you.

A Sad Day

2008-01-25T21:09:00.000-08:00

Two very sad things happened today, both pregnancy related, though not my own. First, a woman who I know from my online parenting site, who's due at the same time I am, learned that she may be losing her baby. Then, a good friend of mine, who was due a month after I am, began to miscarry. These two pieces of news, so similar, and yet, from such different people, both made me so terribly sad.

My friend's loss is gut-wrenching. She has had a difficult pregnancy, with various health obstacles throughout. I feel like this miscarriage is the last thing she deserves. And, selfishly, I feel so sad for myself as well - I had these beautiful visions of our kids, born just weeks apart, becoming best friends. I was also so happy to have another queer pregnant friend. As my therapist says, it's a small tribe, and though I know lots of people online who are doing this, I don't have a huge network of gay and lesbian friends with families in real life.

The woman I know from online, I've never met in real life. I'm fairly sure that I never will. We are, it seems, incredibly different. I am a queer who chose to become a single parent in a fairly unconventional way. She is straight, Christian, married, a stay-at-home housewife - all of the traditional, conservative things that I will never be. We are on opposite ends of so many spectrums, and indeed, though we are taught to embrace diversity, these are precisely the types of differences that scare me. And yet, as we have journeyed through our pregnancies together, virtually at least, I have felt this affinity for her, this closeness grown out of our shared experiences. And so, I am deeply sad and worried for her, and indeed, though I'm not sure that I even believe in God, I have, for her sake, tried to pray.

It's funny, the connections that pregnancy forges. I feel intimacies with people that I'm sure I would not share were we not both becoming parents. And yet, these connections are real, and valuable. I hope that as I become a parent, as I raise my child in this wild, wild world, that I continue to find ways to expand my notions of community, and indeed, of love. This is, after all, the radical potential of family-making.

For now though, I am just feeling sad for my friends, these two women who don't know each other and probably never will, and yet, who have both touched my life.

My Little Fang

2008-01-12T14:13:00.000-08:00

So, as I creep toward the end of the nerve-wracking first trimester, I have a host of good news to report. First of all, the baby has a heartbeat. Detected somewhat early, at 9 weeks and 2 days, it was quite possibly the coolest thing I've ever heard. Swoosh swoosh, swoosh swoosh, swoosh swoosh... 165 beats per minute, which is apparently just right for this phase of pregnancy. And interestingly, my midwife unthinkingly referred to the baby as "she." Now we've got another eight weeks before we get to have THAT ultrasound, but I have just been assuming that I am having a boy. Suddenly though, through a slip of the tongue, I feel like I've got options. And somehow, that's very exciting to me.

Now, upon hearing that heartbeat, all of my resolve to not have an early (and many would say unnecessary) ultrasound flew out the window. Dammit, I wanted to see that baby! Thus, at 10 weeks and 1 day, my trusty friend J and I made our way to Advanced Medical Imaging, where a very friendly ultrasound technician smeared my belly with goo and revealed to us that indeed, there's a baby in my belly. (And happily, I do mean a baby. Singular. This is a good thing. I'm finally feeling excited about being pregnant again, but twins might have pressed it...)

The baby has arms. The baby has legs. The baby has a heartbeat. As we watched, the baby kicked and floated around. It was really, amazingly, beautifully crazy.

However, to dampen somewhat this maternal bliss, I must also report that the baby is pinching at my uterus in a somewhat uncomfortable fashion. In fact, I can't shake the feeling that the baby has somehow grown a large tooth, and is gnawing away at my uterine lining. While I know logically that what's in there is this:

(Yup, that's my baby!)

I feel like the kid might actually resemble this:

So that's my story. I've got either a baby or a fanged creature hanging out in my midsection, and I'm feeling pretty good about it!

In other news, I'm happy to report that I'm no longer quite as nauseous, and thus, will endeavor to be a better blogger, updating you, my breathless audience, on every minute development. Oh I know you're excited...

Confession #3691

2007-12-20T21:32:00.000-08:00

Alright, here goes. Another embarrassing truth from the frontlines of queerbabymaking:

I had a sex dream about my sperm donor last night.

Now, I've certainly heard stories from women who have used known donors (usually friends of theirs, or at least, close acquaintances), and who, while inseminating in a purely turkey-baster fashion, had some surprisingly sexual feelings for the donor surface. This makes sense to me. After all, there's a real intimacy involved in the process of inseminating, and I can see how the donor would become a vortex for some of the energies and desires floating around.

I, however, did not use a known donor. My sperm arrived each month in a liquid nitrogen tank that bore more resemblance to R2D2 than to an actual living person. My sperm bank didn't offer fancy services like donor photographs or audio files of their donors speaking. No, all I know about Donor 3691 is what came printed on the long profile form sent to me by my bank. And yet, last night, I had a disturbingly vivid dream about getting it on with my impregnator.

Now, lest you think this dream is merely me rewriting the history of baby's conception into a more "natural" script, I have to tell you this: in my dream, I was already pregnant. Yes, that's right: I dreamt that I met my donor after conceiving through alternative insemination, and then had an affair with him.

And for those of you who are worried about me losing my dyke membership card, you can rest assured that in my dream I confidently informed Donor 3691, "Oh don't worry, I'm a lesbian!" You know, right before I kissed him.

Oh my...

Six Weeks!

2007-12-12T09:45:00.001-08:00

Wow, time flies when there's a weirdly parasitical creature making a home in your body, huh? This week the embryo will get to be half an inch long. Bizarre.

The good news is that, while I'm still more emotional than "normal," I now seem capable of making it through the day without tears. The bad news is that the tears have been replaced by utterly horrendous "morning" sickness. And by "morning," I mean non-stop nausea from the time I wake up until I go to bed again. So my dearth of updates here stems mainly from the fact that looking at the computer screen for too long makes me ill. (Unfortunate that I'm also trying to write a dissertation, huh?)

Anyway, I promise some good content to come soon about the how-tos of babymaking, as well, of course, as updates on the various thrills and traumas and pregnancy.

Soon. I promise.

Pregnancy feels like life before thyroid medicine.

2007-12-05T06:55:00.000-08:00

Three winters ago, in my second year of graduate school, I was diagnosed as hypothyroid, and starting taking meds to regulate my thyroid levels. I remember the months preceding that diagnosis as some of the worst of my life: I slept for 10 to 12 hours a day, and I couldn't stop crying. I don't mean I got a little weepy. I mean that I cried, uncontrollably, for hours every day. It would start without warning, and it couldn't be contained. Crying in class, crying in front of my advisor, crying with my friends, crying on the phone at night. I broke a cell phone from crying into it too much. Really. And then finally came that glorious day when I began taking the thyroid replacement pill. Within two weeks I felt like a new person. I was happy, energetic, awake. I wanted to play tennis for hours on end. I wanted to do fun things with my friends. I wanted to do my schoolwork again. And most importantly, I stopped crying. Just like that. I woke up one day, and all the tears were gone. It was a powerful experience, and made me aware of how linked my emotions are to what's happening in my body.

Pregnancy, my friends, feels a lot like life before thyroid medicine. Well, maybe I'm not as tired. But man, that crying thing? It is back with a vengeance. Add in a healthy dose of nausea and life starts to seem pretty bleak indeed.

All sources tell me that this is normal. Some offer reassurance that the second trimester will be much, much better. My endocrinologist is closely monitoring my thyroid levels, but so far, they're quite normal, which means that this time, I can't blame my tears on that pesky old thyroid.

I am trying to just get through one day at a time here. Right now, the fact that I'm pregnant makes me cry. But then, so do stories on NPR. I know that what I have to do is trust that I had good reasons for wanting to be a parent right now, trust that soon, I'm not going to be crying. I have to trust that the way I feel right this minute isn't the way I'll feel forever, or indeed, for very much longer.

I know that I also need to keep on reaching out to my friends. (And friends, if you're reading this, this would be a great time to call.) What is really important is that I don't let myself feel isolated in this process. Because the truth is, this pregnancy ISN'T a mistake. I DIDN'T get knocked up by accident. This baby is going to be one of the most intentional, wanted, and welcomed kids in the world. And, I might be a single-parent, but I certainly didn't start this process alone, without an amazing group of friends and family.

And hopefully, soon I'll stop crying...

Why I Love My Big Queer Family

2007-12-02T17:53:00.001-08:00

So, after yesterday's mini-meltdown, in which I came face-to-face with my fears of going through this pregnancy alone, I decided to be pro-active about asking for some of the help and support I need. I sent an email to a few of my close friends and family members, telling them how scared and overwhelmed I felt, and asking them to make an effort to check in, stop by for tea, send an email, call, whatever. I know that one of the things that will be really important for me in this process is to have a group of people with whom I can be both unspeakably terrified and overwhelmingly excited.

Today, I received an incredibly thoughtful and loving email from one of the friends to whom I had written. She wrote, in part:

You know, we live in a fucked up society where babies belong to individuals and everyone rotates in their little ring of nuclear family life. You are forging an alternative community for your baby, and you have the friends to be part of it. I have re-dedicated myself in the last few years to being part of the lives of my friends' children. This is your baby, but you aren't in it alone.

C and I spoke about what your needs might be when you first started talking about having a baby. We talked about what we can do to be supportive. Never hesitate to ask for anything: rides, groceries, support. It makes us feel useful and helpful. Although physically, you are the one enduring the changes, you are not alone. You are part of a constellation. You have a lot of friends who put their actions where their politics are. A lot of us (C & I included) believe that children are a community affair - and new mothers should not be isolated. Your child represents the future of social change. Modeling alternative ways of community is an important part of making those new ways of being real.

As I read this, I started crying. Okay, so it's not that hard to make me cry these days. Still, I was so moved by her articulation of this vision of parenting that stretches beyond the heteronormative, or even the homonormative. Making a family, my friend asserted, is both an act of love and an act of politics. This child will enter the world surrounded by a group of people who love it, and love each other; who support it, and support each other. And being a single parent doesn't mean parenting alone. It just means taking the time to forge a new form of family.

Panic: I'm having a WHAT?!?!

2007-12-01T07:45:00.000-08:00

So, I set up this blog with the intention of providing a centralized resource for many of the logistical questions that arose in my babymaking process. However, I'm going to take a little detour today from talking about inseminations and sperm banks, and instead focus on the unexpected moment of abject terror that is apparently common in early pregnancy. The moment when, after months of agonizing, emotional attempts at conception, you realize...

OH MY GOD, I'M HAVING A BABY.

I imagine that this sense of panic is normal for women who didn't mean to get pregnant. After all, even if you're in a stable and secure relationship, an unexpected pregnancy changes everything. And of course, for those people who simply fell victim to a faulty condom in a one-night stand, well, we've all seen "Knocked Up." There's certainly plenty of justification for tears and fears there.

However, my own panic surprised me, precisely because this baby has been SO planned, SO intentional. I mean, I started making preparations for this a year before I received my first shipment of sperm. Long before I had inseminated, I had already started researching diapers, baby slings, and day care options. I've had a list of names going for months now. There's a FERTILITY ALTAR in my apartment, and let me tell you, I hate all that new-agey crap. But that's how much I wanted this baby. I was willing to try anything.

And finally, after one miscarriage, six rounds of inseminations, lots of tears, and $6,500 worth of sperm, I've gotten what I wanted: those thrilling double lines on the pregnancy test. So, why do I still feel like crying?

The answer, I think, is complicated.

First of all, of course, there's a certain level of hormonal fluctuation in pregnancy that makes a person...well, perhaps less than fully rational. While I haven't started crying at kleenex commercials yet, I did get a little teary over an episode of "Law and Order" the other night. This is normal, and I'm trying to take it all with a grain of salt.

Second, and more importantly, is my sudden understanding of how everything in my life is about to change. Now, I'm not stupid. Obviously, it occured to me before getting pregnant that indeed, everything in my life would change. And yet, it seemed so abstract in a way, so removed from my actual life. Now though, the reality of what it means to a single parent is beginning to dawn on me. Sleep? Free time? Pleasure reading? Money? Vacation? Sex? Will I ever have any of these things again?

And then, there's the bitterest seed: I'm becoming a single parent, but I'm not really single. I have a girlfriend. A girlfriend I love. A girlfriend who is, at best, ambivalent about this pregnancy. And of course, I don't blame her. She didn't sign on for this - her vision of kids is still years off, cushioned by a stable, committed partnership and enough fiscal security to hire a nanny. A totally reasonable vision. Just not the one I've chosen to pursue. And so, the stakes are high: this baby may indeed cost me one of the most important relationships in my life.

On top of all this is the fact that I am currently 4 and a 1/2 weeks pregnant, which means that, given the high risk of miscarriage in the first trimester, it is still by no means certain that I'm actually going to have a baby. I have now passed the point at which I lost my last pregnancy, which is a great relief. However, I still have a good 8 weeks before I'm out of the woods, and that makes it hard to let myself get truly excited about this new life. And so, afraid to let myself feel the excitement of the process, I am instead just sitting around in the terror and panic.

And that, my friends, is a scary and uncomfortable place to be.

Welcome to the QueerBabyMaking Revolution!

2007-11-30T08:25:00.000-08:00

Welcome readers, to the wonderful world of QueerBabyMaking!

This blog was inspired by my experiences as a single dyke on the road to parenthood. About a year and a half ago, in the summer of 2006, I decided that I wanted to have a baby. Since then, I have learned more about sperm banks, ovulation, inseminations, and the logistics and politics of family-making than I ever could have anticipated. I have also met lots of other women who had questions about these things. This blog is, in part, an attempt to put together all of the information and resources I have gathered, and make it available to anyone with questions. It is also a space for me to write about the very complicated process of become a queer single parent by choice.

To make my politics and position clear from the start: I believe that everyone should have access to the institutions and technologies of family-making. By this, I mean adoption, co-parenting, and various forms of donor insemination. I believe that access to family-making and babymaking should not be a privilege of heterosexuality; queer people have the right to make families, in all sorts of shapes and sizes! Equally importantly, I do not believe that access to family-making should be a class privilege. When I began to investigate the process of how to make a baby, I found a system that is geared toward an upwardly mobile queer middle class who can afford to pay big bucks for sperm bank fees and fertility treatments. As a single, graduate student parent-to-be, I was automatically priced out. This blog takes as its fundamental assumption that not everyone can afford expensive, managed fertility care, and attempts to offer some ways around it.

Finally, though I firmly believe that there are many ways to make a family, the route that I have pursued is that of anonymous donor sperm through the sperm bank. Thus, most of the information on this site will be geared toward conceiving via the sperm bank.

This is, of course, a work in progress. Please feel free to add comments and make suggestions.

Happy babymaking!