When Science Needs Art

I’ve done well for the last month, approximately, of not getting bogged down in the tracking and temping and observing. Part of this is probably because, after a month under my belt, I was feeling decidedly awesome about having a handle on things: I got a clearly + OPK stick, had the appropriate ups and downs with temp, bled three days with less cramping and bright red blood, and felt awesome about my overall cycle length and my luteal phase length.

This month has undone my confidence, with things going from uneasy to sorta freaked out this morning. I have been peeing on OPKs since day 12 of my cycle, with nary a + in sight – just lots of inconclusively vaugely pink stripes. I have had copious amounts of fertile cervical fluid – which is awesome, and I attribute to the evening primrose oil supplement I’ve been taking – but I had it so many days that narrowing down ovulation by fluid observations seemed impossible. In the last two days my temperature has dropped to the levels it usually gets to when I bleed – although the bulldog has also had some sleeping issues so I can’t count out the fact that those temperatures might not be accurate. Final straw? Last night I found a tiny spot of brown blood in my cervical fluid, and this morning it was full on brownish tinged and has continued into this afternoon – on CD21, at least 8 days prior to what has been my ‘normal’ and 10 days prior to when I’ve bled the last two months. I’m having vaguely menstrualesque cramps too – although I’m not 100% convinced my cramps aren’t psychosomatic cause I only feel them when I see blood.

Basically, this means I have gone from having regular 29 day cycles in the summer, to a 34 day cycle in September, a 32 day cycle in October and now a potentially 21 day cycle in November. Fucking uterus, man. Can’t play along when shit gets real.

I lost it a little this morning talking to La. I don’t want to be anxious or worried about this – especially not yet. But anxiety is my M.O. Anxiety is what I do and while it definitely helps me get shit done it is not in the least bit helpful in a situation like this. Thankfully, the universe knows I can’t handle my shit alone and gave me this fabulous, calm, balanced partner who can simultaneously affirm my feelings while also putting them into perspective. 

Right after this, I went to my lovely Acupuncturist who also reminded me not to freak out quite yet. I started getting poked at the end of my October cycle and have been going every week since then. J told me that sometimes when things are getting rearranged energetically things get wacky. Then she stuck some needles in my head and told me to chill out. While I was drifting off, one of my buddies HillJoy appeared in the treatment room to get her weekly needles. HillJoy is about 22 weeks along in her pregnancy, and I felt like it was the best gift ever – some happy baby woo coming at me during acupuncture.

So I’m trying to calm down. I am going to nix the EPO for now, and really all of the other supplements except the herbs I scored from J the acupuncturist. I’ll keep up with the prenatal and herbal teas, but I think I need to be spending less time focused on making shit better when I don’t even have any evidence that anything is wrong. 

On the upside, if the big U is on some kind of reset process, my fertile period might be earlier than expected in January, which would at least mean getting to get (happy) freaked out about the arrangements with BFF and his spermies instead of just obsessively tracking what my body is doing.

On the legal front: Awkward Lesbian Doc (who will now be called AwkMD) is feeling a little unsure about signing the medical supervision piece of our contract – which I totally understand since who can read legalese anyway? but also, c’mon do we really need to make this any more complicated? Fingers crossed she’ll get the go-ahead from the hospital and, barring that, my friend S is willing to put us in touch with a doc friend to help us out. But I love AwkMD and would love to have her guidance. 

Medical news: pap and prolactin both normal. All clear on the vagina front.

Still hoping to find some other dykes-who-blog-who-want-babies to network with so if you are too, let’s be friends!

 

Sins of the Mothers

I grew up hearing how much I was like my mother. That I was the spitting image of her, I acted the same way, liked the same things, did everything just.like.her. For most of my childhood, I was happy with this. I adored my mother – she was brilliant, successful, beautiful, kind. I was happy to be like my mother.
And the other option was that I resembled my father – an idea that wasn’t terrifying but simply so, so foreign. My father was, and still is, an addict and alcoholic. He was an extreme introvert who kept his feelings so deeply hidden they only appeared in the occasional explosive rage that felt inexplicable but also somewhat welcome. My father was silent but also a genius, a thoughtful artistic man who cared for beautiful things in a way my mother did not.
It didn’t matter. For all my life, I was told I was just like my mother. At least, I was told that by my mother.
In my adolescence I rejected deeply the thought that I resembled anyone I was related to and spent quite a bit of time crafting a persona that was as distinct from my family as I could make it. It took some years and some therapy to begin finding a middle ground.

And now, I can concede that I am like my mother: the same large, dark brown eyes; the same penchant for big words; the same unmistakable attraction to alcoholics.
And I am like my father as well. The same quiet thoughtfulness, the same auburn hair, the same cynical sense of humor, the same appreciation for Viennese waltzes.

It figures that just as soon as I became comfortable with this space that things would go and change on me.

Over the last year and a half, my mother has had two hip replacements, a knee surgery and an extensive back surgery. The back surgery was the most recent, and it happened in May, following epidural shots that had not eased the pain. My mom has had pretty extensive osteoarthritis in all of her joints for a long time, and I guess the shit kind of hit the fan. After the second hip replacement, she retired from her post retirement job (ie: she couldn’t handle being retired the first time so she got another job and just retired from it) and became increasingly immobile with pain first, then surgical recovery. She has only barely had time to recover from one procedure before having the next.
Consequently, she has been on narcotic pain pills for well over a year. I don’t know the entire scope of what she has taken or when or how, but I do know there was an incident where she ran out of a prescription a month early because she had not been keeping good track of when she was taking various medications, and that I have seen her turn into a drastically different person than I’ve ever known.

Conversely, my father, who spent the bulk of his life fighting additions to both alcohol and pain medications (he was a pharmacist until losing his license, meaning his drug of choice was generally injectible morphine) but has been sober for the last 4 years, has also become virtually unrecognizable – but in the most wonderful ways. My dad has gone from hardly speaking to initiating phone calls, from shying away from physical contact to hugging me on the regular, from not offering any opinion to being a legitimate support to me when things have come up. The man who I assumed was terrified of me (or just not very interested) has become this fun, funny, enjoyable, loving father.

And the mother I was told I so closely resemble has become moody, irritable, angry, confused, negative, and out of sorts.

I don’t know these people. But I want to know this dad, and I don’t want to know this mom. Add all of this to the fact that dealing with addiction in my father is something I feel very accustomed to; and while you’d think that might prepare me to face it with the other parent . . .its not quite turning out that way.

What does all this mean when it comes to babies?

There is the here and now: we have shared our planning and preparation with a few close friends and with La’s mom who is *amazing* (and who my mom has also developed a weird jealousy/competition for/with) and while I considered sharing some information last week at Thanksgiving, I couldn’t bring myself to tell my mom. Honestly, I didn’t think she would care, or her response would just be . . .lacking? inconsiderate? I’m not sure, but her responses to my good news have generally been less than awesome AND she has gotten weirdly controlling. I just didn’t want to risk it. But it broke my heart to not share with her – and particularly, to not share because I don’t TRUST her.

In the future . . .well, there is the increasing fear of my parents mortality in general (my dad also has an unknown disease that is similar is many ways to MS and has been struggling to get around although, thank god, not with pain or the other side effects my mom has seen) and the reality that because my parents were 33 when I was born and I will be at least 32 when our first child is born, my parents are not super likely to be the same kind of accessible grandparents that I had, or that La’s mom will be (she is 10 years younger than my folks.) There are the clear memories I have of my maternal grandmother who was similarly bitter and negative because she had experienced a stroke that left her paralyzed on the right side and wheelchair ridden for the last 25 years of her life, and my fear that this is the kind of grandmother my mom will be. There is the real fear of having to tell my mom she cannot be alone with my children if her addiction to pain pills persists. It all comes down to the fear that my children won’t know my mother – either because she will die, she will be so completely unlike herself, or she will be unable to see them because of addiction.

10 years ago, I may have been able to guess a situation like this would be in my future, but I would have expected to be saying all of this about my father. I am glad that my father has become the kind of man I want my kids to be around, that while he is losing some mobility, he seems to be doing very well in so many other ways. I didn’t know either of my grandfathers (one died when my father was a child, the other just a year after I was born) and I feel grateful that it looks like that may not be the case for the children I have.

In some ways, though, its even more heartbreaking this way. I haven’t had the years of preparing to get used to the idea of my mom being absent in some way or another. And while things can (and hopefully will) change, what I’m dealing with right now is more about the fear than the reality. And the fear is so much more palpable now that we are so close to the point of having a child.

Moments like these, I wish I was less analytical, that we could just stop being careful and wake up pregnant, so I could save all the complicated things for when a baby was born and not obsess about them before I’m even pregnant. 

Under the Hood

Oh man, if I had an audience waiting with baited breath, they would be so excited because there is so much to report!

Basically, I would call the last week Experiments in Awkward Conversations.

There were, of course, the phone calls to every low-cost sexual health provider in the greater metro area regarding my friend’s sperm, which I determined was primarily awkward because I am an adult inquiring about medical services for another adult AND I’m not his case worker. After a solid chat with my GP – who is an adorably awkward lesbian who just had a baby with her partner not so long ago – we decided to hold off on the semen analysis for a while. Her suggestion was to try 4 cycles and if we didn’t get pregs by then, to investigate the semen analysis again.

Ok! Check!

On Friday, La and I went to see the lawyer who will be drafting our donor agreement, and probably helping with some additional estate documents as well. The awkward conversation that ensued here was less “ha ha how weird is it to be talking about my friend’s wiener? ha ha” and more “fuck man, being a queer can sure make simple things a lot harder.” In this case, we are working on drafting an agreement that BFF can sign, relinquishing his rights to the baby that his spermies create, defining the intended roles of both me and La, and setting us up to ensure that La will be the second parent – in whatever way is legal at that point. Apparently, Colorado has pretty good case law (read: some) in this field, which means our lawyer has been able to amend her contract to be specific and has reasonable assurance that it will cover our ass in case BFF gets all crazy which I just really can’t imagine happening. But part of this is defining who we are (NOT MARRIED being chief among the list) by virtue of the law, which doesn’t necessarily correlate with who we understand ourselves to be. It was eerily reminiscent of getting our basically meaningless domestic partnership certificate in Denver. The narrative went something like this:

“Do you, Andiepants, agree that La is your domestic partner, recognizing that this is no way constitutes a marriage, will be void immediately upon your or La’s death, voided if either of you should get married, and basically means nothing but that you spent $50 supporting the infrastructure of the city and county of Denver?”
Yes. Yes I do.

The good news is that Colorado currently has second parent adoption, which means that worst case scenario, La can be on the birth certificate following a lengthy and expensive process to adopt her own child! Yay!
BUT! BEST case (which is not even that far from reality) La will be on the birth certificate as soon as the nugget is born if civil unions legislation passes (and it is looking mighty good this time around) and is in effect by the time the kiddo is born! Super honest not cynical YAY!

So, $250 and one hour long uncomfortable conversation later, we should have a contract on its way to us.

This morning I went to the aforementioned adorable lesbian doctor to get a pap and make sure all the initial pre-pregnancy tests have been run. Things are looking good, minus a slightly tilted cervix (aim low and to your right, was the issued advice) and the very slight possibility of an elevated prolactin level (for which a blood test was ordered.) Other than that, my vag is in excellent working condition!

Yay for functional vaginas and possibly awesome legislation!!

Shit’s gettin’ real

I want to let you all know that I work, professionally, for a reasonably adult wage, in the sexual health education field. I no longer routinely demonstrate the proper use of condoms, extol the virtues of the IUD or pepper my language with penile-anal penetration, but suffice to say I am still frequently in the position of talking about risque subjects with people who are more than a little squeamish. Last year I had to bring a box of brightly colored silicone dildos (ahem, condom demonstrators) into the principal’s office at a very conservative public high school and tell him exactly how his teachers would be showing barrier methods to his students, and I didn’t bat an eyelash. Really, it doesn’t phase me.

But man oh man if asking a few medical professionals about getting a sperm analysis for BFF didn’t freak me the fuck out.

I was somehow under the impression that we would be able to get a semen analysis at Planned Parenthood, right alongside the usual HIV/STI tests. Having gotten quite a bit of my pre-insurance reproductive healthcare from good ol’ PP, I assumed men were privy to the similar array of services. Not the case. Apparently, physical exams can only be scheduled if there is evidence of infection, and beyond that, only a panel of HIV/STI tests can be run. Since BFF is definitely un-insured, this means we are going to have to get creative about how to get this step done. I realize that the semen analysis isn’t a must at this point in the game, but we might as well get all the medical stuff out of the way up front, right? Plus, BFF is 46 and while we know he managed to knock a girl up in his 20’s, this doesn’t mean the swimmer’s are still in Olympic shape.

Thus, I have spent the afternoon calling various clinics, my doctor, and the public health department (that was one little tip I’m proud to have thought of myself!) explaining that I am a lesbo, and me and my lesbo lover and our gay BFF are gonna get together and make a baby and we need a little help getting all of our ducks in a row and did I mention we make crap for cash? Who do I have to fuck around here to get BFF’s spunk looked at under a microscope?!

The biggest trauma is, of course, calling folks and having to come out over and over again, on the phone, to medical professionals – who I generally don’t trust. Then I start thinking that maybe we shouldn’t have access to low cost services because, I mean, isn’t this making a baby thing a privilege for two dykes and therefore if we can’t do it on our own and/or pay for it on our own, we should just be happy with our dogs? Why does ‘reproductive health’ almost always mean the option to NOT get pregnant when you don’t want to, instead of the other way around? And if we can’t shell out hundreds of dollars to make sure BFF’s sperms don’t have 6 tails, are we really adequately prepared to have a kid, anyway? Are we overpreparing or overthinking or overanalyzing or all of the above?

In other news . . .
Had the donor talk with BFF on Sunday and it was decidedly lovely. I ended up getting totally weepy and verklempt because OMG y’all, if we need a #3 to make a baby, I am SO SO happy its BFF. His heart is so big and he is so wonderful, and the smile on his face when we told him we wanted to do a ritual with all three of us to sort of affirm the roles we are each playing was magical. He is a totally dreamy donor BFF, and I’m excited for him to be Uncle BFF to our babies. Also, he is so strapping and really exceptionally healthy which I think spells good news all around.

Finally. My boss is pregnant and due at the end of January (there are actually two co-workers who are due a day apart! I’m hoping they tag me in when they go into labor!) which up until yesterday still seemed like a while away. But since I am now tracking time by my menstrual cycle, the only thought I had was, whoa . . .that’s NEXT MONTH (because it is, in the cycle scheme of things) and whoa . . .I could potentially be (just barely) pregnant when the boss goes into labor. Assuming, of course, getting tagged in works.

And the blood gushed forth

And the blood flowed forth from my loins once more.

I haven’t been this excited to get my period since I was 10 and ALL my friends already had theirs and I was still waiting. Its a little odd, as well, since usually in this trying to conceive business, bleeding is not a welcome sight. But since my cycle got all wacked out just as soon as we started getting serious about the babymaking business, I have been on the look-out for the good and the bad. With the arrival of my period 12 days after my suspected ovulation, within 3 days of my usual cycle length, makes me think that everything is probably a-ok, and it was the buying-selling-moving-travelling-sick month of September that screwed everything up.

Tonight we sit down with BFF to talk about donor stuff. In preparation, La and I made a list of stuff to be sure to cover: time commitment, expectations during the insemination times each month, legal understandings around parenting, etc.

It turned into a really, really wonderful conversation. It could sound like I am pressuring La into this baby stuff from the way I talk – but I not, I swear. I am definitely on the more expedited timeline and a little less apprehensive about the process, but we agreed on this timeline and this process and we are both looking forward to making, getating and raising a baby. La tends to go back and forth in the expression of how she feels – she makes us walk through the baby section at Target *everytime* we go, but sometimes when I start talking details she freaks out. Once she explained a little bit about why she has such bi-polar feelings about babies, it all made much more sense and we’ve been more able to find a middle path around planning while still each having our own space to process the experience.

Anyway, last night . . .after talking through our list of donor topics, we ended up talking about what it might look like for me to be pregnant, to have a baby. It was sweet, and it reminded me of the times before we sold a house and bought another and we just dreamed about having babies and being badass parents. Strangely, it was this conversation that actually made everything much more tangible and real to me – and inspired more anxiety than I generally have about it all. A healthy dose of reality (vs. research) is probably a really good thing for me.

When I woke up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, La mumbled something in her sleep. When I said , “what?” she responded with some much more clearly articulated gibberish, and when I asked for clarification one more time, she said “we need to choose a donor for that!” Clearly, this process is getting into both of our heads.

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With a little help from my friends

It is a good week to be a queer feminist trying to breed with your lesbo lover in America!

Despite my anxiety on Tuesday night, an hour after I made my way to my friends’ house to watch the returns, CNN called the presidential election for President Obama. La, our buddies with the babies, and I all rejoiced (very quietly! the babies were sleeping!) and then watched as white rich people made sad faces at Romney headquarters and America confirmed to me that this is a place I am proud to call home!

Because aside from electing the clear choice of leaders, we also . . .elected a gay lady senator for the first time! didn’t elect the creepy republican dudes who think rape isn’t real/abortion is a bigger moral affront than sexual assault! passed marriage equality in 3 states and shot down inequality in one! elected more women to represent us than ever before!

Here in my homestate of Colorado, we passed the first ever non-medical marijuana law (Admittedly, something I would have been more excited about approximately 15 years ago) and we elected democratic majorities to both the house and the senate. This is particularly good news after the crazy ass shenanigans that got pulled last spring when Civil Unions legislation was up to pass with bipartisan support and the holier than thou douchebag speaker of the house McNulty pulled tricks so it couldn’t pass. With majorities, it is pretty much a done deal.

I can’t WAIT to have a shotgun civil union!!

The next week also starts our big week of plans beyond ourselves (since it will take a village to make this baby as well as raise it): we are having dinner with our BFF donor on Sunday to make sure we are all 100% cool with how things are gonna go down, and we have an appointment with our lawyer next Friday to sign a contract stating parental intent (ie: BFF donor gives it up and becomes Uncie BFF, La parents, etc.) There is a lot in all of this that is scary – because for the last year and a half, its just been a conversation with BFF donor – and while I don’t think he will back out or do anything crazy (cause he loves us and is actually on board with this idea) there is something really stark about seeing it laid out in legalese.

This is one of the biggest hurdles we face as a queer couple using a known donor. And believe me, we have heard ALL about what a “terrible” idea it is from every other gaymom in the world. Which makes it doubly hard, since many of the folks we know who have gone down this path are particularly judgey about how we are starting out our adventure.

The other option is, of course, to purchase anonymous sperm from a cryo bank. There are a lot of reasons this doesn’t appeal to us – first and foremost, it’s F’ing EXPENSIVE, ok? I really cannot believe that a teeny tiny amount of spunk – which is produced and discarded carelessly on a DAILY basis by men the world over – can cost you upwards of $500 a pop. That’s for ONE insemination. And, it doesn’t include shipping – which has to be overnight and in a big ass sperm-o-freezer so the stuff arrives as fresh as possible (but still frozen and therefore not as healthy as the warm oozy kind – was that too much?) PLUS you often can’t effectively home inseminate with frozen sperm and so have to go to a doctor to inseminate. This = BIG BUCKS.

For a non profit program manager and a theater professor, it = money we don’t have.

Beyond that, though, I really do want to know more about the person contributing half my kids DNA than what I can read on a bio sheet. I don’t want to guess as traits, mannerisms, or health issues. And, I want it to feels special and connected. I want the process to be as loving, intimate and beautiful as it can be.

BFF donor has been BFF’s with La for over 10 years. Before I even showed up, he was on the docket to be the donor to whatever babies she had, barring any vetoes from me. I adore him and am excited that he is up for this task. He genuinely doesn’t want to parent, but does want to have an investment in the kids we have. He’s patient, giving, kind, handsome, smart, funny, and has giant muscles. These are all qualities I would love to see in a kid I raise. He’s also willing to come jerk off in a cup for us and let us cook him dinner for payment.

But there are lots of queer folks out there who think what we are doing is risky. And, it is – but its a calculated risk. Its entirely possible (though unlikely) that BFF could decide sometime between the EPT and cutting the cord that he wants parental rights, and we would be in a pretty shitty situation. But the liklihood of that is small – because we know and trust BFF and we are doing leg work to ensure he has thought things through, and we have too. Its possible that doing it this way could complicate our relationship – except BFF is already such a special and unique friend, especially to La, and everyone involved is homo to the max, so that helps. I don’t see any of this as any more risky than putting ourselves into debt if we don’t have to.

And, we get to do this at our home, with little to no medical intervention, as many times a cycle as BFF can handle. I wish other gay mamas would see the value in doing it our way – even if its a choice they can’t/don’t want to make. The fact that we have to keep quiet or face judgement on this end makes it feel like an even lonelier process than it already does.

Which, side note: I think I may not be getting many responses to the posts I make on the Taking Charge of Your Fertility discussion board because I am so out in my signature. Fuck a bunch of heterosexism, ya know?

BUT – in great news, I found a super great blog by a seemingly very cool straight feminist and invited her to be friends who also happens to be the person who left a super awesome comment as another fat nerdy queer! Which means: the internetz CAN work for building alliances and friendships, even if tcoyf is a little on the homophobic side.

All I could think of this morning at my acupuncture appointment was: I am finally more excited than scared to bring a child into this world.

PS- no blood yet. what gives?!

The Obligatory Political Post

La and I just went and voted at our new polling precinct! We recently moved from downtown to the almost barely suburbs, which means we are in a county and congressional district where our votes might actually make a difference in electing more progressive folk. Exciting! Of course, we are also ‘blessed’ to live in a swing state and have seen every commercial either the Romney or Obama campaigns ever produced. Last week I got more phone calls from Obama for America and national polling firms than I got from everyone else I know in the last month combined.

And now I’m going to sit at work and be totally distracted by anxiety! Really I know I am kind of a drama queen but usually I am well armed with some healthy cynicism about the role of big politics that I can blow this shit off. We survived Bush (sort of) so I guess we could potentially survive Romney. But maybe its my age, or the idea of having a child, or just being more necessarily involved with the kinds of systems that more readily intersect with the mainstream political world, but I am fucking scared. It feels like we have made some really incredible strides in the last few years, and I can’t shrug the feeling that if the big R gets into office, its all down the shitter.

I’m white, and was raised in a middle class family and, while my income (plus my partners) do not put my family in a middle class tax bracket quite yet, we are well educated and decently privileged. I get that my ability to get (legally) married to my boo and have her on the birth certificate for the child we bear is like, at least halfway down the list of shitty things in America. Probably closer to the bottom quarter. So I don’t want to be a single issue voter and I don’t necessarily want to make my family into single issue voters either but, you know what, it still matters. It does. Life is hard enough without all of us trying to make it suck more for each other.

My best friend since high school, J, called me last night. We’ve been friends for 16 years and lived in different states for 10 of those, and still we have this thread of love and intimacy that just carries us through and wraps us up. I am super grateful for this gift of his friendship. He and his wife are 20 weeks pregnant, which is what he called to tell me. They are having a girl, which I am excited about because he is such a good dude – not in the ‘oh he’ll take care of his princess’ good dude; no, J is going to fight to ensure his daughter has access to education and resources and is a total badass. I’m so incredibly psyched for him to be a dad.

More and more of my friends are having babies. On this day, I am both excited and terrified by that. Today, it seems, our nation is making a decision that could really, truly, deeply impact the lives of J’s badass daughter and H’s little unidentified banjo and maybe the baby that La and I have. I’m so glad that wonderful people are going to be raising wonderful babies. But I’m also terrified about what kind of a world we will be raising them in.

la la la luteal phases!

Ugh. I am SO GOOD at letting a very small amount of information inform my neurosis. This morning I woke up to a basal body temperature drop, which has me freaked out because if I bleed tomorrow I will have had an 8 day luteal phase this cycle, which, according to some sources is not enough time for implantation, although according to others 9-10 days is ‘more than enough’ which means 8 should be enough, right? RIGHT?!

Let me just remind you – all 13 of you who have viewed this page since Friday (holy shit!) – we are not even TRYING yet. I am freaked out about my research results, which, by the way are not even complete or conclusive yet. This is why I stick to the ‘soft sciences.’ I’m terrible in the laboratory. Which is why I am hopeful I can return to literature review tomorrow, since that is my comfort zone.

On Saturday, La and I babysat for our friends who have 10 month old twins. The beautiful baby girls came via a complicated story of fertility treatments, which is probably even more fraught because they are a heterosexual couple and really, there is all kinds of shame and secrecy I can see in their story that really, we don’t have to deal with. I mean, its pretty clear from the outside that La and I do not have the tools necessary to make a baby out of our own love and guts and we will need a little help from our friends. But, for our buddies, there is an assumption that their babies came about the old fashioned way, and I think they continue to struggle with how much to disclose and to whom.

When they got home we sat around talking for another couple of hours, mostly about the intersections of our stories. Its nice to have folks that we can talk about all of this with – not the logistical details, but the muddy feelings and curious questions. La and one of our friends both make art and have been talking about working together to put our experiences into a show. I imagine it would be both hilarious and wonderful and kind of awkward. Just like this whole thing generally is.

Back to this luteal phase shit. I’m currently trying to decide if I should pursue all of the variety of natural remedies for short luteal phases, assuming, in fact, my luteal phase ends up actually being short. This tends to be my go to: fix things before they are broken. Unfortunately, I know that bodies can get screwy when you try and fix what ain’t broke. I’m trying to hold out until the end of my NEXT cycle to take the vitex and the progesterone cream, you know, so I have some actual evidence that my luteal phase is indeed short.

Since I’m just sure everyone is dying to know: rest assured, I will make sure you know the minute my uterus starts to bleed!

But also, preview of other things to come:

1) Being a fatty trying to get knocked up and trying to prepare to be a pregnant fat lady
2) Having your shit together financially – what does that mean and does it even matter?
3) Surrounded by bellies!

Mother’s Two Sons Die During Hurricane After She’s Refused Help by Staten Island Neighbors

jezebelcom:

Two little boys who were literally swept out of the arms of their mother during the hurricane have been found dead. But that’s not the whole story, and it gets even sadder: 39-year-old Glenda Moore, the mother of the two boys (pictured above with her husband, Damian), knocked on doors in her Staten Island neighborhood, begging for help during the hurricane. No one would assist her, her sister claims.

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Mother nature is a force of evil we can’t control, but I sure as hell wish we’d realize that the bigger issue here is the inequality that becomes stark in situations like this. Those little boys are victims of racism – not hurricane sandy. ugh.