Snakes and ladders

So the Franglish bit was fun but terribly premature. Things were looking better, until DD revealed that not only is he thinking second thoughts about Sperm Provision, certain of his activities have rendered said sperm unprovidable for six months. Which will take us to March. Which means no baby for two more Christmases. Which has pulled the rug out from under us, doused it with petrol and set it alight right in front of our eyes. Even aside from how I can possibly tell my mother about this, even aside from the fact that tomorrow morning DD will be telling us whether or not he wants to continue at all, even aside from the fact that trusting him from now on is a whole new ballgame --- WTF??! What is God's damage?

Actually, I'm fairly certain there's no Divine Conspiracy Against Lesbian Mothers. I can't imagine that my grandmother really does have supernatural powers over my/Jam's reproductive systems (plus the encroaching dementia would surely put a hole in them if she did). I don't even think the Universe is waiting for us to Grow Up or Buy Property or Get Better Jobs. Which means that maybe it will still happen. Some time.

It's just all so much harder than I thought it would be (of course it is; isn't everything?). It's hard to see other people have babies (I used to love that so much). It's hard to know I'll still be at work forever when I thought I'd be headed for time off for blanket-knitting and milk-expressing. It's so hard to feel dreadful and act normal. (Normalish.) And Jam was doing very well not thinking about it at all until yesterday, when we shared a breakdown session over pastry, cheese and vodka. (If only we hadn't had to mop up and go to the theatre afterwards!)

The terrible, stupid drama of it all. I know people have no idea how to talk to us about the dead babies and no-pregnancy and the delay, which is why nearly all of our friends blanch when it comes up, even peripherally. Jam's sisters leave the room if she mentions the miscarriages. And I am genuinely anxious that something that was borderline sordid from the start (you start chucking your best friend's sperm around and see how wholesome you feel) is now descending into the real ickiness of HIV tests and prophylactic drug programs. Again, my mother is going to die. And before anyone says that none of that is important when it comes to working towards a family, I point out that I've already spent five years in the Wilderness of Parental/Sibling Non-Acceptance, and I really fucking hated it.

Anyway, Jam is coming to pick me up. I have to stop blanting. I want a baby, but Barnardos needs foster carers. So it'll all work out in the end.