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.

On the up-and-up

No, not enceinte. But certainment tres much more jolie these jours. Je mean, really. Qui can be that lachrymose for that long? It just gets so vieux. (Don't we all?) In any case, mon cycle seems to have evened out un peu, and the signs are far more propitious than previousment. Almost like a real girl. Fille. Something. Bah!

So oui. Next mois? Or the une apres. Que cera cera, and whathaveyou. In the meantime, we have bonnes nouvelles on the gas front, so next winter should be less frigid than the une just passing. Vraiment! Je sais. Hard to believe, utility companies being what they are. Morte ends, contradictiones, exorbitant charges --- Jam has dealt with it all. Mon courageux peu. Her rewards shall be beaucoup. Totally.

So Je may be on the rag, and there may still be milles and milles to go before Je gestate, and ennui may still reign at mon place de travail, and Printemps may be only partially sprung, and there may well be extreme suffering around, but optimisme now regrets its betrayal of me, its fondest disciple. Je retour to positive pensee, et drag Jammy avec moi. Summer approches. Let the bon temps roll!

Downhearted

What are the odds that both parties to a lesbian partnership would have almost unreadable ovulation charts? Perhaps they're high. Perhaps not many women at all have proper, easy-to-decipher temperature charts. Perhaps it's all a conspiracy to punish women for seeking to control their fertility in the first place --- hey, you, lady. Just have unprotected sex with one man forever and welcome the children or barrenness whichever comes and keep it down while you're doing it, okay?

I'm not nearly as bitter as I sound. I promise.

It's all going to come good in the end, I know that. According to (no exceptions) every last person I talk to about it, 'it'll happen'. Yes, I know. Thanks. Got it. Not happening now, though, is it? Which is the point. Which is the centre of how I'm feeling and why.

And, really, this is the third month for me. It only feels as though I've been inseminating and reading opaque fucking charts for two years. That first part? That was actually Jam. Oy vey.

Soon it will be spring and then summer. My favourite part of the year. It's sure to bring something else new-lifey with it, and let's hope that thing is a tiny, extremely healthy person, fiercely implanted in an appropriate section of my uterus.

(And that's why they call me an optimist.)

is dotted, ts crossed

Jam, whose commitment to the uterus swap has to be seen to be believed, accompanied me on a Health Care Professionals Bonanza yesterday. I had many needles, including one in my mouth. All the boosting, scraping, filling and bloodletting best done pre-conception has now been done. I have been conscientious enough to deserve a baby! Hurrah!! So, perhaps this month ... We're hoping to do more insems and really maximise our chances. What with the low-sugar diet and the mild exercise and above-mentioned responsible health care, surely the sperm and the egg will pull themselves together and deliver us a viable zygote! Surely!

And Jam's new friend, the Extreme Chinese Medicine Woman, has put her on a diet regime that leaves my efforts for dead. (I refuse to give up dairy, for starters.) She's feeling very hopeful, now. It's been good to get some answers, and to feel as though someone actually listened. So I'll get one all cooked up and squeezed out and growed up a bit, and then my darling'll have a turn. All's right in the world.

Nada

Still not pregnant. On the upside, now I can go to the dentist and the doctor and get myself properly sorted. Compared to Jam's preconception work, I have felt awfully fly-by-night. It will be good to know I've done everything I need to --- that I've earnt the pregnancy.

And I don't feel the need to totally abandon all the healthy living just because this month didn't work. In fact, I've added to my Self-Denial, like any good Catholic. So far, I'm off alcohol and coffee and now I've added Crap Food to that list. No more chocolate (it really was the Fuel That Got Us Moved, I have to say), cake, chips or crazy convenience food. It's now time to rediscover vegetables. Seriously. I know. It's madness. Next thing I'll be exercising.

Maybe it was actually the effects of sugar on a vagina's pH that kept me safe from unwanted pregnancy all those heterosexual years. (I'm sure that the Obsessive Contraception didn't hurt, either.) Certainly it's been a staple since escaping my mum's Pantry of Health.

Is a racing heart ...

... the first sign of, like, really early pregnancy? I mean, I could still be conceiving it's so early. Actually, I think the racing heart is more to do with HOW GOOD JAM WAS ONSTAGE LAST NIGHT than anything else.

But we've inseminated a couple times this week, and the ovulation signs arrived and departed (a little foggier than expected, but certainly there), and who the hell knows? It'd be really nice if it just worked out for us. This is Plan B, after all, and we don't exactly have anything else lined up.

But we have, if still no baby, a really beautiful new house. Everything's unpacked now, except my beautification area, which lacks form and style. (And I haven't been able to face the vanity cases and boxes and shopping bags full of random oddments from the bedroom and bathroom of the old house.) The thing about this house is that it feels right. It feels better. It feels like the kind of house a foetus might be prepared to stick around to live in. Also, a laden hearse passes every morning at about 7.45, so clearly there are departing souls on the look out for a new life in the area. Gosh, I hope there's one who wants us.

... nothing. Still.

My first negative piss on a stick! I feel warm on the inside, as though I have achieved something. And I do recommend the single-line piss-stick result over the period-onset as notification of unpregnantness. Seriously.

Jam also back from seeing Dr Pigman, who was of little assistance. There's nothing wrong with anyone's DNA or with any other part of Jam herself. Great! Sure, except Pigman says now that it was probably just a run of bad luck. Yes, well, we had noticed. Jam is understandably devastated about the waste of three probably perfectly good lives, and the last two years, and all her enormous love and energy. It is SIMPLY NOT FAIR. I don't understand why this has happened to her. She is the best of women and the whole thing just sucks. Dr Pigman has washed his hands of us, beyond referring us to someone private, should we decide to investigate Jam's fertility further via conventional channels. And we will, if she wants to.

My eyes are heavy. I want to be very soon pregnant.