Dear Pissonastick reader(s),

I have not read or written upon this blog in I do not know how long. It has been a very long time. The other lovely one has and I spank her for that. Gosh...what a time it has been. My crafty anaolgy for us trying to become mothers these last two years and one month is that first the rug was pulled out from under us, like 3 times, and then, more recently, the floorboards were ripped away. What will become of us and the floor metaphor (metafloor?)? Too many questions. We are kissing the dirt. (falling down the mountain).

Some options of answers-

a- we will die.

b-we will live, and we will never have a baby.

c-we will live, and we will also have a baby.

It seems a lot to ask when you put it like that, and it is.

ANYWAY- We have some PEOPLE...some MEN who might be into donating sperm and being the guy. The Father to our children. We might not know for a while and we've only got official interest from one guy, but we have put it out there to a couple others. We need to check the couple of others out so we know we're making a well thought-out decision.

It has been an odd time. And a sad time. There have been rejections. There have been very awkward phonecalls. There have been "I'll let you know"s that have turned into not being let know at all, which has left us a little miffed and a little embarressed. There have been beautiful, drunk girlfriends offer their partner's sperm. There have been beautiful, sober girlfriends offer their own, if they had any. There have been friends at dinner grabbing paper and writing names on it and promising to make phonecalls. There has been some good shit from those who get it. Or a bit get it. Some folks are great and it makes a difference.

So we'll see how some of those phonecalls turned out-hopefully in the near future and we'll keep you posted.

Taking the easy way out

It is with regret that I write to inform you that the agreement with our donor father has been terminated. Due to unforseeable trauma and the concomiting loss of confidence, he has decided not to proceed with our CoParenting Program.

Obviously, this is not a decision to which he came lightly. He was at pains to stress this, as we were to assure him of our understanding and compassion in the face of his pain. All parties are first and foremost interested in the emotional and physical health of the Family Unit, and it is clear that an unwilling participant (however well-meaning) is the last thing such a project needs.

Many apologies for the sad news, but do please rest assured that this is not the end of all hope. Thank you, as always, for your attention.

My very best,

kt180

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.