Conception II: The Reckoning

Today we start Conception II: The Reckoning (working title).

Last month was our first try.  In 2012, between September and December, my--

Hang on.  We're going to need names.  Not real names, certainly.  And while my partners may be, respectively, Pterodactyl- and Tuna-identified, Pterodactyl is a long word and Tuna is awfully familiar.  How about Socks and Mr. Fish?  That'll do until I ask them and then conduct a Ctrl+F to replace each incident with something better.  Socks and Mr. Fish.  For clarity's sake, Socks is the boy I met at the party.  He is a queer little princeling, last of the pterodons, with giant brown eyes and thinky fingers that twitch when he's scheming.  Mr. Fish is patience and eyelashes, a logician with a heart of gold, and far too stealthy to be safe.

In 2012, Socks undertook what my friend Keds called The Hunt For Sperm October.  I first asked my childhood bestie, but he's married now with aspirations of family of his own, so asking him to make the babies was somewhat more complicated than when I was a Lessbian (pronounce it with a lisp for the full effect) and he was a gay bachelor (but he's not gay).  So Socks asked a childhood friend of his own, a delightful writer and fellow queermo in another city five hours away.  But somehow whenever Socks would talk about this co-worker of his and his awesome wife, (let's call them Iron Will and Tinkerbell--IT'S MY BLOG I DO WHAT I WANT), he and I both had this strong tug of affection around them, even though I'd never met them.  We decided to have the five of us meet, and then if things felt right, Socks would pop the question.

The meeting was conducted at a BYOB pinball arcade (we are somewhat traditional).  Tink and I hit it off hard, and I liked Will immediately.  (Side note: Tink and I rained destruction on the others at air hockey. V. satisfying.)  A month or so later, Socks asked them and they said yes!  Also, Tink is a hell of a witch, so we knew we'd picked a winning team.

Fast forward to the last month and our first try.  I'm telling you, there is something about what the body knows wordlessly and what we think and intend using language.  I'd been charting for months.  For the uninitiated (most humans) this means waking up and checking (1) my temperature, (2) the position of my cervix, and (3) the consistency of my cervical mucus.  My clever phone wakes me up at 6am every morning with the theme to Joss Whedon's Firefly (I like to wake up feeling rebellious) and I enter these data.  Over time you get a picture that centers on ovulation.  Morning temps are usually the lowest of the day, which is why this method is called BBT, or basal body temperature.  After you ovulate, your temperature spikes due to a release of the hormone progesterone.  If you were doing it by hand, you would look at the 6 temps before a spike, pick the highest one, and draw a line 1/10 of a degree higher than it.  This is your coverline.  You use it to figure out what's happening inside your body.   Your temperature will probably stay above the coverline every day after the spike, until you get your period.  Then it drops and stays low until your next ovulation.  On the other hand, if it stays consistently above the line for 18 days, you're probably pregnant.

Anyway, I was all aglow with we're-gonna-try-this-month-finally! energy, and  I swear, my ovaries got the message that I was ovulating purposefully for the first time, because I was pleasantly but intensely tingly and tender and I could point to exactly exactly where my ovaries and uterus were.  (Before, I just shrugged and indicated everything below my rib cage and above my knees).

I got home from work a couple of days before we were scheduled to try and Socks met me with affection, but something like reservation in his face as I gushed about every possible feeling related to conception.  He finally, reluctantly admitted that something felt off about our sperm sperm sperm BABY NOW  focus, which had eclipsed our continuing to establish closeness with Will and Tink, despite stating the intention to form a family with them.  We hadn't created a donor agreement, explicitly describing both the limitations of the relationship (aunt-uncle, not parents; terminating legal parentage, remaining close to Tk as family, being available for Tk's questions over time, etc).  Basically, we were rushing so single-mindedly towards get-a-baby-now-figure-it-out-later that we were already putting something--our desire for a child--ahead of the best interests of said child.  And without delving into Socks's origin story, I can just say that if there's anybody who's going to keep this family honest about the non-commodification of children and the best interests of same, it's Socks.  We count on him to see things other people don't, especially as they relate to a small person's needs and development.

But you never saw such a hard, sad conversation.  He felt like he was wrenching something away from me that I wanted more than anything, and that some part of me might never forgive him or trust him again.  He was afraid I'd mistake it for cold feet or over-planning to the point of stalling out, (which is not completely outside of Socks's capacity.  He is a ruthless planner.  But damn, when the boy does something, it gets done right).  Then Mr. Fish got home and we had to do it all over again.  The explanations, the fear, the disappointment.  I felt like I was holding as still as I could not to overbalance the conversation with the howl inside of me, this physical now now NOW NOW NOW need that radiated out from my ovaries, my uterus that cramped with want, into my whole body.  We talked late into the night, cried, cuddled, agreed to pursue a level of understanding and closeness with our donor family that left each of us feeling confident that we were doing best by Tk, even if it meant missing this month's attempt.

In the end, Socks made it all happen.  He met up with Will and Tink, and the following day we all came over and hung out.  We looked at Will's baby pictures--(I may end up with a blond haired baby child.  So strange!)  Tink and I talked fertility magic, and I asked them each for something for Tk's altar.  Will picked a shell, Tink contributed an old-fashioned brass key and gave me a tiny carved totem painted like a doll.  Socks dropped Mr. Fish and me home and drove around until Will and Tink delivered a mason jar, which he then cradled in his binder to keep it warm.  (This is maybe the queerest baby ever.  Sperm contributed by a witch and a metal punk, kept in a farmer's market mason jar, warmed in a chest binder, delivered to the cervix via testosterone syringe.  Egg contributed by high femme in ruffle panties and a tiara.  Now watch our baby come out a Young Republican...)

At home Mr. Fish selected a Rock Band guitar pick for the altar while Socks arranged river-smoothed rocks from his collection atop a children's book about a dragon, bounded by the rosebud blanket my grandmother made for me, her first grandchild.  I actually felt a lot of not-so-fun feelings during this first try.  Fish and I are not sexual partners, so I didn't like getting nakey and splayed in front of him just because I was making babies.  I'm not normally modest at all, but there was something about that role of "vessel" that I was really afraid of.  Like somehow they'd stop seeing me as a whole person and I'd reduced to my reproductive function.  Mr. Fish and Socks are very patient with me having some hella strong feelings about my own experience of marginalization as a girl and woman, and resentment of the centrality of masculinity even in queer circles.  Not just patient--that sounds like "tolerance."  They understand, and it matters to them.  I have the best husbands.

But the next try, two days later after a positive ovulation test was better.  I understood my feelings and they'd heard me out with love and compassion, so I stripped down, put a Bruce Springsteen album on the record player, and Mr. Fish lay next to me, feet in the air, assuming every ridiculous position I had to for the duration of the effort (exclusive of a little private time devoted to orgasm, which helps the cervix pick up more of the sperm.  If you've never tried to climax with your feet over your head trying not to spill about two tablespoons of sperm from your business area, can I just recommend against it?  This posish is not in the Kama Sutra for a reason).  This means feet overhead, hips on pillows, first in pike position and then straddle, then pike again and rotate every fifteen minutes.  You can't make this shit up.  Also, don't laugh or you're likely spill everything everywhere.  At some point Mr. Fish asked Socks to pass his phone, which was on "the sperm desk."  My head popped up and indignant I exclaimed, "It's a VANITY."  Yeah, we nearly lost all the sperm on the subsequent gasping laughter.

Oops.  There's more to this story, but I need to shower, take a bird to the wildlife rehabber, and go to work.  (Normal day).  Talk soon.