A conversation with two ten year olds.

Kid 1: Wait, you’re pregnant?

Me: Yes.

Kid 1: How?

Me:  I just am.

Kid 1: What did you get pregnant with?

Me: A baby, I hope.

Kid 1: No, with what man?  What man did you get pregnant with?

Me: I didn’t get pregnant with any man.

Kid 2:  (leaping up, in great excitement) I know!  I know!  She got pregnant with insemination!  That’s how my sister and I were made!  With insemination!

Partner’s Post: Baby Steps

The idea originated in the narrow aisle between the racks of men’s long sleeve knits and children’s clothing. I’d been Pinteresting creative pregnancy announcement ideas for months and the ones toward which I always gravitated were the various incarnations of the shoe lineup. If you’re half as obsessive as I am about all things baby, you’ve seen the straight version: dad’s loafers, mom’s heels, and a gender-appropriate pair of pastel baby booties. I couldn’t exactly justify spending $22 on genuine baby Chucks for a fetus, but nonetheless I eagerly imagined staging a queer take on the aforementioned announcement with a lineup of Converse.

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The final dose.

Dear Progesterone,

We’re done.

I never expected us to get together in the first place, to be honest.  We came from different worlds, I knew you had a bad reputation, I just wasn’t that interested.

But then I found myself feeling low, and you appeared.  You got under my skin and promised that you would take care of me. I couldn’t resist: we fit together so easily.  Before I knew it, you were inside of me.  And then we were seeing each other every day.  Twice a day, actually.  Oh, I broke it off once or twice.  Went two weeks without you, even, but I always came back to you.

Our relationship got comfortable, you kept your promises, you made me feel safe.  But there was the other side, too.  You always wanted to see me, I had to take you everywhere, I always had to clean up your messes.

Maybe this doesn’t seem fair.  I know that you’ve done most of the work in this relationship.  I’ve ignored your issues for a long time, and you’ve taken care of mine.  But I’m not sure that I need you anymore.  I think I can make it on my own.

Oh, come on, don’t get all mushy on me.  You’ll be fine.  We’ll both be fine.  I’m moving on.  And as for you?  Well, you know where you can shove it.



The final shot.

The first response.

To the announcement cards, sent my my cousin.  Subject line: MAZEL TOV!!!

“I’m screaming with delight as I read your exquisitely designed announcement and look at the very first picture of my new cousin. You two sure are good at keeping secrets! I had no idea you were trying to become pregnant. Which is very smart  as the last thing you needed was the constant concern of others during what can be a difficult process.

Do you know the sperm donor? How are you feeling, A? So you weren’t actually on anti-biotics at Seder, right? I always remember who drinks and who doesn’t. 😉 But you looked really well, so pregnancy must suit you.

I am so  thrilled the two (three) of you.

Love you tons!


On betas and telling.

Dr. Text was not happy with the spotting.  “I’m not happy with the spotting.” he said, frowning at us across the desk.

Sea and I were both at Clinic One for the third beta this morning.  I woke up early, I haven’t been sleeping well, and was quietly showering when I saw Sea stumble out of bed.  I assured her that she didn’t have to join me on this early morning bloodletting jaunt, but she was determined to be there for one of the few visits where she didn’t have to be at her office instead.

My favourite blood drawing miracle worker was on shift and greeted me by name before I had even had time to sign in on the clipboard.  I quickly drank some holy water before following her to the familiar room.  She efficiently took blood from my arm, and I asked her to make the numbers high for me.

Soon after, a brusque Dr. Text called us into an office.  Clinic One was closing early that morning, for a reason left unexplained, and Dr. Text was clearly in a hurry.  “We have a couple of questions,” I began politely.  “First of all, weren’t my first two betas high?”  “No.” he responded, “Next question.”  Well then.  I asked about the spotting, which he took more time on.  The spotting has ceased over the past day and a half (knock on wood), and I was beginning to reassure myself that it might be okay.  Dr. Text took a much more pessimistic approach.  “I’m not happy with the spotting,” he said, frowning at us across his desk.  I was thrown off by this sterner version of Dr. Text, not knowing how to respond to his frown or the most depressing pep talk that followed. He explained that miscarriages happen, that if one did happen it wouldn’t be my fault, that a bad egg or bad sperm was to blame.  The most awkward doctor-patient conversation then began, as he inquired about factors that may have influenced the spotting.  “No penetration, of course, with anything.” he began.  “And when you use the progesterone, do you use lubricant?  Are you wet enough naturally?”  I answered his questions, simultaneously hoping that I wasn’t blushing and considering how unlikely it was that I would find myself talking to a man about penetration, lube and the relative moistness of my vagina.  As Justin Bieber says: never say never.

Hours later, Nurse Brittany called.  My HCG level is a (very) healthy 2633 at 19 days past ovulation.

On a different note, Sea and I have a question.  When did you/would you tell people about a pregnancy?  Friends, parents, extended family, coworkers, bus drivers, cats, etc.?

TMI, on repeat.

At three in the morning I stumbled downstairs to the bathroom, half-asleep.  Wiping, I was suddenly wide awake: there was bright red blood.

I consider myself to be a fairly logical person.  I know:

a) A lot of people bleed, particularly during early pregnancy, particularly on progesterone, and still have healthy pregnancies.

b) My ridiculously high beta numbers are a good sign.

c) There’s nothing I can do if things aren’t okay.

But none of this is stopping me from still being wide awake two hours later, Googling and afraid.

Isn’t that high?!

Thank you all for your enthusiastic responses to my last post.  I am thrilled/terrified/excited.

Sea and I were going to a friend’s birthday lunch on the afternoon of the first pregnancy test.  We had agreed that I wouldn’t answer my phone or check my messages during the lunch, knowing that I would be likely to show some reaction either way.  Then, 15 minutes before the lunch, we were shopping for a card in the small trendy store across the street– the type of store that sells quirky mugs, grass scented perfume and an endless collection of Anne Taintor paraphernalia– when my phone rang.  Automatically, I answered it.

The Clinic One nurse asked for me using the combination of first and middle name that I hate, asked how I was and told me she was calling with good news: “Your beta is 155.”  I became suddenly aware of how small the trendy store was as I tried to keep my voice from becoming shrieky as I asked, “Isn’t that high?!”  She simply told me that I would have to ask Dr. Text about the numbers, and that I should keep taking my progesterone and return for a repeat beta on Tuesday.  Stunned, Sea and I walked small circles around the store, noticing that it suddenly seemed packed with baby gifts and cards.  It was 13 days past ovulation.

Today I went in for a repeat beta.  I repeated the holy water routine before my blood draw, then went to my office to wait and attempt to work.  Finally Clinic One called, and a friendly nurse told me that my beta was now 536.  I’ve been obsessed with pregnancy and babies for long enough to know vague HCG ranges and doubling times.  I know the 48 hour rule.  536 didn’t fit that rule.  I repeated Sunday’s question, less concerned about being shrieky in my empty office with its closed door: “Isn’t that high?!”  I could hear her smiling as she responded, “Well, do you want twins?”

I stumbled and told her what I’ll tell you now: we’ll take what we get.

Next test is on Saturday.