Neighbor, who knows we’re expecting a baby in the fall: Taking out the trash
Me, long-haired and girly-looking: Mowing the lawn and minding my own business
Neighbor: “A woman in your condition shouldn’t be mowing the lawn!”
Me: “Um-” (This is uber-awkward.) “-I’m not pregnant. PartnerA is.”
Neighbor: “Oh, uh, oh, um, oh…”
Me: “Don’t worry! Lots of people make that mistake-” (Because they equate hair length with fertility.) “-but nope, it’s PartnerA who’s pregnant!”
Neighbor: “Oh! Well, neither of you are showing!”
Me: I should hope I’m not showing! I’m saving immaculate conception for another day, thanks. Now may I and my ‘condition’ return to mowing the lawn?
C’mon, you didn’t really think that I was going to say, did you? 😉
The big 20-week ultrasound happened on Friday, June 21, 2013. At 3:00 PM, it was a sunny afternoon on the first day of summer, a perfect day to be a 20-week-old fetus. Bingo was technically only chronologically 17 weeks and four days at that point, but gestational age is measured on its own special scale that races Bingo ahead to 19 weeks and four days. And 19 weeks and four days is apparently plenty old enough for a 20-week ultrasound. It lacks logical sense, but that’s just the way it goes in Fetus Land. Roll with it! Continue reading
Our house is 90 years old. The place has character. It also has the telltale signs of old homes. PartnerA and I have been fixing the place up room by room since we moved in three years ago. So far, one of the by-and-large untouched rooms has been the third bedroom, which we jokingly refer to as “The Cat Room”. After all, it’s little more than a play room for our brood of mismatched felines and some office furniture left over from our college days.
With Bingo on the way, though, I decided to make Bingo’s bedroom my big project. So as PartnerA has been working at creating a mini-human, I’ve been working at creating a livable space of the third bedroom. Like Bingo, now at 19 weeks and one day gestation, Bingo’s room is coming along slowly but surely! Continue reading
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.
Tonight, PartnerA and I Skyped PartnerA’s parents. The script that we had practiced in advance of this call included the words ‘we’ and ‘our’ in every sentence to tacitly reinforce to PartnerA’s already-skeptical mother that regardless of its genetic makeup, PartnerA’s and my child is PartnerA’s and my child. Our embryo and someday-child has two parents and two parents only — and PartnerA’s mother, contrary to some opinions, is not one.
The rehearsed plan was to catch both of her parents mid-conversation at the point when they exchanged seats in front of the webcam. But that didn’t quite work out so well because upon completing a lengthy conversation with PartnerA’s mother (during which PartnerA’s mother referred to PartnerA as “child” twice), she announced that PartnerA’s father was in the midst of making dinner and was too busy to chat. PartnerA insisted, so PartnerA’s mother disappeared to the kitchen. Moments later, she returned, sans Daddy. Again, PartnerA’s mother reiterated that PartnerA’s father was too busy making dinner to talk. Again, PartnerA insisted and again, PartnerA’s mother disappeared to the kitchen. Moments later, PartnerA’s father appeared in front of the computer, sans Mummy. Dude! Getting those two into the same room is impossible.
That’s when PartnerA made the spontaneous decision to ditch the plan and launch into our script. She caught me off guard, but I squeezed her hand out of view of the webcam and rolled with it.
Mothers. You can’t live with ’em. You can’t live without ’em. Literally.
If the day of the fourth insemination was a sitcom, it would be titled Two and a Half (Strange) Men. The episode would feature our half-stranger fertility doc Dr. Text, our brand new donor Lefty, and a man named Tom who PartnerA and I came upon outside as we made our way to our appointment at Clinic One that morning, face-down on the icy pavement bleeding from his head.
Oh yes indeed, the day of the fourth insemination was a doozy. Continue reading