Bionic Mamas

you're not losing a vagina, you're gaining a son


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Baby Dust

Still not feeling very enthusiastic about this cycle. Meaning: I’d like to get pregnant. I’d really, really like that. (And don’t get me started about the little voice in my head pointing out that this would be the cycle that would continue what my birthday-mate aunt calls the family tradition of first children born in late November/early December. Quite a number of us within only a few days, it’s true.) But I feel like it doesn’t matter if I’m hopeful or not — my endometriomas are just too fucking big.

And we’re out of stored sperm now, so we’ll have to scrape up money again. (Thanks, body, for slowing things down enough that we JUST crossed the line into having to pay for a second six month’s storage at the Baby Factory. Nice work.) And the sperm bank raised their prices. Yippee.

So, yeah. I’m not drinking or anything, but I wouldn’t say I feel terribly PUPO, as it were. Nonetheless, I made a nice little baby dust* blingee for a board friend last night, and I thought y’all might like it, too. The pink background — attentive readers will recognize the Sparkle Menace — makes the dust itself a bit hard to see, but yes, it is meant to be emanating from the…hindquarters.

unicorn baby dust

I’ve got a baby-dance one, too, but it still needs a little work. Something to look forward to.

*a phrase that makes me think of ashes. Nice, huh?


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Doing My Bit

One of the undeniable perks of big city living (and wretched, two-hour commutes) is the bottomless well of anecdotes that is public transit. Have I told you about the old Chinese lady screaming a heavily accented version of “Ehhhhh-xiiiiiihhhhht Laaaaaaaaaahhhh-fe” at 10 in the morning? How about the very cracked out individual who kept screaming at the dark-skinned lady across from her that she was, “nothing but WHITE TRASH!” much to her intended target’s confusion. (“I’m not WHITE,” she clarified after the ranter had departed.)

There are visitations of loveliness, like the mariachi band (complete with hats!) and the middle aged black men who sing gospel — they are a favorite not just because they sing so beautifully (and they DO) but because they seem such an unlikely group to be friends. One wears a very dad sweatshirt and a fishing hat and is round and smiley; one favors Cosby sweaters. The third? Looks and dresses and glowers like Snoop Dog. Starhillgirl has already written about another favorite blessing here. (The true magic that one enacts is transforming a crowded, evening rush hour 4 train of people who Do Not Have Time For This into a bunch of smiling gigglers. And he does it in just one stop.)

There are clever people, like the tumbling boys. They fly through the air while the train rocks and rumbles, surely in danger of sudden death. The littlest ones — 9 or 10 years old — do the wildest tricks, and while the scene is Dickensian and should arouse my indignation, I admit that I thrill to their flips and springs. The time I heard one hit his head — HARD — on the ceiling, I felt especially guilty for my idle, irresponsible enjoyment, and I gave more money than usual. Later I learned that this is a bit of prestidigitation of its own: apparently the older boys in charge of the boom box have found that tips go up enormously when a difficult flip is accompanied by a sharp kick to the door or the edge of a seat. I could have sworn that kid hit his head, but I’m glad he didn’t (and understand better now why he seemed so unruffled and the blank look in his eye as I hoped he was okay).

As surely as New Yorkers must grit their teeth over the gaggles of tourists herded and shushed by the harried relatives they’re visiting, knowing that our parents and aunts and cousins will visit one day, too, and that they, too, will talk too loudly and block the doors and dither in front of the staircases, we all share a civic responsibility to at times be the entertainers. Subway craziness is a co-op situation, like so many parts of city life. We must from time to time be the one who shifts a heavy bag at exactly the wrong time and falls half the length of the car. We must be the one who discovers her slipper (just one) on the floor at rush hour. (I STILL have no idea how that happened.) We must sometimes cry openly because we can’t wait for privacy.

**Pro tip: DO NOT argue theology with subway preachers. Not because they’re necessarily any better at it, but they are more shameless. And you’ll never win. And six-a.m. screaming matches are best reserved for family and close friends. (And if the crowd takes there side, you will feel like dog shit. On the other hand, you will also get plenty of room to sit down, even at rush hour. Thanks, contagious gayness.)**

Yesterday, I made my contribution on a crowded Metro North commuter train, surrounded by men in grey and navy and pinstripes and wingtips. I was as discreet as I could manage, but anyone halfway clever could have cooked up a nice story with the words I couldn’t avoid:

Vial
Donor
Andrology
Valium

You’re welcome, Mount Kisco.

…which is to say, IUI today. I’m having a lot of trouble feeling optimistic about my chances, but then, I know exactly what my chances are without it. (And anyway, starhillgirl promised she’d think excited thoughts so I don’t have to.)


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Thinking of England

Inspired by Twangy Pearl, Sugar presents an artist’s rendition of last Tuesday’s inspermination:


Note, please:

– Funny Socks
– Good Luck Thumb Ring on left hand
– Comfort Items Worthy Of A First-Rate Nerd: a hardback, high-ish brow, dystopian novel (quite excellent, by the way — and while it is grim, I was at least reading the chapter titled “Pollination,” which seemed apt), cell phone, and trusty journal. With pen. You never know.

Your wonderful well-wishings were folded up and tucked in the book. I got them out at the word “tenaculum.”

But wait, you say. Didn’t you need those buoying comments precisely because Sugar wasn’t able to accompany you? How does she know what it looked like?

Well, because on this snowy evening, I have just now been re-enacting the scene on our living room couch*. Yes, I put the socks back on and everything. The Society for Creative Anachronism‘s got nothin’ on us.

Next time someone asks what exactly it is lesbians do, perhaps I will tell them about this.

Happy Snow Day, everybody. Check out what the other kids are up to on Mel’s Show and Tell.

*NB: our couch does not have stirrups. Fear not. Also, full disclosure: I was really wearing a zip-up cardigan, like the nerd professor I am.


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You Know What’s Awesome?

Valium. Valium is awesome.

If I were in the market for a new addiction, I’d strongly consider this one. Although bear in mind that I am still pretty loopy.

You know what’s better than valium?

You all. Thanks for all the kind messages today. When I heard the word “tenaculum,” I unfolded them and read them again. (And tried to name every part of England that I could. I’m pretty good with geography, but not when high, apparently. Kept getting caught in a Devon-Dover-“They’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs” loop.)

More later, when I am sobered up. Typing like this is way too hard.

P.S. The socks, for the curious and the SITM faithful, are from Little Miss Mismatched (which means there’s a third one, too, in red and yellow). The nurse liked them, too.


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Back In The Saddle

Or the stirrups, at any rate.

Greetings from the [state college where I teach] campus library, where I spend my non-teaching time this semester, since I don’t have an office. Today I’m at a large, shared table in the very open art history section, staring at the double-lined OPK I’m holding under the table, where I can pretend that the students can’t see it. (They can, of course, just as I can see them pass notes in class.) Lord knows what they think, but who cares?! I am FINALLY OVULATING! W00t!

A little background: after taking November and December off from TTC — November because I o’d the weekend we got married; December because of travel (and because I wanted to be drinking, not weeping over my period, while visiting my in-laws) — I expected to ovulate about two weeks ago. Which was right when I found out that I might lose my health insurance. And just like in October, when my revving-to-go body encountered a big wallop of stress, everything came to a screeching halt. (Except the soreness at my left ovary that I get every month around ovulation. That has obligingly kept on going.) Following some major hustle on my part and some help from others, I did NOT lose my health insurance, but even though I’ve been peeing on sticks like it’s going out of style, checking my TP like I’m expecting the Virgin Mary’s face to turn up there, and urging my pituitary on, nothin’. So, I say again, W00t!

I’m going in for a valium-assisted IUI tomorrow, so wish me luck, please. Sadly, Sugar can’t cancel her afternoon meetings, so I’ll be riding solo. I’m sad about that, but it’s evidently a difficult thing to schedule around, my ovulation. I’d be happy to think some of you were keeping me company, however virtually.

Heigh-ho, Spermies, Away!