Introducing My Lovely Co-Host

…er — author.

Yeah.  I have a co-author for my book.

She started her blog three years ago with the intention of eventually writing the very same book I had started blabbing on about a few months back.  So when she wrote to me and asked me if I’d consider a co-author, I thought hard, but not too long.  I mean, who wants a fabulous writer to write and publish and have on the shelves the same book you’ve always wanted to write, when the two of you could do it together?  I’ve always loved reading her blog and I even had one of her posts printed out and in my book folder to read for inspiration.  Plus, working alone can make one turn into a procrastinatrix.  When you’re beholden to a co-author, however, you might actually get stuff done.  I was worried about writing a book with a person I’d never met in real life before.  The prospect that writing with her could make my experience and the book just, well–better, overrode my fears and invited her  co-write with me.

Good move, I think.  We’re pert-near finished with our proposal.  We need a few statistics, that’s all.  Oh, and apparently, a sample chapter or two.  So that’s next.

I won’t even blush when I say this: it is a good read, damnit.  I’d say it more humbly, but I can’t.  I’m not only pretty confident that we can get it published, but I think it will sell well and fill a very-needed hole on the bookshelf in the local GBLT bookstore.

Without further ado…

She’s nutty, she’s bitter,

She’s one spicy bitch,

Introducing my one and only co-author…

Chicory.

PS My belly button is just about to pop like the little timer thing on a thanksgiving turkey.  You didn’t think I’d actually write a post without one mention of my belly, did you?

Happy Birthday Two…

…my blog.

This is part II of a year-long self-centered retrospective on my TTC/pregnancy journey.  This is the pregnancy part.  I have tell you about these dykemom friends who have two kids about 14 months apart.  They had had trouble getting pregnant.  I remember when the second-to-get-pregnant mom was pregnant and we were hanging out with them in the midst of my TTC.  She said, “You know a year and a half ago when we were trying to get pregnant, it felt like it would never end.  Now we have created this whole family.”  I would think back to that when I hit rough spots in my TTC journey.  I would think…just imagine a year from now.  It helped.  So if you’re still TTC, maybe this will help a little.  I hope.

In December I waited and waited for baby Jo and Nelly’s baby P to be born.  And they were. Nelly turned into a home-birth superstar and is now my default midwife.  I got through my first trimester hump (sort-of).  And I got to see my still-nicknameless fetus– should I call him John Doe?  My honey wouldn’t let me nickname him Pretty Boy.  Why?  Because he’s not a parakeet?  Anyway, I got to see him during my nuchal ultrasound, at which point I decided that he was so pretty, I would use the pronoun, “she.”  Gender, schmender.  It is overrated, I say.

In January, I became a tired sales grrrl in a Brooklyn department store.

In February, I worried.  Because, you know, that’s new!

I think I was a little bored in March.  I mean, my posts were a little boring.  The second trimester is a happy time.  Happy’s not always interesting.  But my little Cakeman did figure out that he’s going to be a big bwother.

This month I wrote this post I like a lot. It is something I think about often, but never expressed in words.

Please… I have left-over cake.  Eat!  Dulce de Leche ice cream?  Bring me your bowl.

Happy Birthday to….

…my blog!  And my mom!

I won’t say how old my mother is.  She looks almost as young as me and her spirit is that of a twenty-year-old while I still sometimes trip over into worried grandma mode.  So happy happy, My Mama.

My blog is one year old today.  I thought I’d do what I’ve seen some folks do before.  I’ll give you my favorite posts by month.

One year ago I was getting impatient with trying to get pregnant at home.  I was a lot younger, I feel, than I am today.  Not in a good or bad way.  I just feel like a lot has happened in a year.  I decided to blog about it.  I think it was a good decision.  This blog and the folks who read it have become an important part of my life.  Though I’ve managed to pis$ some people off (including myself) with the blog, overall I’m glad I decided to show what I own.

In May I went to my first appointment with Dr. Mug– the man who eventually knocked me up, so to speak.  One post that comes up a lot from May was about how my neighbor and I were both on Clomid, so we called ourselves the WonderTwins.  For some reason beyond my ken, there are folks–lots of them– who want to know if Clomid will give them twins, or more nuttily, how they can get twins by taking Clomid.  So they google “Clomid Twins” and come up with that blog  entry.  But my favorite post from May was about Biology.  I had run out of my Cakie donor sperm.  I mused about why biology seems so important to so many of us.

In June I wrote my most popular post ever.  It gives me an ego boost, my dears.  And it really makes me happy that I’m writing my book finally.

In July I found my babydaddy…er — donor.

August found me driving back and forth from Wildwood, NJ to Manhattan several times while on “vacation” to get my blood-tests and an IUI.  Then, I soon found out that just because I act like a martyr, does not mean I get to be a  pregnant martyr.  You guys cheered me up.  Thanks for that.

September was a little crazy.  I did my first round of injectionables.  The timing was off, so I only had one good egg.  In other words, I gave myself an injection in the stomach every day for two weeks for no reason at all.  Then I got even crazier and became conVINCED I was pregnant because my b0obs hurt.  I mean, they hurt just like a pregnant lady’s b00bs hurt.  Now I know.  So I was walking around as though I were pregnant, touching my belly, talking to the “embryo,” etc.  Of course when the blood came that month it was a really bad scene.  I was cheered up, however by the arrival of a certain blessed star.

October was a very lucky month indeed.  Egg met sperm at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  How cool is that?

I didn’t find out about the eggy/spermy rendezvous until November.  It was weird.  I didn’t really want to tell people, once I knew for sure and I had gotten the pink ghost and the beta.  But you all were checking and checking and checking, so I had to let you know.  That’s when I pissed myself off. I’d blogged myself into a corner, so to speak.

This post is taking about a year to write.  I need to go lie down.  I’ve covered the TTC portion of the year.  Tomorrow I’ll write part II about my pregnancy.

Thanks for reading.  Have some cake.

Going Second

I can’t decide if being the second one to give birth is better or worse.

Since I knocked her up at home, I think I may have had an unrealistic idea of how easily I could get pregnant.  I felt like we were experts.  I only bought 6 vials of our first child’s donor juice. Yet somehow I managed to mess up my charting and not know that frozen sperm only lasts 24 hours.  Not expert.  How was I to know it would take me a year and a half?  Then I had all of that anxiety as it wasn’t working for my partner, that I wasn’t getting any younger, either.  I, of course, didn’t want to bring that up with her just to add insult to injury.

Being with my partner as she suffered, yes suffered, through her pregnancy gave me a very realistic lens through which to experience the whole process.  After her pregnancy I wanted to be pregnant, but I no longer idealized it, that’s for sure.  I got to go through a series of childbirth classes before I even had my first insemination.  I already have parent friends.  I already have all the baby supplies.  I know how to change a diaper in the dark of evening or on a park bench.  I can hear a baby cry and scream and not have my hair turn gray.  I’ve steeled myself for breastfeeding in general and especially in public.  I feel ready…readyish.  My honey never got the chance to go into active labor.  Sooooo, I haven’t actually been in the room for a vaginal birth, or even extremely heavy contractions.  I do know what to expect from a C-section and the recovery.  But I’m hoping not to be in the room for another one of those.

When my honey was pregnant… for any first pregnancy in a lesbian couple’s life together, the pregnant one can relax while the other one coddles her and attempts to do all the housework.  If the pregnant one is zonked and wants to go to bed early, the other one can go for a walk in the park, or out for a drink with friends.  This all seemed hard to me when I was the not pregnant one.  I felt guilty (but happy) when I went out without her.  I felt exhausted doing all the housework.  My honey was too tired to do the laundry, but she always did the folding, I assume because she was also feeling guilty because I was doing so much of the housework.

Now that I’m pregnant, we’re not the only two people who live here. I’m not the only one who needs coddling. If I’m exhausted and want to go to bed at 6, I can’t really.  If I do, I leave all of the toddler care to my honey.  If I fall asleep upon getting home from work, my honey can’t go out for a walk or have coffee with friends.  She has to coerce a two-year-old to eat, read him books, chase him around the house pretending to be a puppy, then bathe and put him to bed.  Though I have had my share of naps and sleeping in late (late is 8 am, when you have a toddler, BTW), it is just not the same as laying down knowing your partner is going out to enjoy herself somewhere or relaxing in a similar manner in the house.  There’s a guilt shift.  One part of me wishes my honey had not felt guilty for doing little housework the first time around.  Apparently, “little” was a key word there, because actually I was doing just a little work, though it felt like a lot at the time. I am so grateful to my honey for doing so much for me and with Cakie.  (Including reminding me  constantly to stop picking him up.)  I know what she’s going through.  But I really don’t.  I’m glad that my pregnancy has been easier than hers in this aspect, because It would have been 1000 times harder for both of us if the difficult pregnancy came when the toddler was running around the house.

Would I trade places?  Would I have liked to go first?  I don’t know.  I’m still not sure which one is better.

Chairy

Well, kids, I don’t have much new to report except that I’ve been sleeping on a chair. My week of vacation is almost over. I don’t feel at all refreshed. On the contrary, I feel pooped. I still have the #$%^&! cough that won’t die. I can’t lay flat, or I start coughing so hard that I almost puke. So, instead of sleeping all snuggled with my honey, I’ve exiled myself to the big reading chair in the living room. I can actually sleep on it. Another plus is that since I am out there with my needy cat, I guess he doesn’t feel so needy and he doesn’t wake me up at 4 am, demanding to be shut into the bathroom and snuggled on the way there. I actually get to sleep until 6. I miss my honey. But I also feel like she’s probably getting more sleep, since I’m not hacking the night away right next to her.

Yesterday was cool because I went to a prenatal yoga class and I was the only one who showed up! It was the first time I had a yoga teacher all to myself. She knew I’ve done yoga for a while, so she did some more difficult poses than we usually tackle in the prenatal class–Warrior three up against a wall! With my big-ass belly! It was fun, but now I’m paying the price. My hips are killing me. I also walked around pretty much all day yesterday. My neighbor claimed that my ankles were swollen. I flat-out disagree. I did, however, put my feet up just in case she was right. I’m sorry, but I’m just not really the take it easy kind of girl. It is not in my bones. For example, right now I’m supposed to be napping. I’m blogging.

Yeah, I just don’t get why I’m still tired. Mysterious. Veeeeery mysterious.

BTW — I updated my blogroll a wee bit.  Don’t be offended if I forgot you.  I pretty much forgot most people.  If you want to be included, let me know.  Also, I don’t know why that photo of the books is in the header of this new theme I’m trying on for size.  I like books, don’t get me wrong.  But I will add an anonymousy Cakie-esque shot to the header soon.

My Other Wife

I went to the midwife yesterday. I took my mom with me, so she could hear her grandson’s heartbeat. Everything looks good. I’ve gained 16 lbs so far. Not too bad, I guess. My favorite part of the appointment was when she said, after squeezing me quite hard down by my bikini line, that he seems to be head-down for the time being. I know I’m only 28 weeks along, but this is good news. Though part of me thinks she maybe made that up, so I would be happy and have positive visualization. I choose to be happy and visualize his little head poised above my pelvis, ready for action. Of course he could turn around, if he so pleased. But I’m hoping he’s comfortable where he is.

Here’s my 28-week belly. I’m turned a little to the side, so he actually sticks out more than you can see here:

I’m still coughing after a week and a half of being sick. However, my brilliant midwife told me which drugs I could take. And I took them. And I was able to get a little bit of sleep. A little bit of sleep goes a long way.

AND I asked her if I should go to my doctor, since I’m still coughing and my throat still hurts. Instead, she took a throat culture. So I don’t have to go to the doctor. Hopefully, the culture will come back negative, and I won’t need to take any antibiotics, either.

I complained to her of my most-uncomfortable-pregnancy-symptom-to-date. Did you ever have that baby doll with the hole in its mouth and the hole between its legs? You feed the baby doll some water in a baby doll bottle, and it pees the water right out the other hole? Well, that’s me. I mean, if I drink three teaspoons of liquid, I need to run to the bathroom and pee three teaspoons of liquid. If I’m not near a bathroom, I just have to pee. But I have this cough. When I cough, or laugh, or jostle myself in any way, little bits of liquid manage to find their way out. So despite some initial resistance, I bought some damn panty liners. So my midwife said, “Oh, you know lightdays panty liners? That’s what they’re really for. You should start doing kegels.” Start???? So I told her about my world’s strongest pelvic floor. I do wonder what the competition for that would look like. She replied, “Even with the world’s strongest pelvic floor, you’ve basically got a bowling ball sitting on top of your bladder. It is a good thing you’ve been doing your exercises, or you wouldprobably be peeing all over yourself.” Ok. I’m glad I’m not peeing all over myself.

Take a quick peek at this note about my first wife, who RULES.

Sorry, but I need to go to the bathroom. Later.

Haters

I won’t go into details, but some a$$hole actually called me a “breeder” today.

I was sick, tired, and toddler-mommying at the time, so it just got to me and I lost it and cried a lot and retold the story to a zillion people.  I made an official complaint, etc.

Now that I’m more calm (and suffering from a cough-induced insomnia), I realize the irony.  Isn’t “breeder” a term we gays use to sometimes, albiet offensively, refer to the not-gay crowd?  I always thought it was a bit of a funny term.  Like, thank god those other people are here to continue the human race.  Funny, too because of course lots of gay folk are breeders, as well.  Then I thought of those signs some people had outside their homes when I lived in a less cosmopolitan part of the country, “RABBITS: Breeders, Live, or Fryers.”  Finally, it reminded me of when I used to do web searches for the word “insemination” and I’d come up with all of these agricultural sites with helpful tidbits about how to knock up my cows.

So this ass, obviously a card-carrying member of the “She-Man Women Haters Club,” actually had a point.  I am breeding.  I did use a bull from another farm to get knocked up.  And when I give birth, I know his type (the parent-haters, I won’t link because it is truly disturbing, but there are entire websites dedicated to actively hating parents and children) will refer to me as a cow.  Whatever.  In true gay form, I now want I maternity shirt now that says, “BREEDER” in Frankie Goes To Hollywood font across my big breeding belly.

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