My hair is falling out.
There’s a tribble in the shower every time I bathe. Before I bathe, even. Every time I run my fingers through my hair, a big clump comes out. It is gross. And it freaked me out until my yoga teacher explained that, no, I wasn’t going bald. Apparently, while you’re pregnant, you don’t lose any hair at all. Then four months later, it all falls out. I mean, all the hair that would have fallen out over the nine months that no hair fell out. What is the evolutionary function of this? What? And why didn’t anyone tell me? Consider yourself warned.
So now that I have my ideal lesbian family — my ideal family, really — I want my kids to know other kids who have the same family structure. Namely, two parents of the same gender. I have gone out of my way to meet such folks, including my pregnant lesbians group, the local gay list serve and “Brooklyn Rainbows.” (Yes, it is really called that.) We were happy to get together with the pregnant lesbians, who are no longer pregnant, this weekend. It was crazy. You know, lots and lots of babies and toddlers and moms. There were many moms. One of the moms in the group who is fond of “go-arounds” had us go around and say our names and our kids’ names and anything we wanted to talk about. It was the world’s loudest go-around. A whole different planet from the quiet, thoughtful discussions were having about choosing last names and round ligament pains of just a few short months ago. Trucker, I think, was the loudest. My ears are still ringing. I guess he had a lot to share.
At the gathering, I met a mom who reads my blog. She said that my getting pregnant inspired her to keep trying. Low and behold, she has a baby two months younger than Trucker, so woo and hoo! I love that my blog helps inspire people to keep trying to make babies! But here’s the best part: there was a woman there who got pregnant at home on a natural cycle AFTER having failed IVF cycles. I love that. I just had to tell you. Because even when we think there’s no hope. There’s hope. Hope’s sitting on your bedroom floor in a canister of liquid nitrogen. Or in your partner’s bosom, freshly delivered from some kind and gentle donor. Or hope walks into the room with a baby in a bjorn who came into being after the last ditch effort. After the harvesting and fertilizing and needles and BFNs and all that crap.
Oh, and one more thing. I had to share with you this little conversation between a child at the gathering and my Cakie. I’ll call the child Min.
Min: Where’s your mom?
Cake: [Pointing at me] Right there.
Min: That’s not your mom.
Cake: Yeah, she’s right there.
Min: No. Where’s your other mom?
And that right there is why I came.