Before our big trip to Iowa I did lots of researching and asking of friends and internets about the logistics of traveling solo with W. I went through several phases of panic and denial about how difficult it would be. I mean W is so little- he totally seemed portable and simple to manage. I would just need a little bag for him, a little bag for me and then we would be all fancy and jet set. Fabulous flyers!

And then there was the realization that I suck ass at getting W into the moby baby carrier and I had TWO dreams about him falling out and cracking his beautiful head open. So I began fretfully researching strollers or other baby carrying methods. And this was all mere days before my trip.

But I have to say that once I got everything planned and visualized and in motion things were freakishly simple and smooth. And I imagine I might be lucky in that regard, but in case anyone else ends up doing a midnight google on traveling solo I figured I should post about my experience. It takes a village!

Here are the top things that worked for us:

* I do not know how I functioned this long without one- but days before my flight I became the proud owner of an ergo baby carrier. It was the single smartest accessory to have while traveling. Not only was I able to get it on all by myself, but I never doubted that W was secure and safe and comfortable. And I could talk for days about how comfortable it was for ME. The ergo allowed W to have a safe place to nap and it allowed me to have both hands free.

I have heard that some people have had to remove their baby from their carrier while passing through security however I never did. W was asleep both times and both times I gestured to someone in security, miming the question, “does he need to come out?” only to be smiled at and waved through.

* I used a backpack as my carry-on. I looked quite stunning with my front baby load and back back-pack and sure I got a few startled looks and double takes, but It was such an easy way to move about.

* I checked a bag. Can you believe that I originally didn’t even plan to check a bag? Ha! So in case anyone else out there thinks they can manage without checking it…well YOU probably can. But I so enjoyed the freedom of not having extra luggage to lug.

* I never changed a diaper on the plane. Again- totally lucky here. But having flights under 2 hours made me hopeful that we could manage to NOT have diaper changing moments. I did follow the suggestion of several friends and had a large zip lock bag that I removed from my back-pack before it was stowed above my seat. Inside this zip lock was two disposable diapers, a smaller baggie of wipes, and two plastic bags for disposal. That was handy just to have on my travels in general. When I was out with friends and W needed changing I was able to leave my back-pack/diaper bag at my chair in a restaurant and just head to the bathroom with the zip lock.

* Family bathroom! This is something no one told me about and I feel like more people should be talking about it. The family bathrooms at airports fucking ROCK! The first time I changed W was as soon as we got to the airport for our first flight. I knew we had about an hour or so before boarding and I planned on changing him immediately before preboard. So that first change was in the regular women’s room. It had a changing table but it was so loud and crowded and I felt so caged in.

I happened to notice walking out of the women’s room a bathroom between the men and women signs. It had a friendly looking logo so I gingerly opened the door and gasped at the holy grail of travel bathrooms! A GIANT bathroom with one toilet, one sink, a changing table and a chair. I could lock the door behind me, toss my backpack on the chair, and change W without all of the hubbub of a regular bathroom.

Every subsequent airport bathroom stop I sought out and found the family bathroom. It was such a little thing but it helped so much. Just look for the sign:

* When I arrived at the gate for the flight (all four times) I checked in and “double checked” that no one was sitting next to me. Each time I phrased this inquiry the following way, “I plan on nursing my son on the flight and I wanted to let you know so that it wouldn’t bother anyone sitting next to me.” I know some people don’t want to travel next to a baby much less to a baby attached to a giant boob so I phrased it this way in the hopes that the gate attendant would be thinking of OTHER travelers as well as me. People love to complain and if I could remove variables for complaints…For every flight (all four of them!) I had entire rows to myself. I was incredibly lucky- especially since I was traveling over labor day weekend!

* When I originally had my flight booked I asked to be seated in the aisle. I ALWAYS ask to sit here as it is the easiest place to have long legs. But when I was with W I actually preferred to be by the window. When he was awake he enjoyed looking out (either at the clouds or his own reflection) and when he was nursing it gave me an extra semblance of privacy as well as a “wall” to rest my weary head.

* I embraced chivalry every opportunity I encountered it. Of course my first reaction to a stranger offering to help me put my bag in the overhead bin was, “I can do it MYSELF!” but now my world includes a tiny redhead boy with an adorable noggin that I am quite fond of and now my brain goes to these awful places like imagining my dropping my bag as I try to lift it over his head. So when someone offers to help- ACCEPT. And if no one offers- ASK.

* The number one thing I read about baby traveling was that I must nurse or provide a bottle or pacifier to W upon take off and landing or his head would explode. And like I said, I love his head, so imagine my panic when the kid would not wake up to nurse or accept a pacifier at that first take off. I was certain that he would pop his eyes open and start screaming in pain. Guess what- he didn’t. He only ever nursed at one of the eight take off/landing moments. During the 7 other times he was either fast asleep or extremely invested in figuring out how to lower the tray table.

I am probably jinxing all future baby travel by sharing this, but on three flights I had flight attendants and surrounding passengers tell me that they didn’t even know I had W with me. I attribute this to good flight timing and a gap in our teething hell (& W’s current natural lovely disposition). I also think not having to share a row with another passenger greatly reduced my anxiety so I wasn’t exuding stress pheromones.

Most likely the next travel opportunity will provide me with fodder for a post titled something snappy like, “I’m sorry my baby got explosive shit on your WSJ and screamed nonstop while you tried to edit your spreadsheet“.

Spill your travel tips and secrets for future googling travel people.

So what does one DO on Father’s Day? Or rather, what do you do? Growing up I remember making or buying cards and giving them to not just my Grandfather and Uncles, but also to my Mother. But I had somebody else to think about on that day. Somewhere, out there, there is this guy called my father. And while I have no desire to know him or be known by him (for my own reasons), he does, in fact exist. He is not a mythical creature. He was not a sperm donor.

And while I imagine it will be some time before W starts to know what a father is, much less what a father’s day is, I am finding myself wondering what it will come to mean for him. Wondering if he will grow up feeling less than or lop-sided.

But I am curious what other gals with no (to speak of) Dad type person in their lives Do when this holiday comes and goes. And how will I, as a single gal, present this day to my son? Sure I KNOW it is a halmark holiday, but he’s bound to be asked to make some art or craft down the road. I wonder how he will feel.

Pictured is a photo from our visit with GM today. We spent the entire visit out in the day room with other residents. Most of the them thought W wasn’t real and kept asking me if he was a doll. It was so sweet to watch them watch us- it really livened the room up. Especially when one of the gals in the corner decided to sing to W very, very loudly.

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I haven’t had a good & proper Valentine in years, but I have had this blog and you guys. Since I am feeling mushy this year I will just come right out & say it: I love you. I may not have my strapping, liberal, and hunky lumberjack but I can appreciate that I still have the desire to one day find him (or be found by him).

I am much more calm in my singlehood these days. That is actually really nice- to not be in a panic.  I have always had this sort of unique notion that I will find my love later in life. I will be so comfortable and happy in my own skin that I won’t even own a pair of spanx. I won’t ever feel the need to apologize for who I am or the choices I have made. I will be seen and appreciated and respected and accepted.

But I sure do miss twinkling…

Want to make your own hearts? Go here.

There are many things in our life that are deemed as easy choices: should I turn left or should I turn right? Should I eat another cookie or go to the gym? Should I call my Mother back or would an e-mail be better? These are the choices that ultimately don’t effect the entire orb of our being (except the cookie or gym situation…)

Then there are the big whammy choices we are faced with: Should I move to Los Angeles or stay in NYC? Should I quit my job and take care of my Grandmother? Should I sever that relationship or should I let the abuse continue?

Those were some hard, soul-searching questions that I have had to make choices about. But one of the things I never thought I would have to choose was a life without a child. Somehow I always knew that I would have one, with a husband or without one. I remember putting that idea out into the universe as early as my freshman year in college.

Being raised by a single Mother and being the Granddaughter of an extremely independently minded woman basically taught me that I could do anything I damn well wanted – and if that meant having a kid on my own then so be it. I never lamented or mourned the concept of not having a husband or boyfriend to take the journey with. Not then.

Reading Alexandra Soiseth’s chronicle of her personal journey to single motherhood was eye opening. Choosing You brought up lots of issues that up until now had been tucked neatly away in a box marked, “to shrink later”. For starters I had this interesting reaction to the cover of the book that featured a stunningly beautiful baby being kissed by a stunningly beautiful woman.

I should explain for those that are unfamiliar with my own struggles, I am a woman that wants to be a single mother, but after three plus years of trying I am still sadly in the ‘wants to’ group and not so much in the ‘has one’ group. So I bring to this book a complex bag of emotions that many of you may not.

And back to the cover…where the beautiful people are lounging. My gut reaction was to immediately flip to the back of the book for the author’s bio page. Seeing the portrait of Alexandra, a kind and sincere looking woman gazing back at me was instantly comforting. Ok, so this was written by a real person. I needed to know that this book wasn’t going to be exclusively for something that I will never be.

The book begins with a sweet dedication page to the author’s daughter. I felt empowered knowing right off the bat that this was a success story. Love that. The next page (& I swear I won’t be reviewing the book page by page, work with me here) was a table of contents. Usually this is something I would totally ignore. This isn’t a reference or how to book so I didn’t need to find an applicable chapter and pass go. But for some reason I was drawn to read the chapter titles. Chapter 5: Torn between two donors goes swiftly into Chapter 6: I’m pregnant!

And then almost instantly my previous feelings of empowerment were replaced with something a bit more bitter. I hate that, but I feel I should bring it up as it happened. Before I even read the book I was judging. Bad, very bad.

The book begins with an endearing epilogue: a brief and simple insight into the thought process of Alexandra. How she always knew she was born to be a mother. And I found myself nodding my head. Yes, I thought, I get that.

We are introduced to Alexandra better in chapter one where she lets us know about her gift for creating a close knit community of friends wherever she goes. And it is also where we learn that Alexandra has some food/body/esteem issues. It is where we learn that she feels that the number on the scale is in direct proportion to the feelings of loneliness that she feels. It is also where she proposes the following to her best friend: “I want Ken to be my just-in-case guy.” Ken being her best friend’s brother and just-in-case meaning sperm donor. A few days later she is out on a deck of her friend’s vacation house and talking to Ken. It is a scene that immediately feels tense and awkward and Alexandra writes it with delicacy and tenderness.

This same delicacy is also used to describe many painful moments in Alexandra’s life from the childhood abandonment of her Mother (and eventual return) to sexual abuse she suffered at a young age from a neighbor. I begin to understand this woman more, feel her pain, her longing. I resonate completely with her body issues and happily cheer for her when she embarks on a weight loss plan and begins to make her health a priority.

The things that baffled me were the shame and guilt that always lingered when food or weight issues were addressed. It is a theme that will run through out the book, sometimes surfacing at the most unusual times. I found myself wanting to reach out to Alexandra, to call her and tell her to ease up on herself. But I instantly recognized that her behavior is something that I probably do as well. A lot can be suffocated in the tight clench of body issues.

Years pass and Alexandra is still single and frustrated. There are many awful dates and awful men detailed and it becomes so clear that there is a great divide between a woman’s need to have a child and a man’s need to be a parent. That Alexandra makes the mental switch to stop looking for a baby via the typical husband route seems so natural and obvious. The steps that she takes to evaluate the moving on to trying to become a Mother alone are healthy and done within a resilient support system of friends.

The only voices of doubt come from Alexandra’s own family. Her sister, married with children, wonders if Alexandra can handle something as difficult as child rearing on her own. “I sometimes think you don’t know how hard that would be.” Then she wonders if the need for having a child is masking something else. “Is it a baby you want? Or is it that you just don’t want to be alone?”

Reading this conversation brought up questions about my own path and conversations that I have had with friends. It reminded me of the friends that I have lost because they don’t understand why I would ever opt to have a child without a husband. It made me wonder how many of us have had to justify our choices to loved ones. How many conversations have we had where we had to defend treatment options or a road less traveled? Alexandra chooses to answer these questions with a confident silence and I admired her strength in that instance. Some things are not up for questioning, more of us should remember that.

This is not a book about infertility, and it really isn’t a book about being a single Mother. Rather it is a book about making a huge choice and following it through from the heart. Alexandra’s book is a great example of how each of us are on our own individual journey’s that travel at different speeds and sometimes end up at different destinations.

I would probably not suggest this as a book for a woman in the trenches of complex infertility. However it is a good book for any woman or friend of a woman that is contemplating becoming a Mother on her own. If you are thinking about embarking on this adventure alone I would make sure each of your friends reads this book. Then call them over and talk.

So, question for you guys: At any stage of your motherhood journey have you heard disparaging comments? Has anyone in your family or circle of friends been less than supportive or helpful? How did you work through it (if you did)?

More information on the Mother Talk Book Tours can be found here.

ooooooooh. Now THIS could be interesting.

I dashed this link up in a hurry (Fridays are crazy busy around here) and I didn’t have a moment to hash out my feelings on this scientific theory.  Wait, is it a theory or is it a study?

I had no idea this study/theory was going on.  Then, from the laundry room, I heard one of CNN’s mid day talking heads chuckle and say, “Women may no longer need men to get pregnant.”  I dropped my load of whites and sprinted to the den, hit rewind on the dvr, and listened to the story.

Of course it was all presented in a sort of female-hating, chuckle, chuckle, we bet those feminists will get a kick out of this, way.  But I managed to block out the stupid and found myself wide eyed and sort of dreamy at the idea.

And yes, if I am going to be 100% honest with you then you should know that my original reaction was, “you mean I can impregnate myself?” Lizards have done it, now maybe I can do it?  Yeah, maybe using my own DNA filled sperm to impregnate my own DNA egg is sort of a knee-jerk Alabama influenced reaction.  But it would be so nice, says my fiercely independent, “I don’t need a man!” self, to just take care of getting pregnant without having to use anyone else.

As a single woman on this journey there are so many things that frustrate me.  Not only do I not “get” to have the emotional and physical support of a partner/mate, but I also have to look to a stranger to help create something.  Lots of strangers actually.  The sperm donor, the doctors, the nurses, the lap techs, the ultra sound wanders, the blood takers, the makers of ovulation predictor kits, the people that assemble and package fertility drugs. I am shit when it comes to asking for help.  In fact, one of the stupid things that I say over and over is, “I got it!”

“I got it” – meaning back the fuck off. I don’t need you.  I don’t want you. I can do it myself, thank you very much.

When it comes to making a kid I don’t ‘got it’.  I can’t do this on my own.  I am 100% certain that I can parent on my own.  I may not be as perfect as a 2 parent house, but I know I will be a great Mother.  But I can’t become a Mother on my own.  I can’t just buy the kit and make it myself. And that is sooooooo super maddening.

But hey, maybe someday…

Or maybe some day some kick ass rock star lesbians will become sperm donors.

Yesterday was a bit of a headache. I woke up resentful that I had to tend to GM 24/7, annoyed that I had agreed to feed and walk a neighbor’s dogs while she was out of town, and pissed off that the weather was turning warm. I was also extremely jealous that Mother was still fast asleep in her room and having a good and true day off.  Where the fuck was MY day off.

Oh and I was super pissed that the pharmacy didn’t have a prescription in stock for pick up on Friday.  I mean for cripe’s sake, we live in a town with a bazillion senior citizens and you are telling me that you don’t have aricept?

So I took my bad mood self and begrudgingly got into the car for a quick trip to the pharmacy.  The car was too hot inside which pissed me off more so I rolled down all the windows.  I cursed every single person that was out & looking like they were carefree and happy and all the things I wasn’t.

On the way home I realized that I wasn’t quite as bitchy.  Then it hit me: the random satellite radio station that I was listening to had just played three songs in a row that utilized the phrase, “shake it”, within their chorus. And yes people, I had, without my realizing it, been “shaking it” within the confines of my cushy and over-sized driver’s seat.  And “shakin it” felt damn good.

By the time I got home I was fucking singing and smiling. Radio killed the volatile girl.

AND the good vibes somehow managed to stay with me today.  I woke up kinda late in the 8am genre and decided to call up a neighbor to see if she wanted to go for a walk.  We ended up walking the 2 miles to the club’s fitness center and THEN we worked out.

I have been walking around 2 miles a day for the last week and a half (one perk of agreeing to dog sit) but the extra oomph of weight lifting and machine involvement was powerful.  At one point I glanced over and saw a very studly looking man putting some weights back in their place.  “Oh!” my libido woke up and suddenly I was checking myself out in the overly abundant gym mirrors to see how fugly I was looking.

As I was mentally giving myself lipo I heard an all too familiar rip. I looked over at the studly man and saw that he had slipped on his yoga style matt.  But the sound, oh that sound, was so farty sounding that you couldn’t help but laugh.  So, being the mature and sophisticated person that I am, I laughed.  Which, in turn, made studly go all cute and pink in the face.  Which made me make the, “I know you didn’t just fart, but it sure sounded like you did” gesture.  Which made him make the, “well just as long as you know I didn’t really break wind then that is cool” nod.  Which made me…TWINKLE at him.

In case you are not familiar with twinkling, it is the precursor to flirt.  It is that extra something in your eyes or smile that lights up when you are considering going in for a full on flirt.

I haven’t twinkled at somebody in 600 years, and yet there I was in all of my spandex, large ass, red faced, sweaty head glory twinkling. Of course I couldn’t keep my gaze long enough to see if I got a twinkle back.  Chances are that I didn’t, but I don’t give a shit.  Just knowing that I still CAN twinkle is something to celebrate.

MOTHERFUCKING valentine’s day. Stupid red roses. Lame ass chocolate hearts. Stupid chalky tasting cutie-pie etched in pepto bismol colored candies. Embarrassing thoughts about my last roll in the hay. Itching from all of the cobwebs cluttering up my crotch. Detesting every single smug person with someone to go home to. Regretting not stocking up on red wine to get me through the evening. Wishing I was a size 2. Size 2 women always have valentines. Bitches. Wishing that I could get away with smoking and not feel like crap or guilty about it – the kind of guilt where I imagine my ovaries shriveling up and exiting lke crusty bits of nicotine scented ear wax. Aware that this holiday was made to torture single people with no one to love, but still daydreaming that some day I will not be so bitter. Some day I will have someone to come home to.Until then, I will just keep on hating this day..

My hatred for all things Valentine’s day began in the 8th grade. I went to an all girls school. It was chock full of long legged horsey gals with ridiculously large white, perfect teeth and flawless complexions. The girls all called their fathers “daddy” and honestly believed that they would always be taken care of. On Valentines day the janitorial staff would assemble over 10 large lunchroom style tables and place them in the main rotunda. Before the end of first period the tables would start to fill with obscene floral displays. Giant arrangements of roses, monster truck sized teddy bears, those freaky giant balloon thingies with the weird shit inside. And as we made our way from one class to another the world slowed down allowing for a few extra minutes of wandering by the tables and fervently searching for your name.

In 8th grade almost all of the flowers were from Daddies and as I got older they started coming from boyfriends. Having neither a Daddy nor a boyfriend it was my perogative to become bitchy about the entire ordeal. There was a nice little group of us that bonded over the perversion and spectacle that was made over the holiday. How it set back the women’s movement! How it was hell for those of us with allergies! How it perpetuated the myth that love could be bought!But you so fucking know that we would have peed in our laura ashley underpants if we ever saw our name on something.

I have only been involved with someone twice when the relationship encountered a valentine’s day. Both times I made it very clear that I would not want to made a fuss over, that nothing special should be planned. And both times I got what I asked for and secretly hated it. You see a girl that didn’t have the flowers from Daddy or the 9th grade boyfriend is a bit damaged. There are tiny cracks on her heart. In order to prevent more cracks she sets herself up for bad things to happen so that when they do she is not shattered to pieces. But that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t pine for the day when her heart will melt and all of the cracks won’t be so fragile.

So if you are out there having a bit of a pout, I’m right there with you. If you are lucky enough to have a sweetie take care of them and let them take care of you. And PROMISE not to make out in front of me in the checkout line because I will never forgive you for that.

(have some of your own candy heart fun here.)

Things started out pretty fucking great. I managed to remain in my dragonfly pj’s until nearly noon. There was even that fab purchase I made from Good V*brations. I was feeling well rested and happy about having nothing big to accomplish today.

I went in to GM’s office and turned on the ancient xerox machine we own exclusively so that we can copy and enlarge the crossword puzzle every day. Once the machine was on I noticed a flashing green light: low toner. A quick hunt turned up a full bottle of toner and I glanced at the directions on the bottle & actually thought, “looks easy!”

In the past my GM has always called this Mom & Pop office supply store when she needed her toner changed. For five bucks some part time university student would come over to the house & add the stuff to your machine. It seemed like a waste. Plus- I was smart. I totally understood the directions. All you had to do was remove the little plastic cap thingie & flip it over.

And then half a bottle of black toner falls out.

I guess I was lucky. 99% of the toner fell INTO the machine as opposed to on my GM’s green carpet.

But here is the thing about toner- it does NOT clean up easily. At all. I spent an hour and used up three rolls of bounty & there is still black powder. I need to get one of those little mini vacuums that you can use to clean out between the keys of your keyboard to finish the job. ugh. My poor dragonfly pj’s. I had to throw them away.

Oh- & guess what is really tons of fun after such a disaster? Blowing your nose. Chim Chiminy Chim Chim Cherooooooo…

The day got even more nuts. I took out the trash I created (double bagged) and heard the dogs going crazy at something in the back yard. It is primo chipmunk season so I have learned to tune out the average yip from the dogs. But something about today’s shriek type barks made me realize that whatever they had cornered was not average.

It was a ginourmous (I’m talking the size of a very, very large round platter) turtle.

Turtles are actually pretty common in my backyard as I do live in a lake house. But there is a fence that runs across the backyard that separates usable yard from about 1/2 acre of wild backyard. This turtle was INSIDE the fence. As in a couple of feet away from my front door.

How the hell this massive turtle got in my yard is a mystery. Having two Scottish terriers I know every inch of my fence as I am always on the lookout for holes they have dug.

Upon seeing the turtle I turned into such a prissy girl. ahhhhhhhh!!

I called Mom, who was little help a katrillion miles away in Florida – and seriously was not even helpful for moral support as she was still laughing her ass off over my toner nightmare.

I then called, (now you will see how serious I was) the Uncle. He was not in so I called a good friend that lives down the road. He, like a true Friend warrior, promised to be there in thirty minutes or less. He just had to take a shower. (a fact that now in restrospect cracks me up) We discussed a plan. He lamented that we did not live up north because then we could use a snow shovel. I offered that I had just a regular old shovel & we agreed that that would be the tool for turtle extraction.

About three minutes after I got off the phone with him I had an awesome girl power moment. I could get that turtle and set it free. So maybe I couldn’t add toner to a xerox machine, but how hard could loading a turtle on a shovel be?

Go ahead & get that picture why don’t you.

I spent five minutes shrieking like such a baby trying to put the turtle on the business end of the shovel. I was so nervous that I would hurt her soft belly or that, in defense, she would lob off my big toes.

Luckily (because Lucy always, always has a luckily) I heard voices from the carport of my next door neighbors. Like a mad woman I ran over, shovel in hand, humidity induced sweat pouring down my face, “Can you come get this TURTLE????”

The voices belonged to the college student son and friend of my neighbors and they were so game they came running across the yard as if there was real, mortal danger.

One of them used the shovel to flip the turtle over and then he carried it, bowl side down, in both of his hands. Oh, so that’s how you do it. They were so macho at first and then they immediately started flying their geek flags by telling me exactly what type of turtle she was and guessing her age. They asked if they could have the turtle and swore that they would take care of her. So I let them. Which I now feel guilty of. She wasn’t mine to begin with. She belonged to the lake.

But as wrong as it is to admit, I am going to pull a Scarlet and think about that another day.

Shit, it is only 2:30pm. What else is going to go crazy today??

Friend of Infertile Single.

It’s got to be hard to be my friend. In addition to my sarcasm, my self-deprecating love/hate relationship with my body, my juvenile tendencies to laugh when you trip, and the fact that I suck at returning calls/letters/e-mails – I am trying to get pregnant.

How weird. How bizarre.

I am enmeshed into a world that is so Lifetime Movie. I talk about my Vagina all the time. I wear the same pair of jeans every time you see me (as they are the only ones that fit & you know this as I keep telling you this & then jiggling my inner-tube of lard at you while singing ‘Fat Bottom Girls’). I get moody as a motherfucker. (which the spell check would like me to change to “Moody as a motorbike.”) I get sad. I don’t ask what is going on in your life because, really, what could be more exciting than my fertility – or lack of it?

How annoying I must be. How tiresome. How utterly run on sentence.

And yet you keep calling, keep writing, keep letting me know that you are available to me. You genuinely seem interested when I tell you about luteal phases. You react perfectly when I show you how I have to jab myself with needles.

Being a FOIS must be awful. It must be so hard to wrap your mind around everything that I am putting myself through. But you are still here.

You wouldn’t believe the number of FOIS that are in my life. Men and women that deal with my shit and still seem to want to know me.

Sure I have some great friends that have excused themselves for a while. “Pardon me, I’m just going to wait until you get pregnant before I call you back.” I can actually understand that more than I can understand the friends that have decided to stick around for the long haul.

But I tell you, these FOIS that are around…man, there is nobody finer. Nobody more amazing and lovely.

I hope you know how much I love you and adore you. You know that Bette Midler song? Oh come on, of course you do. There is a line in the chorus of that song that I am bursting to sing to you:

It might have appeared to go unnoticed,
but I’ve got it all here in my heart.
I want you to know I know the truth, of course I know it,
I would be nothing with out you.

To all of my FOIS and to those of you in the blogosphere (Fois-blogs?): thank you, thank God for you.

When it comes to men I have eras of being extremely picky and times when I was pretty foolish. I will confess that I have never been in adult love. I have been infatuated, obsessed, turned on, & hopeful – but never the full on deal. I’ve never been swept off my feet. A few have tried, but I’m a big gal & it isn’t so easy to hoist me up. I am an Amazon female in all senses. Not only do I walk the earth six feet above the ground, not only do I have feet bigger than the average man, not only are my jeans larger than most men that I have dated, but I am loud, outspoken, opinionated. I was raised a feminist by a feminist and the man that will be my partner will be just that: a partner. Co in everything. I am only submissive when I want to be.

My dating resume includes, but is not limited to:
1) Making out with anonymous boys in the church parking lot
2) Making out with anonymous boys on road trips
3) Having awful crushes on ugly boys
4) Having intense crushes on gay boys
5) Having an affair with a woman
6) Having sex at the Turkish Bath house
7) Dating a semi-famous musician On-line dating
9) Googling an ex, contacting ex, having sex with ex
10) Things too embarrassing to mention

So to put it mildly- I am a bit of a dating disaster. When I had a great (but abused) body I lacked the self esteem to go on the prowl. Now I have self esteem but lack the body. But I still consider myself a sexual being. Even though it has been two years since I last had sex. (awful on-line dating disaster) I wish with all of my might that I was in a happy, healthy relationship. But I have this vague notion of the kind of love I want & it isn’t something you troll a bar for. It isn’t something that you rush.

I know you are wondering what all of this has to do with how I select a sperm donor, but I get so many e-mails from polite strangers asking why I have given up on men. Why I would want to start a family alone. Well I don’t. But I am, if nothing else, basically pragmatic. For all of my lofty ideas & silly talk – I am, to the core – realistic. The reality is that I don’t know where my mate is. I don’t know when I will find that person. I’m ready to have a family now.

I have used three different donors & am currently looking for lucky number four.

I started looking online for donors about two years ago. I approached it almost in the exact same way that I approached on-line dating. I went strictly by the notes in the staff impressions. If it was noted that the donor was attractive or had a specific attractive feature I wrote down his profile number. That first round I had a list of ten. From there I started weeding out by ethnic background. I am Irish, English & German & that first round it was very important to have a donor with that makeup. I figured if anything I would be able to paint a background of the donor that emulated mine. There was some sort of odd security in that.

So of the ten three made the 2nd cut. Then it was time to be very, very picky. I wanted a donor with my eye color, I wanted a donor with some height. In a sense – I wanted me.

In the end I wasn’t able to get the donor I first wanted. So I went with my second choice and convinced myself I was really excited about it. He didn’t have blue eyes, but he had red hair! I would have a red headed child for sure. & in his baby picture he looked just like GM!

Well donor #1 didn’t pan out. Three cycles later & I was ready to move on. & to be honest I never felt that enthused about him.

The selection for donor #2 was a lot easier. I maneuvered through the donor search engines with amazing speed. Give me height, give me blue eyes. No whammies! Immediately a donor attracted my attention & it was the first time I paid any attention to things other than physical characteristics. (shame, shame on me.) He had a science background but also expressed interest in the arts. His donor essay was clever and funny and he wrote well about his family. His baby picture was adorable & he got nicknamed Leif. Leif had rock-star numbers. Each IUI day the sperm techs would comment on how amazing his count was. I had a lot of faith in Leif. So much so that I used him for tries 4 through 8. Ironically the musician for which he was nicknamed after had a falling from grace around the same time as my affections with the donor waned.

Finding donor #3 was emotional. One of my best friends, after much soul searching, had offered to be my donor. This would have been my ideal. It was something that R. & I had joked about at University all the time. We fantasized sharing a townhouse in Park Slope. He would live on the first floor & I on the second. He would be free to date any boy he wished & I would be free to date anybody that offered. We would eventually use a doctor to have kids and raise them to be the most wonderful peace, love & harmony babies you could ever imagine. We were going to be Will & Grace before NBC had ever heard of them.

Unfortunately the dream of having R. be my donor ended with his HIV diagnosis several years ago. R was always stoic about how the disease had changed his life. But he mourned Fatherhood deeply. When I was just thinking about getting a new donor R called me with insane excitement. He had met a doctor that promised he could “wash the HIV from his sperm”. I was wary, but I will admit that my heart fluttered at the idea. I even called my RE to inquire about the process. (My poor RE who tries so hard to handle my outspoken ways had an audible gasp when I asked about the HIV wash.) Turns out such a wash is considered illegal in the states. It is only currently being performed in France but exclusively for straight, married couples. I then got the speech about how Gay Men were not allowed to be donors unless they were celibate. yadda, yadda, yadda

Breaking the news to R was devastating. But I know that it was the right thing. Even if we had been able to wash his sperm I don’t think I would have been ok with subjecting R to the emotional anguish of each new cycle. It is hard for me, a healthy woman, it would be cruel for him.

It was with R in mind that I went in search of donor #3. Instead of looking for someone like me I restarted my search looking for someone like him. R is of nordic decent with dimples and thick blonde hair. He also has an insane obsession with Game Shows. I found a donor that matched him physically & then almost peed in my pants when I read in his donor essay about how he was on the same game show that R was on when he was a child.

So #3 was a tribute donor. R and I nicknamed him Guy Smiley and talked about the future kid’s life of cash and prizes.

But I lost my love for Guy after his counts were consistently sub par. I felt that I had picked him for the wrong reasons. It would have been great if it worked, but each time it didn’t I questioned why I was using him.

Now I am on a quest for #4. I am employing all new search criteria. In other words I am going to look at the whole package. But first – I will only look at donors with my blood type. I know that may have nothing to do with compatibility: people with different blood types fuck & have babies every day. But I need to have something different to give me renewed hope. I’m also going to ease up on the height standards. Hell, I’ve got enough height to hook the kid up if it wants to be a super model or basketball champ.

One thing I find myself being adamant on is blue eyes. This is where my true narcissism shines. For my entire life I have gotten complements on my eyes. They are the exact same shade as my Grandfather’s. There was always something about being able to see myself in them & him in me. I really want that with my kid. I want her to be able to see herself in me so that there is no doubt that we belong together.

I have three donors in mind & I will decide within the week who the lucky champ will be. I need to look closely for that special ingredient that shines. The thing that whispers to me, “This is what the Universe was waiting for.”

& yes, I am quite guilty of romanticizing my sperm donors. Not in a pervy way. & not in a way that I imagine us together.

It is much like how I hope for a soul mate. I am also hoping for a sperm mate. The charmed one that will have all the right ingredients to help me create my child.

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Next week’s theme will be: reflections – could be literal reflections in mirrors or puddles or ponds or metaphoric – a photo that reflects on something
This theme is courtesy of last week’s winner, Art-Sweet.