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It was the best of times. It was THE WORST of times.
Sputnik and I had such a good time onĀ āNew Years Day Observedā. I promised to take him to this amazing indoor playground after a quick errand that turned into two errands when I ripped a seam in my winter coat. He was moderately well behaved during both outings (I only had to pull him out from under two racks of clothing, and we both left the store with new winter coats in relative short order.)
Still, we made it to the playground a full hour and half after I wanted to, so I was nervous about the proximity to nap time. But it was really great. Even with theĀ āObserved Dayā crowds. The beauty of the place lies entirely in having two hours with my kid where I donāt have to constantly yell at him to stop doing something.--Yes, you can climb that thing. Yes, you can jump off that thing. Yes, you can smash that thing into that other thing. Yes, you can knock all that stuff down. Please do.--Itās magical.Ā
Then we stopped off at the local purveyor of greasy burgers, and took some lunch home before laying down for a late nap. His nap lasted for almost three hours (he really wore himself out jumping off of things), and I got well into a Netflix Original and craft project before admitting that I needed to wake him up.Ā
I made a surprisingly delicious and healthy dinner, which Sputnik actually ate. Then we had popsicles and brownies on the kitchen floor while we finger painted. Great day. It was a really great day!
And then...the night terrors.Ā
This is really difficult to admit... Iām the parent of a substance abuser. My son has a substantial milk problem. Sputnik would rather have milk than food, and he wants it all the time. Heās had milk just before falling asleep since he was an infant. And Iām not proud of this, but when he got teeth, I didnāt bother trying to put in a teeth brushing step between milk and sleep. Baby sleep is so hard, yāall. I was just trying to get by. But in the interim, my son has become very attached to a particular kind of sippy cup full of milk. Itās his comfort item. (Why couldnāt it have just been a disgusting blanket?) He mostly just carries it around sucking on it. Heās not even drinking the milk most of the time, but donāt imagine I could substitute water or an empty cup. The essence of dairy is apparently the key ingredient of the sippy cup salve.Ā
Anyway, I fight with him about the sippy cup all day, every day, but Iām still letting him use this cup before bed and during naps. Except, Iāve just introduced the rule that we brush teeth once heās finished the milk in the cup (he can keep the empty cup as a pacifier), and there is NO MORE MILK after teeth brushing. I know this sounds stupidly simple, but believe me, it is not. Simple, that is. Itās definitely stupid.Ā
I repeat over and over that we are done with milk before we brush teeth, and he always nods in agreement--he seems totally on board--but the minute we lay down, he starts demanding milk. The first few nights after I instituted the rule, I allowed a little more milk, with a re-brushing of teeth. But last night, I felt that I needed to die on this hill or keep walking up it forever. So I said no. Repeatedly. For 45 minutes.Ā
At one point Sputnik was screaming,Ā āMoā miiiillllk!!!ā at me in pure rage. Spittle flying out of his red, little face. I honestly didnāt know if I was laughing or crying. It was a little funny and a little scary, but entirely heartbreaking. Imagine this, but in a live action toddler. Ā
Iām actually very surprised heās never tried to beat me to death with his sippy cup. Iāve seen the thought in his eyes and the impulse in the way he grips the cup, but the fact that heās never tried it is my main reason to hope that he isnāt really a sociopath. Because I have it on good authority that all two year olds present as sociopaths.Ā
He eventually fell asleep, twitching in my arms. (I assume the twitching was from excess energy he built up during his hulk out, but it could have been the DTs from milk withdraw.) But even the horror of bedtime couldnāt dilute the glow of our good day. I think having a really good day may have helped me hold it together during his rage fit. And, in theory, bedtime should be easier tonight. Right?Ā
This weekend we start potty training. Itās going to be great. Really. Iām sure it will be fine. But maybe check in on me a couple of times. Make sure I donāt have a sippy cup shaped dent in my skull.Ā
In an amazing turn of events...
...Sputnik slept in his own bed last night. For the whole night. For context, he has slept in my bed since he was 10 months old. It isnāt co-sleeping, attachment parenting, or any other conscious decision on my part. It was an accident that I have been helpless to rectify for more than a year.
When my momās cancer returned last year, Sputnik and I flew back to Kentucky every month for most of a year. In Kentucky, we didnāt have a crib that he would sleep in (he was super over pack nā plays by then). So he slept in a bed with me. After two months of that, he was also over sleeping by himself altogether. And I am weak. Especially in the wee hours.Ā
So he moved into my bed and there he stayed. Until last night. I had recently excavated his toddler bed from the piles of clothes it was protecting me from having to deal with. So I started doing some light PR for his bed. āThis is an awesome bed.āĀ āYour bed has monkey sheets. I wish my bed had monkey sheets.āĀ āLook, here is a whole bed you havenāt peed on yet.ā
Mostly he ignores me. Not just on the topic of the bed. Everything. Occasionally I worry that heās deaf, but Iāve had his hearing tested... Anyway, last night, he crawled up in his bed and said he wanted to watch his show there. I was all for it, but fully expected him to demand to get into my bed the minute it was over. However, when the pernicious tones of the Fireman Sam theme song came on, he flopped over onto the pillow and pulled the covers up. I thought he was messing with me. I sat there for a moment afraid to move. Basic toddler rules of survival--when the behavior is acceptable, make no sudden movements. Ā
I ended up laying down on the floor next to his bed and waiting until he fell asleep. Later (after I had my nightly allotment of wine and tv), he was still, unbelievably, in his own bed. Guided by the toddler rules of survival, I decided to make a pallet for myself next his bed. I already had a thick exercise mat down, so I only needed a few blankets and a pillow. You might think that sounds like a reasonable thing to do on the night your kid sleeps in a big boy bed for the first time. And maybe it is...until you consider that my bed is inches away from his bed. But in my defense, I was terrified. I have slept with a child's skull pressed into the small of my back for 16 months now, and my deliverance may be at hand. My logic was that if he opened his eyes in the middle of the night and could still see me next to him, he wouldnāt freak out and would stay in his own bed. And then we would all live happily ever after.Ā
That logic held until sometime in the wee hours when I realized I was super uncomfortable, and my very cozy bed was right next to me. So I climbed into bed like a reasonable adult who is in charge of her own life. Despite my abandonment, he slept in his own bed for the whole night!!Ā
But today heās been a total asshole. Is there a connection? I assume so. If I want a good nightās sleep, I have to be prepared to wrestle him to the ground in front of holiday shoppers at Bed Bath and Beyond. That sounds about right.Ā
Reasons Not to Panic
Iāve been working on my next post in theĀ āReasons NOT to have a Kidā series, and Itās all starting to feel a little too doom and gloom. So I thought I would take a time out and make it clear that having a kid on my own has not ruined my life or my kidās life. Very much to the contrary. I have never been happier. (With my life, I mean. Everything outside of the little bubble of my daily existence, particularly my country, is a heaping pile of misery. Iām no where close to making my peace with the election.)Ā
I will share an example of the ways in which my life is joyous. I suppose I should not speak for all two year olds, but I can tell you that mine is an acolyte of Kali the Destroyer of Worlds. We have the typical conflicts that blended faith households do, but this weekend we had a moment of true peace. I was reorganizing all of our clothes storage, and my son helped. And byĀ āhelpedā I donāt mean he threw everything on the floor and turned over a dresser. He actually carefully brought me piles of clothes from another room without unfolding most of them. Iāve been riding that high for days.Ā
Okay. I already see this might not be the reassuring story I intended. Perhaps my utter joy that a mundane, simple task wasnāt made unbearable isnāt inspiring, but maybe you had to be there.Ā
Let me try a different tak. Sputnik laughs all the time. Granted, sometimes itās maniacal laughter, but he is a damn happy kid. Even when heās done something heās not supposed to-like hitting, itās more often than not because heās really excited. Tonight, when I picked him up from daycare, we were laughing and playing in the parking lot, and he punched me in the nose. And when heās having an exceptionally good time, he bites me. Hard. Itās like heās filled with so much joy he canāt contain himself. My best friend has pointed out that heās going to make a certain kind of girl very happy one day.Ā
At this point I probably sound more like a victim of Stockholm Syndrome than a happy mom, but the truth is that everything about dealing with my little terrorist is more interesting thanĀ everything else I do. Just writing that sentence was hard because I donāt want to be someone whose entire life is about her kid. And yet, I canāt think of anything more interesting than my kid, tiny domestic abuser that he is. Mind you...if he suddenly started eating the thing I made for dinner and stopped trying to launch himself off of every surface in the house (including me), I would not complain.Ā
Reasons NOT to have a kid: Only Parent Edition
Before I decided to have a kid, I was actually pretty aware that most of what I spent my days thinking about and focused on was bullshit. But if you YOU are focused on something in your life that is not bullshit, AND you are considering becoming a singleĀ only parent, then that should give you a moment of pause because being an only parent necessarily splits that focus.Ā
When I thought about how hard being an only parent would be, I thought about how wistfully all of the women I know who are mothers speak about Free Time. I imagined all of my Free Time being violently ripped away from me. And that made me very anxious. Then I thought about what I did with all that freedom. Binge watch Netflix. Burrito & Movie Saturdays. Kindle & Beer Sundays. Binge watch Netflix.Ā
Oh my god, I miss those things!! But you can see how I might have thought burritos and Netflix werenāt worth giving up my opportunity to have kids. When I imagined my life ten years in the future (when I will be approaching 50), the idea that all thatĀ āfreedomā was still going to be my life practically sent me running to the fertility doc.Ā But if there had been something truly important to me at the center of my life, it might have been a different story.Ā
A friend who has three kids gave me a piece of advice when I was trying to make this decision. He said I needed to be aware that my career would probably stagnate for a few years after becoming a mom because I wouldnāt have the time toĀ āgo the extra mileā that gets promotions. I thought that was just dandy because I already donāt have the ambition that gets promotions. Now I have an excuse.Ā
So here it is exactly three years later, and Iām in the exact same position at work. I see a movie in the theater no more than twice a year. I did binge watch the new Gilmore Girls episodes last week with friends, but I had to take advantage of a good friend to do it. Three years ago, I was willing to risk my Phantom Career and Free Time on the chance that my kid would be pretty cool. It worked out.Ā
If you are thinking about becoming an only parent, what do you want your life to be in 10 years? Do you want to be doing the same things you are now? Do you want to be doing MORE of what you are doing now? If so, your decision might be a lot more complicated.Ā

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Hello, I came across your blog through fertilethoughts . I realize it has been a couple of months since you wrote that post. Here is my story: 35 years old, DH is 41 years old. TTC since March of 2016. I had all my blood work done : 26.5 FSH, 0.068 AMH, 37 Estradiol, (also high TSH so diagnosed with Hypothyroidism). I still havenāt spoken to the Doctor as I have an appointment next week. Any comments, insight or anything for me? what did you do?HOW DID YOU GET PREGNANT SO FAST? Thnks Johanna
Hi Johanna,
Apologies for not answering sooner. I took a bit of a break from the blog. Iām also sorry that I donāt have much in the way of helpful insight. For me I think it all came down to dumb luck (or providence depending on your point of view). It was ultimately a series of circumstances that lead to my IUI happening at the exact right time. Iāll write more about that day in the next few weeks, but really I think timing is what clinched it.Ā
I hope things are going well for you.Ā
MJ
Letās Try This Again
Iām back!!Ā
This has been a really, really shitty year. But itās nearly over, and I think itās time for a recap and a refocus.Ā
So to catch you up, Iām the single mom of donor conceived, two year old, funny little man.Ā
Three years ago I had the disorienting experience of finding out that my ovaries were failing as a single woman. I had a brief window of time to decide whether or not to become a mom and no ready access to sperm. Three months later, I was pregnant. Then my mom got sick. Then she died. And then a bunch of other stuff, and here we are.Ā
On the whole, I think my experience has been pretty unique. So I thought I would try to pen a series of posts that might be helpful to folks who are faced with similar decisions. Whether you are single and considering having a kid on your own, or facing fertility issues of one kind or another and are considering donor conception (or both), I know these are really, really difficult decisions.Ā Most of us have a picture of how we are going to start a family some day. It's not easy to swap that image for a freezer tank with an ounce of $700 sperm and a nurse named Nancy. It's a little more than a pivot.
So I'm going to try and share some of the thoughts I had when I was first dealing with all of this. Maybe someone will find it helpful. Or not. Maybe my son will find it interesting some day. Or not.
See you soon. (No, really. I swear.)
That's enough of that
For now. No more from the vault. No more dying moms. I think you get the picture. When I was trying to get pregnant, I was in a bad place. There were bats, and cobwebs, and scary Japanese teenagers crawling slowly through my brain. And it could have gotten much, much worse. Now, obviously Iām not in a great place, but the joy of parenthood is that Iām too tired to be any more stressed than I absolutely have to be. So just the minimum quota of stress. Yay!
I promised I would talk about my sonās love of balls. Itās true. He loves balls. He loves the ones that bounce AND the ones in his diaper. If itās round, he canāt get enough of it.
But he canāt actually do much with a ball (of any variety). When he first discovered the wonders of the sphere, his favorite thing was to just watch me bounce it. De-lightful! Then he liked to get on the floor and bat it around a little. But the thing about balls is...they roll away from you. And Sputnik will. not. crawl. My word choice there is key. He *will* not crawl. He will get up on his hands and knees and scoot backwards or to the side, but if you indicate in any way that you want him to go forward, he will stop, sit up, and cry. He has performance anxiety about crawling. He wonāt even try it. Which makes his love of balls so cruel. They are constantly gliding gracefully out of his life, and watching him in those moments is both heart breaking and sweet. He looks after the ball for a moment. Just longingly. He doesnāt fall apart. He doesnāt cry or look to me to retrieve it. He just accepts that the ball is leaving him. Sometimes with a sigh. And then he goes about pretending that he never really cared about the ball in the first place. āBall? Oh ball was okay...but...this...this bottle of sun screen is what I really came here for.āĀ
What kills me is that he clearly does have anxiety about trying things he hasnāt mastered yet. Where on earth does that come from? How does a nine month old become insecure. Heās never been mocked or shamed or reprimanded. In fact he thinks itās hysterical when you tell him no. He laughed like a damn cartoon villain this morning when I told him to stop ripping the covers off of my paperbacks. So why is he insecure about crawling? People are fascinating.Ā
And on the topic of toys and my sonās emotional development, I was pretty sure I broke him with a mermaid puppet. Last night he was over tired and just falling apart about everything. Diapers, lotion, fish sticks could all go fuck themselves. So while I was trying to wrestle him into his pjs, I desperately grabbed for anything in the toy box to distract him. Mermaid puppet it is! So I put the puppet on my hand and did a slightly higher version of my normal, mommy voice (which is a slightly higher version of my normal, person voice). Sputnikās attitude changed immediately. He very obviously fell in love at first sight, and also, very obviously, was going to punch her if she came too close. Itās understandable. She has this bright yellow yarn hair and blue eye shadow that would woo any man, and the distinct features of a Muppet that scare the shit out of any reasonable person at close range. As the puppet (who I hastily named Veronica), and Sputnik were getting acquainted, I started to get a little worried. Though he would like her to stay the eff away from him thank you very much, you creepy little fish Muppet, he was also obviously smitten. Where there had been tears, Veronica brought joy. As I nattered away in my puppet voice, I became very anxious about what would happen when I removed my hand and Veronica turned into a lifeless pile of yarn and sequins (told you she was trashy). Would he think she died? Would he think I killed her? Would I have to keep this puppet on my hand forever? Of course, it was none of these. He doesnāt know from dead, and he was already so tired he didnāt have the attention span to demand a lifetime of puppet shows. I propped her up and finished putting pjs on a slightly confused boy. The end.Ā
So to sum up, crawling is just too much pressure for this kid, but when his new best friend collapses into a lifeless lump, c'est la vie.Ā
I donāt even know how to title this one. I cannot begin to label this.
I had pretty good reasons for not considering single parenthood before I was forced to by my waning ova. I had thought about it. Especially after I turned 35, people often asked me if I had thought about single parenthood and sperm donation (sometimes even in appropriate conversational circumstances). But I had done the mathāthe daycare fees are too damn high! More important than the money, I didnāt want to do it by myself. I watched coupled friends with kids, and the greatest joy seemed to be in sharing a smile when their kid spit out that first bite of strained peas or told a stranger in the grocery store to fuck off. Thatās what I wanted. I wanted to be able to share those moments with someone else. I still believe thatās the biggest downside to doing this alone. Often when Sputnik (the handle my little guyās been saddled with since before he had limbs) does something amazing, Iām the only one who sees.
But I have had a partner. My mom has been with me through so much of this experience, and she loves Sputnik so completely. She came and stayed with me for almost two months before and after he was born. She was with me in the delivery room, every minute of our epic hospital stay, and for the first three weeks of his life. When I was trying to figure out life alone with a baby, I was never really alone. The first time he smeared sweet potatoes all over his face everywhere, we were video chatting with Grandmama. And the first time he threw up, I was on the phone with her before I grabbed a towel. Sheās rearranged her life every time Iāve needed her. Sheās my first call for the good and the bad.
And now sheās dying. In many ways sheās already gone. The cancer has spread to her brain, and she often doesnāt know where she is. And if she does, sheās usually too pissed off to be Grandmama anymore. A few weeks ago, Sputnik hit his head, and we had to go to the emergency room. I didnāt even tell my mom. I knew I wouldnāt be able to handle it if she wasnāt capable of being supportive that evening.
So Iām losing my mom, but Iāve already lost my partner in marveling at my little boy.Ā
Damn it. I need to get some lighter material. Next time Iāll return to Sputnikās love of balls. Comedy gold.
Cognitive Dissonance: Infertility vs. Trying to Conceive
Another gem from the vault. _______________________________________________________
Once my doc dropped the news that I needed to get knocked up right āeffing now, I had A LOT of decisions to make. These decisions required me to envision a world where I had a child. Eventually the idea of infertility faded into the background, and I was totally focused the process of getting my baby.Ā
Now that Iām really doing it, I feel like infertility is looming over me again. Iām so confused by what my diagnosis means and what my doctor says is possible, but I do know that the best case scenario is a 10% chance of getting pregnant. After a month and a half of pricing daycares and thinking about names, that number is pretty hard to face again.Ā
Reading the various fertility forums, I see that hope can be an addiction. Women who want to have children but can't CRAVE stories of women who beat the odds. And they'll do just about anything to be one of the big winners. ______________________________________________________
Okay. Obviously, Iām one of the winners. But looking back to this moment in my life still makes me a little sick to my stomach. Even though it worked out for me, that craving for hope still doesnāt seem healthy. But there isnāt anything to be done about it. I only tried to conceive for two months, and I think I would have needed serious intervention before I could have given up on that picture of my life with a baby that germinated as I was making the decision to try. The folks whoāve been doing it for years...I donāt like to think about it. To anyone reading this who is trying, Iām both so pleased and so, so sorry to be one of those stories to give you hope. I have zero advice to give someone whoās tried for even half a year, but I know what was starting to happen to me after just one failed attempt. I donāt think the person I am could have survived it for too long. And I donāt think I would want to meet who was left.Ā
Depressing, I know. Maybe someone reading this can offer some actual hope in the form of advice on how to hold on to yourself in the face of searching for your happiness in place that you know you might never find it.Ā

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All the pregnant ladies
And here is an example of my mental state during that period between my first failed attempt to conceive and my second successful one. Please note that I immediately transformed into one of these annoying bitches Iām complaining about here. The entire world was sharing in my joy, and I basked in it!! I was a special snowflake miracle. Good times. Now Iām just a normal human mother who canāt find pants that fit. Ā _____________________________________________________
There are pregnant women everywhere. Thereās been an average of two pregnant ladies in every meeting Iāve been in for the last four months. Yesterday in my first meeting, there were a lot of sly looks between one of my more visibly pregnant colleagues and her newlywed assistant director, who I realized was looking rather buxom all of a sudden. I executed a full body eye roll. I then went back to my office where a contract employee I see twice a year proudly revealed her six months pregnant belly. I may have pulled a muscle during my aggressive exhibition of āSo Happy For You!ā
Pregnant women seem so smug to me now. What is somehow surprising to me is that these women have no shame. They are so pleased with themselves that I think they really do believe the entire world is tripping over itself to share in their joy. And maybe they are. But from where I sit, they are just braggarts. That sounds pettyā¦even to me. But I canāt see it any other way anymore. Surely they are aware that there are women who canāt or have difficulty conceiving. Have a little shame.
The day after I got the first FSH results and did my initial search into what they meant, I was just trying to stumble through my day without cracking up. One of my weekly meetings is with some colleagues with whom Iām quite friendly. And half of these ladies were very pregnant at the time. We often talked about their pregnancies, and usually I was happy to be a part of those conversations. But this day was out of control. There were ultrasound pics. And joy. So much fucking joy. Iām pretty sure I floated up out of my body. I was aware that this was objectively funny. They were showing me photos of their unborn children on the day I found out I couldnāt have any. Hysterical!
That day I was not into it. Obviously. I jumped out of my chair and stood awkwardly next to the table until everyone realized the meeting was over and left my office. Iām sure they thought I was being exceptionally rude. Or crazy.
For a while, after I decided to try for a baby, pregnant ladies and talk of babies were fun again. After all, itās a club Iām about to join. Right? But thereās a good chance Iām not going to join it, and every day that passes, and very baby bump I see, makes it a little bit harder to pretend that I am.
Hello again...
Last night my kid saw a rubber ball bounce for the first time and he thought that shit was HYSTERICAL! He laughs all the time, but itās always been in relation to him. What other people are doing to amuse and delight him. This was him observing something in the world around him and judging it good.
This is all to say, YES! I have a kid now. And he is a real person with his own thoughts and reactions to things.
I realize it's been a year and a half since I last posted something. There are a lot of reasons for this. At first it was because my first attempt to conceive failed, and I took it kind of hard. I realized that I was not as sanguine about all of this as I was trying to tell myself I was. I thought I was ready to make my peace with whatever my life was going to be. I logically knew that the chances of ever conceiving were pretty low (10% according to my doc), but when faced with a raft of urine soaked plastic with only one, lonely, barren pink line looking back at me, I realized I was not going to be okay with a childless life. So I stopped writing. At the time I wasn't willing to really confront how I felt about it, and I knew that if I did, I would't be able to communicate it in any way I wanted other people to read.Ā
Ā But then...I got knocked up the very next month! Take that universe...and statistics... Even though I had proved my fecundity once and for all, I still didn't want to write about it. At first it was because I wasn't telling people yet, and I was afraid someone would find out by reading this blog. (Which is absolutely absurd. No one is reading this blog. Especially not people I know.) But then I became entirely absorbed with research. Massive amounts of research. Into things like, "How to bathe a baby without drowning it" and "How to live comfortably with an infant in your car" (Babies be expensive, y'all). Mostly I just realized that I was really, really boring and no one wanted to read about my obsession with Amazon reviews of diaper genies.Ā
Ā But that whole time I was incubating a human. A truly awesome human. And then he was born. And then I didn't write because, well, I was busy. Still am. Trying to figure out how this is all going to work. But it's been really interesting, and getting more interesting all the time. I'm a single mom with a kid from a sperm donor. I want make an effort to record some of this. I do have some posts written over the last year and half that I will go through and decide what to put up. It will be like a little time capsule. Fun! In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed this update. Please bear with me and stay tuned.
The Rabbit Hole
This whole process has excited some of my more obsessive behaviors. I like to know stuff. Actually it would be more accurate to say that HATE not knowing stuff. So every little question sends me to the internet. And we know how good the internet is at providing unambiguous and concise answers to questions. It's the best! So I've fallen pretty long and hard down the rabbit hole of fertility. A quick look back at my google search history for the last couple of days reveals my crazy: how long after trigger shot will I ovulate, ovarian pain after trigger, luteal defect caused by low reserve, egg white cervical mucus and ovulation, barry allen, short menstrual cycle and lung cancer, ovulation and exhaustion, follicle growth rate, high FSH and follicle growth, food to promote follicle growth, and spreadable chocolate ganache. You get the picture. Aside from a couple of questions about the Flash and pastry fillings, I've been pretty focused. Now I'm a day away from my first insemination (IUI), and I can see that this is only going to get worse. I need something to check my obsessive tendencies. I wonder if there is a browser extension that will close all my windows if I type the word "ovulation" into the search bar. Mutually assured destruction seems like the only thing that will stop me. What I need is the equivalent of a dead man's switch for the internet.
So this is different
Itās been an eventful couple of months since I last wrote anything here. Iāll post the big news now, but I want to catch up on all the details over the next few days.
Since my last postā¦I finally talked to my doctor, went to China, came home, celebrated my grandmotherās 100th birthday, panicked about a NOT getting one virus while fighting nausea from another, bought a whole bunch of sperm, celebrated Thanksgiving, and generally spiraled in and out of crazy town several times a day.
So some stuffās happened.
Actually I got a call from my doctor a couple of hours after I wrote my last post. She confirmed premature ovarian failure (POFāIām learning the lingo), but said that for the moment, I have just as much of a chance at conceiving as any 37 year old woman. For the moment. She made it clear that I donāt have any time to waste. And then she said this: āI suggest you try to conceive immediately with donor sperm.ā Iām not sure if it was the word āimmediatelyā or ādonor spermā that made me feel like my head was filled with cotton and my living room was on the moon, but Iāve definitely been in another reality since that moment.
So Iām trying to have a kid. Iām suddenly trying to have a kid really effing hard. Iāve got lots to report from the last two months, but thatās the headline. :-)
Yes, I'm 37, but before you say we told you so
I have 54 first cousins. 27 cousins on each side of my family. The symmetry is stunning, no?
My family has babies. It's our most singularly defining characteristic. My maternal grandmother had 8 children, and my paternal had 13. Yes, we're from Kentucky, but even by holler standards, we are a fecund bunch.Ā
In fact, one of the things I've been most proud of in my life is NOT getting knocked up. For many people where Iām from, getting knocked up at 17 is just moving on to the next phase of your life. It's becoming an adult. If you can graduate from high school first, good for you!
Me...I learned how to use birth control and had some goals beyond moving out of my parent's house. (To be completely fair, my parents were able to pay for college and actively expected me to go, so my situation was only different from some of the people I grew up with in every possible way.)
As I approached my late 30s, I listened to all the stories of people my age who had trouble conceiving, including the stories of people in my own life. But I always thought I had a little something extra in my back pocket. My grandmother (who is turning 100 in few weeks) is fond of telling me that she had five babies in her 30s. And then my mother will say under her breath, "she's forgetting about the three she had in her 40s." Premature ovarian failure was never anywhere on my radar.Ā

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That's a no go on the ovaries. Repeat. Ovaries are a No Go.
I honestly don't remember what I originally thought I would write about when I set up this blog. Obviously I was ambivalent about a lot of things (especially my dating life).Ā
That was a couple of years ago. Since then almost nothing has happened withĀ me,Ā but my mom got cancer and beat the ever lovin' shit out of it. Even so, it's left her with a sense of urgency about some things. One of them is the notion of me and babies.Ā
She convinced me to talk to someone about freezing my eggs. I'm 37, single, and that doesn't seem likely to change anytime soon. So I said why not...it's a practical conversation to have...having spares of your critical components only makes good operational sense.Ā
This week I got the blood work back. Follicle Stimulating Hormone (FSH) is 22. That's more than twice the recommended number. Not that my doctor explained this to me, by the way. These test results were automatically posted to my online medical record. I got an email. Most of the results come with a "standard range" attached. The FSH and estrogen had no range with them--just my number. It is terribly thoughtful of them to spare me the panic of looking at a number associated with my ability to have a child and seeing that it is out of the standard range. Or it would be if I weren't a human being living in the United States in 2013. What kind of woman looks at that and does anything other than immediately typing "FSH standard range" into Google. Probably not the kind of woman who makes appointments with fertility specialists.Ā
Obviously I found a shit ton of bad news about FSH levels. Such as this little gem:
"There is no single ānormalā value for a basal FSH level.Ā The value varies from clinic to clinic and varies based on the assay used.Ā At InVia Fertility Specialists, we like the FSH level to be < 10 mIU/mL.Ā A value between 10 and 15 mIU/mL signifies diminished ovarian reserve.Ā A value > 15 mIU/mL (and definitely > 20 mIU/mL) signifies severely diminished ovarian reserve and a pregnancy rate with IVF of < 1%."Ā
Anyway. I've also found some very hopeful information for people with elevated FSH (though not a lot about numbers as high as mine). But pretty much all of it assumes that I am, in fact, people...as in, more than one. All the single ladies...don't have fertility issues.Ā In case you were wondering, I just have a constant loop of WHAT. THE. FUCK. playing in my head.Ā
I want kids. I've always wanted kids. I just knew that I wanted to do it with someone else, and I cannot spend my life with someone just because they have some nice lookin' sperm. I've spent a lot of time trying to make myself okay with the idea that the right guy, with all the sperm and attendant babies, might not come along. But it seems that I've just been kidding myself. I must be just as delusional as my 18Ā year oldĀ students because I'm not sure what to do if it's not even a hope.Ā
A love note to "Whitney"
Somehow I hadnāt noticed that some people were being dicks about the show Whitney last year, so this NYMAG article is the first Iām hearing of it. Iām baffled. Iāve been telling everyone who would listen to watch Whitney. I spent a really great evening showing multiple episodes of Whitney to my sister while our mom slept off the chemo next to us and occasionally woke up enough to giggle. (My sister and I donāt agree on ANYTHING, and agreeing that something was funny felt like a miracle that night.)
Apparently some people had the audacity to suggest that Whitney Cummings is not a good role model for women. And I absolutely LOVE it when when people decide what is good for me as a woman. (There should be a cartoon of me here with little lines of rage coming off of my angry, angry body.)
Hereās the thing to rememberāFuck Rolemodels. Some of us are already damaged (read: were never going do what other people wanted us to do anyway), and we just like seeing that weāre not alone, and weāre not unlikeable, and damaged is its own kind of beautiful. Iām too tired to be something else at this point anyway.