Shaking Off the Crazy

Ok. One night back in my own bed with M. by my side has washed away a little of the crazy that has been consuming me this week. I'm feeling much, much better this morning. Sort of. More like resigned. But that'll work.

Now that I'm home its easy to remember that my association life is not the same as the one that I experienced out there in the Midwest. We are not a world of corporate sponsors and people throwing money at us (understatement). We are not about the hoopla. We are mission-based. What I do is real. I was right, that world isn't my world. It really isn't.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not dissing or getting all high and mighty. I'm just saying that at this point in my life, I was just not up for the shmoozing. Or maybe after 4 days I was just completely and totally over one particular person who had latched on to me early on in the conference and I just kept running into again and again and again. I made the mistake of talking him through a mini-crisis he was having on the first night (ailing family member, he as frustrated caregiver, feeling guilty about being frustrated, unfortunately, a common story in my profession and one I was able to speak to) and he decided we were soul mates. And from that point on it felt like I just couldn't shake him. Or his posse. Or all that came with it. So I found myself caught up in trying to avoid this guy as opposed to trying to lock into the sessions I needed to hear or the other contacts I felt I was supposed to be trying to make.

And, on top of that, as I've mentioned, I just didn't want to be there. Jumping straight into the grid after 3 glorious weeks out without time to process and savor and relish those moments was just too much.

But after a good night's sleep next to someone I love I understand that I have to be there. We must be there. Because we still want a child. And there is no way to do that without the assistance of several parties. All of which will cost a lot of money. So, if a baby is in the future, alas, our space on the grid is locked in. That is just how it has to be.

And as if that realization isn't hard enough, as if that leap isn't a massive mind fuck in the best of situations, along comes a nightmare scenario, one to confirm all of the whispering and doubts that play out in people's minds, or at least make surrogacy synonymous with sketch for a lot of people for a little while longer.

Dammit.

And here is where I borrow some words from Mel, because she nails it. Beyond the shock of a story as sucky as this one, beyond the anger and angst you feel on behalf of the people affected, at the heart of it all is this:

I am so fucking angry that I can’t build my family without assistance and because I need to depend on other people in order to form my family. And I am so fucking angry that the majority of people in this world don’t have to navigate the ethical concerns that come with assisted family building. They want a child, they have sex, and they raise said child. And I am so fucking angry that I have to depend on others.

But that's the way it is. So you give yourself a moment to be angry and outraged and indignant and yes a little self-pitying. And then you wipe your tears and get back to your To Do list of all that needs to take place if you want to be a parent.

Let me tell you where we are with all of that.

I may have mentioned before that we have a family member that is a very willing gestational carrier (GC) for us. That in itself is wonderful, but the timing isn't. Its just not the right time right now. So, while this is our #1 best case scenario, it's not one that can play out for another year or so.

In the meantime, M and I decided to look into an agency to see if we could find a gestational carrier through this route. We found an agency that seemed trustworthy, had worked with our doctors and clinic before, and is more affordable than other places folks had recommended. After spending a full Saturday painstakingly filling out an Intended Parent (IP) questionnaire, we started to receive profiles of potential GCs. The first two were prefaced with an "I think you'll really like them!" by the head of the agency.

We looked at each of the documents and were overwhelmingly underwhelmed. To the point of tears. Responses to questions we had spent time agonizing over were replaced by excessive exclamation points and smiley faces and all caps. I LOVE babies!!!!! (squeeeeee)

Ok, the squee was mine, but at first glance M and I fell back down into our pit of despair.

One of my buddies is exasperated with me. She can't see why any of that matters if there is someone ready and healthy and willing to help us get the child we want. Yes, dude. For a fee. For a substantial fee. And sorry, if I'm paying that substantial fee, I feel I have more than a little skin in the game. I feel I have a right to be a little picky.

And I don't see this as a nine-month proposition. This is someone who will be connected to your life and the life of your child indefinitely. Whether there is constant communication or not. Whether there is a good relationship or not. This person would always be the person that birthed our baby. So I don't want my first impression of that person to be, "hmmm, meh. I guess she'll do." I want it to be, "wow! I cannot wait to meet this person. I hope she likes me too."

I'm wondering if we need to re-evaluate our expectations. And here is where I would LOVE any of you who have already been through this to tell me to a.) stick to my guns or b.) get my head out of my ass.

And while I'm soliciting reader feedback, what do you think about this:

We are thinking about sending out a mass email to friends and family giving them an update on our situation and asking them if anyone knows anyone that would be interested in being a gestational carrier for us. The email would make it clear that there is no need for a response to this - just throwing it out there before we continue down the road with an agency, because obviously, we would so much rather build our family around people that we know and love.

How would you feel if you got an email like that? Is it too much? Pushy? Presumptuous? Would you think we were desperate and out of our minds? M.'s preferred method is a FB status update asking if anyone wants to be our baby mama. I think that's a bit much. But maybe it isn't?

**

BTW, for those waiting for Australia highlights and photos, swear to goddess its on a To Do list. Need to dig myself out of emails and phone messages and all that first. Short answer: It was incredible. You should go.

back on the grid

Right now, I'm in St. Louis pretending to be an executive. I'm getting wined and dined by vendors and dutifully attending sessions on Board ethics, improving non dues revenue and all kinds of topics around "Innovation!" Innovation, it seems, is always followed by an exclamation point. Innovation! Can't you just feel the excitement!

This time last week, M and I were running around the streets of Sydney pretending to be Neo from The Matrix closing up almost three weeks wandering through a new country where we remembered how much we love being in motion, being together. We had the use of an old station wagon and someone's camping gear and it was amazing to see how easily we fell back into our old travel routines. M drives. I navigate. We break down the tent. I fold. He packs...In between there and here, there was a kickball game and about 48 hours spent in close proximity to my own bed.

I think its finally catching up with me. Because a full night of a Beatles tribute band with Boomers drunkenly dancing and whooping it up around me was all it took to send me into an existential crisis.

What the fuck am I doing here? This is not my life. These are not my people.

I never thought I would say this: I have eaten too much free food. I have drank too many free drinks. I feel indebted when I shouldn't have to. The excess and consumption is scraping off layers of my soul.

I have to do lists pages and pages long with ways I can improve how my association works and how I can make my own resume better, my career prospects brighter. I look at them this morning, remember what it feels like to wake up at dawn in a tent by the ocean and want none of it. None of it.

I have so much more to say, but I have to force myself into a session or two this morning and I wanted to let you know I was back on the grid. For now.

On Awareness

I've been thinking a lot about "awareness" lately.

Maybe its because there is a sea of pink all around me. Pink ribbons. Pink sneakers on football players. Pink baseballs bats (phallic, no?). It seems that everything and anything that can be mutated into something pink, is. All in honor of what? Breast cancer "awareness"? And this is where the sour taste comes up in my mouth and makes me make that face. You know, the one with the eye rolling and the "oh really" and the "give me a fucking break."

Not because I discount the hundreds of thousands of women (and men!) who have had to contend with this particular brand of cancer. Or the pain they have suffered. Or the disruption of their lives that continues well into remission that can be blamed squarely on the disease.

As a cancer survivor and someone rendered infertile because of it, I get it. I so get it. Cancer sucks. Of this I am aware.

But what's WRONG with that first sentence of the previous paragraph? WHY are there hundreds of thousands of people who have to deal with this? WHY is it enough that we are aware of the situation? Because if breast cancer is predicted to take down, what is the stat now, one out of every eight of our sisters, is there anyone out there un-aware of the dangers? Yes, I know, don't smoke, don't drink too much, be good little girls, but guess what, breast cancer strikes goody two shoeses, too. Is anyone, anyone questioning other root cause(s) here? Or is it enough to blow pink balloons out of our asses?

I used to think I was the only one that made that RUFKM face with the pink. But then I ran across this amazing article by Barbara Ehrenreich in an old Harper's magazine. And yes I know its long and I'm usually not one for multiple pages, but I remember reading this for the first time years ago and shouting, YES! Fucking right on! Shaking my fists in balls of rage and wanting to go set something on fire.

Warning: she doesn't mince words. And if the following statement pisses you off, you should probably skip the link:

In the harshest judgment, the breast-cancer cult serves as an accomplice in global poisoning-normalizing cancer, prettying it up, even presenting it, perversely, as a positive and enviable experience.

But seriously, I am getting worked the fuck up reading it again right now. No, listen, I changed my mind, you NEED to go read this. And then tell me if you find any similarities to other situations you are dealing with right now at this moment in your lives.

To the extent that current methods of detection and treatment fail or fall short, America's breast-cancer cult can be judged as an outbreak of mass delusion, celebrating survivorhood by downplaying mortality and promoting obedience to medical protocols known to have limited efficacy. And although we may imagine ourselves to be well past the era of patriarchal medicine, obedience is the message behind the infantilizing theme in breast-cancer culture, as represented by the teddy bears, the crayons, and the prevailing pinkness. You are encouraged to regress to a little-girl state, to suspend critical judgment, and to accept whatever measures the doctors, as parent surrogates, choose to impose.

And yes I know I should be thankful to be alive. And yes, I have been told to believe that chemotherapy and radiation were my saviors. And sure, I saw the tumor shrink on the fancy X-ray machine.

But here's the thing, kids: I never felt bad before my cancer was diagnosed. I never suffered until my treatments began. And when I look down at the 10-inch scar running in a crooked line down my belly (thank you, med student who was allowed into surgery) more than just a little part of me wonders if anyone really knew what the fuck they were doing. And that wonder is intensified every time an ultrasound picks up those little surgical clips where my ovaries should be and the current med student goes, oh hmmm, that's interesting...

Ok. Now I realize this post has drifted to a place that probably makes some folks uncomfortable. I'm sorry. That really wasn't my point. Well, actually, it is. What I had started to write about was the question that I always have in my mind, "where is the line between "Awareness" and simply "being an asshole?"

This is something I've been thinking about and trying to vocalize ever since I googled my own name the other day and found (yet another) blog post by Cheryl Miller quoting me. (funny how a few phone conversations with a couple of us has given here quite a bit of material, no? Infertility! It's a gift that keeps giving!) Here's a passage:

This conflict between privacy and exposure was something that fascinated me while interviewing the bloggers. When I first went in, I was a little skeptical about all the talk of raising awareness from these (mostly) anonymous bloggers. Many hadn't even told their families or friends. If you can’t even talk openly with the people closest to you, I thought, how are you going to educate the public at large?

After talking with bloggers, I changed my mind. For one thing, my interviews made clear how difficult it is to be "out" 24/7 about your infertility. Who — and what — to tell is a question the infertile have to struggle with on a daily basis. Do you use every awkward exchange as a “teachable moment,” an opportunity to educate others about the 6.1 million people struggling with infertility? And who is appropriate to "educate": relatives you see once a year, co-workers, neighbors, total strangers who just happened to ask an innocent, but painful, question? During an interview, [m.] told me about how she was teased by co-workers who were unaware of her infertility. “Do you go into the whole story right there in the break room?” she asked me. “Or do you just let it slide?”

Like most of the time when you read about yourself in print, its like, yes, sort of, but not really. Here's what really went down: break room yes. Three younger co-workers, yes. Teasing, not really. More like gentle ribbing of me and my no-nonsense at work persona and how I would be with kids. This was pre-pregnancy, pre any knowledge whatsoever that we were trying.

And you tell me, would you feel a need to stop the copy machine, turn around, dramatic pause, and proceed to make every single one of those young women, some of whom you supervise, feel like utter and absolute shit because the fact of the matter is you want more than anything the situation they think would be hilarious to see you in? Do you ruin their lunches? Do you become that person that can't take a joke and what's more, is the break room really the place you want to talk about missing ovaries and the anguish they cause you?

At that point, I chose no. But that doesn't me I always do.

Back to cancer. Back in my cancer days, me and my cancer buddies would go to this free summer camp up in the mountains. It was a blast. One day out of the week was "media day." It was the one day that local press, papers, TV stations were allowed to come bug us and get their feel good human interest, you know, "Awareness" stories.

And dudes, we ran with it. We'd place bets to see which one of us could make the pretty anchor lady cry first. We'd see how graphic we'd need to be before the camera man squirmed and looked away. And no, we were not above removing prosthetics, tricks with stumps, making broviac-hickman ports squirt, showing scars, some fresh, and pulling out hair and taking off wigs right there on camera.

Now you tell me. Was that awareness, or were we just being assholes?

These days, I see that I am not the only kukd chick that struggles with this sometimes fine line. Monica over at Knocked Up Knocked Down talks about it a little in her most recent post:

a buddy at work whose wife is 12 weeks pregnant e-mailed to see if Kev and I had talked about baby names yet. I could've just said "no" like a normal, sober, clear-minded human being. But I just had to gussy up my reply with more dramatic than that, something like this:

"No, we haven't started thinking about names, since this is our fourth pregnancy. There's a 50% chance this won't work out anyway since it's a boy, so we're just keeping our fingers crossed and hoping a living baby will come out of it. Then we'll name him."

Immediately after hitting "send," I felt bad. I wished I could have taken it back. It was like this old-me coming through all of a sudden, the gloom-n-doom me who was high on pain for a year-and-a-half, dredging it up and wearing it boldly, daring anyone to challenge it.

Why couldn't I give this guy just a simple, friendly response without bringing up that whole bitter truth? Why not just let him have his innocent and happy little e-mail exchange with a fellow expecting parent? What was I hoping for - some kind of sympathetic response? I felt like one of those people I've always been afraid to become: putting it out there all the time - I'M A DEAD-BABY MOMMA AND DON'T YOU FORGET IT! - to the point where the world grows tired of the subject, and, even worse, to the point where I'm really just clinging to this pain-crutch as an excuse to not engage in normal discourse with another human.

And like most times when I read Monica, I sit there an think, yes. Damn. I do this too. Not always. At least I try. But then I remembered an exchange on FB that just happened. Recently I took a leap and invited several of my work colleages on to my FB page. And I got this response from one of my friend requests:

i'll confirm you, but please know that i am an almost 45 year old gay jewish man. my posts are not always g-rated. i wanted you to know that from the start. i always give folks that info so that they know.

Not one to be outdone, what do I do? Do I say, hey, no problem! Thanks for the heads up. I'm sorry that some of our colleagues aren't as open minded as they claim? Oh ho no! Here's me:

don't sweat it. I am a 35 yr old married atheist with two dead babies. I don't think I would qualify for a G-rating either.

So, hmm. Awareness? Asshole? I honestly still haven't decided.

and here's more full disclosure: after this long and exhausting rant on awareness (what you get when I don't post for a while), some of you may recall that that really cool thing that M and I did several years back was supposedly all for Childhood Cancer Awareness. Ironic? Hypocritical? No dudes, simply a fall back. The original intent was to get a boatload of actual cash for cancer research and one local charity, but that fell through when our primary sponsor became a publicly traded company right before we set off (thus complicating and eventually nullifying the really cool plan that we had for fundraising).

So maybe that's another piece of my anti-awareness-ness. Maybe I just see it as a fallback plan, and not a plan in itself.

Called It

My GTalk is filled with words from a man who is now doubting his self-worth, his value and the meaning of everything.

Thanks, fates. Thanks a fucking lot. Could you at least point me towards the words to soothe?

Where is the mercy?

More Than

Ok. That was helpful.

After I wrote the last post I went where I should have been earlier today - to my calendar - and let out a sharp "OH FUCK" (kind of like the one M yalped when he realized at 6:59 am this morning that he had a 7 am dentist appointment) because I too saw a handful of things, one of which required actually dressing and leaving the apartment, that I didn't want to deal with today.

But I did.

And it was fine. Not fine as in the lunch was delicious or the speaker said things that were really great, but it was fine in that I ran into a colleague I really, really like and she sat with me and another very smart person sat down with us and just in conversation threw down a ton of great grassroots lobbying ideas that I am so eager to try out. And was, in general, very kind and mentor-ly and treated us like professionals even though we were decades his younger.

Because I am a professional. (professional bullshitter, heh heh. shnooka shnooka. Sorry. sorry. that's one of my inner voices sneaking through.)

But since she's hear (ooh freudian typo) I mean here, why don't I just try out some of the things that I would like her to say to me today:

I am MORE THAN my womb.

My uterus is a piece of me. The WHOLE of me is MUCH LARGER than that ONE piece.

There are things I can do and do WELL.

They are not discounted nor minimized nor erased because there is ONE PART of me that is not working well right now.

I am MORE than the sum of my PARTS.

Even the lady parts.

NOTE: I am truly not schizophrenic. Not that there's anything wrong with people who are schizophrenic or hear a cacophony of voices in their daily lives. But I do, like so many of us do, have a pretty nonstop (and loud. and opinionated) series of internal monologues that I seem unable to disable.

So I might as well try to reprogram.

Ambitious Lists

When all of this went down, I was contemplating dropping out of IComLeavWe this month. Granted, it wasn't the first thing on my mind, but it was there.

How can I read about everyone else's lives when mine feels like it's falling apart? How can I share joy? Offer comfort? Commiserate? Laugh, even? Those were my thoughts from what feels like ages ago.

Today, on this sunny, brisk morning, I am thinking that I can. Not only that I can, but I should. And that it will feel good.

This morning, armed with my cup of (decaf) coffee, I am so ready to crack open my computer and visit some worlds that aren't mine right now. Look out, ladies. I'ma comin' over!

And I am not stopping there. After I get my bloggy fill, I have big plans for today which include:

1. getting dressed (look out, world)
   
2. ironing
3. watering my plants
4. addressing and sending the remaining announcements and Xmas cards
5. making soup (and maybe some cookies)
6. calling our RE to see when we can come over, talk, hug, check out some donor profiles
   
7. cracking open my work email (if only to peek. L, don't get mad. I won't do anything useful)
8. doing more research on possible avenues that might lead me to my birth parents (dear readers - comments and suggestions are welcome)
9. prepping some walls I plan to paint (because, well, I have all these cans of no VOC paint)
   
10. maybe, just maybe, going to the gym
    
11. finishing The Big Year and then,
    
12. taking a walk to the library

By then, M. will be home and ready to share his latest sleuthing ideas (see #8).

So, did this post really devolve into a mundane "how I plan to spend my day?" Yes, sorry. I'm afraid it did. But for those of you who know me in real life, this should bring a smile to your face. Because is there anything that signals a return to (semi-)normalcy than my anal-retentive lists?

TMI

What I love most about our home are the nooks and crannies that exist where you least expect them. When I saw this one - tucked back in a spare bathroom - I knew I had to live here.

The other day Lori at Weebles Wobblog extended an open invite to share your book collections with the world. Like Lori, most of my titles are merged in and intertwined with hubby's. But this little spot, this one right here, these are all mine.

My mom used to tease me that the bathroom of our house should have been named, "The Library." Yes, my penchant for reading while, well, you know, is legendary. Ask my family. Ask my college roommates. Ask anybody. I think this apartment was made for me.

What? You say that those shelves most likely were not made to hold literary works and paperbacks? Pshaw. You can stick your toiletries anywhere.

I took more photos, but they don't define me like this one does. So there you have it - more information than you ever asked for. Blame Lori.

And then share some photos of your own. I hereby tag all y'all.

Barren Bitches and the Embryo Culture

It's time for another installment of the Barren Bitches Book Brigade brought to you by Mel at Stirrup Queens and Sperm Palace Jesters. I'm excited because this is the first one I've actually participated in. You can check out my responses here. And be sure to visit the rest of the lovely ladies. Links are here and here.

About halfway through writing these last night, I had second thoughts about posting them on a more public site. Perhaps these were better saved for here, or maybe even not discussed at all. Have you ever had a plan to approach something one way, but then midway through, something inside takes over and SPLAT! Before you know it you've spilled your guts all over the computer? That's what happened to me around 11 pm last night.

I don't think I've ever put into words my disappointment with god before. And there. I just did. I did regain some control during the writing process so it's not all out there. But enough to probably piss some people off.

Sticks and Stones

Let me know if this is a bad idea.

A few weeks ago, I met up with a fellow blogger who I found out lived just around the corner from me. She blogs about eating disorders. During the course of the conversation, we started talking about all of the assvice we've both received from strangers, friends, family regarding our respective situations. You know. You've heard it: "just adopt....", "it's in god's hands...." "if its meant to be...."
Well, we found it all to be hilarious and decided to make some videos with our "favorites." Because you know you can never think of anything good to say until days later.

Well, now's your chance. come watch the vids and say what you wished you thought to say to your sister-in-law, your pregnant neighbor, your well-meaning but clueless friend.

Angelique is the lovely actor saying all those words that raise your blood pressure. I return the favor over at Breaking the Mirror.

We had a lot of fun with this project. I hope it helps you vent some steam too.

Six Things (Tagged)

The Rules:

1) Link to the person who tagged you. (thanks, Stacyb for popping my MEME cherry!)
2) Post the rules.
3) Share six non-important things / habits / quirks about yourself.
4) Tag at least three people.
5) Make sure the people you tagged KNOW you tagged them by commenting what you did.

Ok, here goes:

1.) I have always wanted to be in a sketch comedy troupe. In fact, I tried out for one in college and almost made the final cut. I still bear deep, deep grudges to those whom I believe voted for Eli* instead of me. (*Real name. H*ll yeah, I'm calling you out.)

2.) Every month, I anxiously await the arrival of my beloved Lucky, the Magazine about Shopping.

3.) I obsessively check my blogs, emails, MySpace, and Facebook throughout the day. As in, every chance I get.

4.) Like Daisy, when I was little, I used to pretend I was on a talk show. Only I was always the guest.

5.) I hate feet. My feet. Your feet. I almost started a riot when a few co-workers started wearing flip flops in the office last summer. Flip flops!! Get those toes out of here. Conversely, I love shoes.

6.) I have dreams of being a rock star, specifically, a bass guitarist. Never mind that I have never even held one, let alone played one. The subject of lessons and a purchase come up every now and again. Frankly, I think it's never too late to try, right?

I hereby tag wifethereof, drowned girl and Tracy.

Where You Been?

I dig fall.

Hubby is out at a football game with his dad and won't be home until the wee hours of night. Here I sit in my fuzzy vest and boots (boot season! finally!), sipping a freshly brewed cup of mulled wine, writing and stockpiling some articles, blog posts and other bits of words for when I am away next week at my work's annual conference.

You see, I have been a writing machine. You just can't tell it from here.

In addition to a little rock-n-rock blog that hubby, me and some of his pals have begun, I have also accepted a gig blogging about fertility in a much less personal and exposed way than here at Maybe Baby. That blog actually has my whole real name on it. Yikes. AND somehow hubby and I landed the job of "nightlife insiders" for our city's local rag. All that in addition to our day jobs, which are both fairly full of words, words, words.

So, all of that has been awesome, fantastic, wonderful! And proof that the world really does keep moving even when time seems to be at a standstill waiting for the start of the next DE attempt. If anything, these side projects are making the clock move a little faster towards December.

I dig fall, but I am not so crazy about Halloween.

When I was younger, I didn't mind it. Candy is awesome. But my costume was never as cool or as clever as I wanted it to be and our dad always managed to dig way deep into our stashes and eat the good stuff before my brother and I got to it. So, Halloween. It wasn't my favorite, but I didn't hate it.

Hubby, on the other hand, loathes it. Hates the idea of the holiday - both pagan and religious forms of it - is disgusted with the idea of kids begging for unnecessary items, isn't crazy about sweets and most of all, cannot stand a night where wearing masks and disguising your identity is encouraged and rewarded.

As you can see, it causes real existential pain to him.

Yessir. That's my hubby.

Meanwhile, here I am blogging about identity issues while trying to keep track of no less than 4 google accounts and as many log ons for various projects and publications. I don't think I could take one more layer of anonymity. I just might implode.

Ain't I a Woman?

Just because it is now a physical possibility to conceive using someone else's eggs doesn't mean the mind is so willing to make that jump.

If you haven't read Kami at Are We There Yet, I strongly recommend you check out her latest post and the comments that come with it.

I have been struggling with the N.G.E. (not good enough) vibe for a while. Even before the idea of trying to have a baby popped into our minds. Crazy how reading more feminist literature and trying to get more in tune with my female side has resulted in more feelings of inadequacy than I ever experienced in my misogynist Henry Miller-reading- I-don't-hang-out-with-girls- knee-jerk-anti-feminist- reactionary days of college. Funny how so many of our new feminist writers begin their tomes based in our wombs, in our eggs, in our ovaries. From here, everything begins. True, to a point, but what happens when those things, those things that by their very essence, make us female, aren't working? Aren't there? Aren't responding to our female brains?

Does that make us less female? Am I less of a woman? Are you?

Late Night Reflections

So, I'm sitting here, playing some video games with the person I love the most in the whole world. Perhaps I've drunk a few too many beers. We are listening to album after album, staying up late on a work night. Just because we can. We are listening to an old Manu Chao album, which inevitably makes me a little teary and reminiscent. And so happy about the life we have had together and the life we have had so far. Together.

And you know what? If we have a baby, that would be the coolest thing ever.

And if we don't.

Well, it will be ok.

It will be ok.

I can't think of having a better life than the one I have now with the person I am with right now.

(Unless, of course, that meant sharing it with someone else. Someone small and cute.)

But if that doesn't happen....

Dammit, I am still one of the luckiest girls on earth.

Tu no tienes la culpa mi amor.....

Welcome to Fantasy Island!

Hubby loves stats. He makes spreadsheets for everything and anything. Has been since he was a young 'un. He'd make charts to track all the high schools' sports scores for our entire state. He would (and still does) make charts to explore new ways to organize present sports franchises, how many national parks we've visited, which country's reported GPA is most closely aligned with it's capita's quality of life. On and on and on. Most of this is for his own perverse entertainment.

Hubby loves stats so much so that he's actually secured a gig at my office as an independent consultant for all things spreadsheet-related.

I like to call him Stat Boy.

What does this have to do with me? Besides making me the sometimes unwilling contestant of the million quizzes he fabricates based on said stats, this week I found that I was the subject of his latest spreadsheet.

Hey, like what are the odds that our donor is actually your biological sister?

WHAT?!?!?

No, I mean, if you had to guess, what are the odds? 1 in what? A million? Gajillion?

See, this is how it starts. I can never tell if he is leading me into a quiz or if he actually knows the answer. But he gets so sad when I don't guess. So I do.

Um, I dunno. Let's assume donor is from our state. I was born in our state. Let's assume my birth mother stayed in this state.....Let's say one in a million.

Wrong! Try 1 in 350,000 - and that's assuming your birth mother only had one additional daughter. ...if she had two....

OK. Wait. Wait. Wait! There are a lot of assumptions going into this here equation. But let's assume (and make an "ass" out of "u" and "me") as I mentioned before, donor is strikingly like me from what I can gather, except for test scores, college, etc. But as hubby pointed out, his mom has hideous, I mean awful, SATs while 3 of her older brothers were Ivy bound. Still, she is our most favorite trivia partner ever. I digress.

Let's say that my birth mother did have another daughter and they did stay in our state. By calculating the number of women between the ages of 20 and 30 instate and removing all ethnic backgrounds not us, he somehow came up with the magic number of 1 in 350,000.

Well shit.

That's a lot better than my odds of winning the lottery on any given day.

Matter

Genes matter.

They do. Why else would we be spending money we don't have trying to ensure that at least a little bit of us (partner and me) is recreated? Why else would we spend hours upon hours with strangers' genetic components spread out in front of us (blue eyes, brown eyes, dark hair, red hair, fair complexion, freckles, 5 foot xx inches, maternal grandmother had diabetes, and on and on and on......) searching for the ones that could best replicate mine?

Genes matter. Because every time I talk to/look at/interact with my adoptive parents, I think (sometimes out loud) thank god I am adopted. I was left on the doorstop. Found in the reeds. No connection whatsoever to the people that never cease to frustrate and puzzle me with their (lack of) reason.

I have based my sanity and my identity on the concept that there are things inside of me that no matter how badly my adopted parents screwed up (in my mind), those traits would still be intact. I know for a fact that if my adoptive parents were my birth parents, hubby would have thought twice about a lifelong union with me.

Part of that is a crutch. Most of us dread turning into our mothers and this is how I convince myself that it will not, cannot happen to me. Because we are simply not the same. We don't look the same. We don't value the same things. And there is nothing innate that will morph me into my mother over time. It's just not there. Those pieces are missing.

Right??

Please tell me I am right.

As we sat in front of the donor profiles again the other week, hubby and I were both struggling trying to find answers to questions we didn't know how to ask - at least not without sounding like assholes. If people were computers, what components would be hardwired and which would be malleable? What's the software? What can be upgraded? To put it nicely: what pieces can be Nurtured and which are just straight up, ain't no getting around it, it is what it is Nature?

As a teenager and young adult, when friends would prod me about trying to find my birth mother, I would resolutely say, don't worry about it. In my mind, she is a princess. The most beautiful woman on the face of the earth. And that is all that matters. Who could I find that would live up to the glorious pedestal she stands on now? And that was enough for me. For at least 30 years.

But I am/we are so perplexed about the nurture vs. nature debate that I am seriously considering looking for her. Am I a carbon copy of her? Does she laugh like I laugh? Do I have her eyes? Does she like the same things I do? Or would we be complete strangers? Could it be these things I have credited to her really are the result of my parents' parenting? I need to know.

All of these questions are coming to bear because dammit we just cannot decide on a new donor.

Should we focus on physical characteristics? Test scores? Athletic ability? Just because we like how someone answered the questionnaire, does that, in the end, matter? Will that personality or intellect transfer down into those pretty little embryos I hope to carry? Will choosing a 5' 2" donor guarantee a maybe baby will never be a basketball star? If we settle for a 5' 10' beauty who had a C average through high school, will we blame her every time a maybe baby struggles with his/her homework? Are we being fair by setting aside all the donors with certain professions in their families because those are not ones we would want to have? It was so easy to think I wasn't biased until these choices were laid out in front of me in a binder.

So, which one will it be?

You can't tell me genes don't matter. But I would appreciate someone telling me which particular genes matter more.

It's Oh So Quiet

I know. I'm sorry. After my flurry of posts last week, I feel like an amateur boxer who comes out swinging and is totally spent by his second round. Of course, we all know that's when a killer left hook comes. Right when your arms are down.

Remind me to stop watching The Contender just because there is nothing else on.

It's quiet because I am feeling very quiet. Like something's bubbling to the surface but isn't quite there yet. I might be in the midst of an existential crisis. We spent hours at the clinic last week poring through donor profiles, trying to think through next steps and I just don't know what to say about it just yet. I'm still chewing on my cheeks, furrowing my brow and trying to think through, what matters? What really matters?

More on this later.