Game Time

Well, baby is due tomorrow and I’m officially just biding my time now, until my little guy makes his debut appearance. The sentimentally of being pregnant, the long journey I’ve had to get here and the magnitude of upcoming motherhood has taken a back burner to Project Get Baby Out. I’m sure there will be an emotional deluge once Eliot Michael wiggles his way out of and onto my body. I think about that moment a lot. And I’m so excited to see his little face, his brand new body, his little lips rooting for milk at my breast, to meet him! But for now I’m focused on long walks, spicy food, acupuncture and seeking out professionals that claim to have magic tricks for getting baby’s out of uterus’s. (My masseuse claims percussion on the lowback, along with digital circles around the carpal bones and the ankles has induced labor for some of her new mama’s.) It may all be folklore but there’s the second benefit of magical thinking: it also passes the time, which I have a lot of right now as I’m officially gone on maternity leave for the next 8-12 weeks.

I’ve been so blessed with this big adventure. Even now—as I write, baby E is doing a headstand on my bladder; I really am grateful. About a year ago is when I got the phone call from the doctor: We have an embryo; do you want it?

And here I am; here we are. This little miracle and me, getting ready to make a go of it. Yes!

Designer baby musings

Hello blog. It’s been a while. In pregnancy news I’m 6 1//2 months prego. In vegetable terms, baby Eliot is as big as a head of lettuce, although nothing about my waste resembles a cute little salad. It’s more like a balloon filled with little rockets that fancy going off and landing right between my breasts. Ode to the sweet, sentimental butterfly flutters from a few weeks past … my womb has turned into a playground and I have an active and curious little monkey in there.

Still over the moon though. Mostly.

The second trimester was pretty sweet. All the meds, shots, bruising and fatigue from the first trimester IVF cycle have been forgotten and forgiven. First lesson in parenting, I suppose. As the third trimester descends upon me, so does reality. The actual pregnancy (ouch, OMG, EASY TURBO, is that an elbow or a foot pounding into my ribs?!), decorating the nursery, finding the perfect nanny, the right diapers, the 101 on strollers, carseats and all baby things with gadgets, reading birth stories and parenting books (my favorite so far) … three months is a blink of the eye! In the heat of August my little designer baby love will be here. Eliot Michael Hart. I can’t wait to meet him! Speaking of my designer-love: If you remember from the last blog, I did an embryo adoption. That means that I am the recipient of another woman’s labor of love. The story has been told to me (from my doctor’s office) like this: a woman wanted a baby. Unable to produce one herself, for reasons of which I’m unaware, she found a Latino egg donor and an Irish sperm donor that she assumedly liked, had an embryo created in a pea-tree dish, did the ET (embryo transfer) and didn’t get pregnant. Distraught by her outcome, she didn’t try again and put her leftover embryo’s up for adoption. Enter: me. Lately I’ve felt particularly indebted to her, for giving me this gift. I’ve wanted to meet her, to thank her, although as my friend E pointed out, it would probably be very hard for her to meet happy, perky, basketball-bellied me. I suppose it’s a bitter-sweet mercy for her, to stay anonymous.

And a nod to embryo adoptions: This is my story, for now. Soon it will be more of Eliot’s story. And it’s a good story. There’s redemption and mystery; it’s progressive and filled with love, friends, humor and support; parts are bitter-sweet —no second parent, anonymous donor’s Eliot won’t be able to track down; most of the story is still unfolding. But in my research of embryo adoptions or “snowflake babies,” for the more sentimental than I, I’m learning about how new this way of having a baby really is! A quick history: in 2004 there were 213 babies born this way. President Bush invited them all to the White House, as these were the days when stem cell research was a hot topic, and adopting the embryo’s versus sending them off to science was all the rage in pro-life circles. According to my Internet research, as of 2013 there were 3,500 adopted embryo babies born in the U.S.A. I’m sure the number is much higher now, but STILL! I feel a small thrill to be a part of this budding new alternative to having a family. Most go through adoption agencies, with intensive home studies and social workers. I didn’t do any of that. There are 200 infertility clinics in the USA that do embryo adoptions and my then-doctor happened to be one of them! After getting to know me for a year of trying the old-fashioned way—IUI’s with a sperm donor, he recommended this option to me. It took me a minute to say yes. A minute and six months. But I did and well, here we are. Here I am. Sitting on my screened in porch on the quintessential spring day, eating local strawberries with my laptop and beautiful belly bump in tow.

I never would’ve thought I’d be so happy and content during the unfolding of Plan C in life. But I am. Lots of people are. We dont’ get what we want. We cry, then wipe our tears, and the sweet mystery is this: there’s still so much happiness and gratitude left for the taking. Maybe even more, since much of the entitlement and expectations drop off after a while. It doesn’t all feel like forced capitulation anymore. I said yes—when I almost said no, to am embryo adoption. And why this doctor (who offers embryo adoptions!) versus the other clinic in town—a flip of the coin, at the time. Life is coming together in such an unexpected way. It’s my norm at this point and the moments of lamenting a more conventional path are small. I do long to find companionship in this journey someday, even now, and sweet “daddy moments” I observe well me up a bit… but it doesn’t take away from my current love story. Baby Eliot has my heart–even in utero, and being single has not compromised any of the love or anticipation that I feel, which puts me in the universal pool of motherhood: single, married, partnered, biological child, adopted at birth or as an organism. It’s all the same journey of love. Mine is connected to a pregnancy and motherhood, but I don’t think this kind of grace is limited to child-rearing. Rather, it’s having the courage to keep going; Plan C, D, E or Z — to keep choosing a love story … there are myriad options waiting on us.

Bambino Time / Take Two

Hello long lost blog. It’s been a while … a little over a year, to be exact. Well, in that little-over-a-year I got pregnant. So, that’s exciting! It’s a bit of a miracle story, how it all went down. Here’s the scoop:

After my last post I took a break for a few months and then saddled back up to the sperm donor sites last February. I went to Australia for a few weeks, came home and tried again. This time with shots and meds … the whole bit. Didn’t get prego but I did get discouraged and started to wonder if this was really my path.

At that point, May 2014, my doctor suggested an embryo adoption. This is where the potential mother adopts an embryo left over from another person’s IVF cycle. They are referred to as “snowflake babies,” which may be a bit cutesy for my personal sensibilities, but I digress. He recommended this as it’s a lot cheaper than IVF (around $12k versus $$40k) and I’d have a higher success rate, since I DID have post-40-year-old eggs. It was a lot to take in. After that appointment I jumped in a car with three girlfriends for a road trip to Asheville, NC, cried a bit, grieving the newest hand dealt—0 DNA versus 1/2 of my DNA, and then we started listening to 80’s music and cracking up and essentially, I put the whole baby drama aside.

I moved into a beautiful new house, played interior decorator for a few months, got on with my summer and courted a little around-the-world romance with a bloke I’d met in Australia.

And then.

I got the call. On Thursday, July 31st actually, two days before my 42nd birthday. That night I was hosting a party for 30+ people for visiting friends from Australia. My cousin from L.A. was coming in for the weekend. It was going to be a bustling birthday weekend!

“We have an embryo ready for you. Do you want it?”

“Uh…”

They sent me limited info, including: picture of the egg donor and her biological child. She is petite, hispanic, sweet smile and her child is beautiful (looks to be around six in the picture). They sent info on the sperm donor—profile from California Cryobank: Irish, dark hair and eyes, 5.11”, lawyer, plays guitar, good teeth, no picture. Not a couple. Both donors. Both want to be kept anonymous.

Of course I had so many questions. Mainly, who put this DNA together if it’s not a couple?! Apparently another woman did. Was she single, gay, married; why did she hand pick this egg and sperm donor? I don’t know her story. What I DO know is that she didn’t achieve pregnancy, and instead of trying again she decided to put her leftover embryo’s up for adoption.

Cut to: Me. At work, getting a voicemail from a nurse, whilst in-between clients, asking if I wanted this embryo.

I eventually said yes. We set an appt for two weeks later. And then I said wait. Too much, too soon. I wasn’t emotionally prepared for an IVF cycle—four months of daily inter-muscular hip shots, 3 vaginal inserts a day, 8 pills a day. And so much money … I held off until November, still a bit ambivalent but glad to know that there was an embryo out there, mine for the taking, if I wanted it.  Literally days prior to the revised appt (now in Oct) I decided to say YES to this unconventional option in front of me.

And I did it. A month of birth control, hormones, stomach and then hip shots, blood draws … all in preparation for the big ET –embryo transfer day.  My friend K went with me to the hospital.  I signed lots of papers, was given a Xanax, taken to a room with lots of nurses and my doc came in and implanted two embryo’s in my uterus. My nearest and dearest brought food and company during the four days of bed rest following the transfer. I took shots and suffered sore, bruised and lumpy hips. In the middle of the night on week two, when I got up to use the rest room I took a test, on a whim. I fell back asleep before I saw the results. The next morning whilst brushing my teeth I looked down (I’d forgotten I’d taken it) and lo and behold, two lines.

Still sleepy, I called my friend K. “I think I might be pregnant.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, it’s two lines. OMG!”

And that was the grand moment of discovery.

I went to Arizona the next day for Thanksgiving break and told my family. I was happy but the fatigue was so unrelenting it was hard to feel much of anything, besides sleepy and zoned out. My family started to excite over the first “designer baby” in the family. I played happy too.

Meanwhile, I was having a little bit of buyers (or rather, psuedo-baby-making) remorse. I was so sore from the shots, tired beyond belief, moody and bloated from all the pills and the guy from Sydney lost interest after the pregnancy news … two weeks in and I already wanted my “old life” back! Be careful what you ask for.

My saving grace was history. I have a history of loving children, and of wanting them. On my faith journey I would pray that all that love and affection would kick back in. And finally, it did. When I started bleeding.

Six weeks in I bled. I tried not to worry. After three days of spotting it turned bright red, which is the opposite of okay when you’re pregnant. I left work in an emotional frenzy one afternoon for an emergency ultrasound, to see if the pregnancy was still viable. J, my loyal colleague, held my hand in the sonogram room as we waited TWO HOURS for my doctor to come in. The ultrasound showed an embryo sac. I cried tears of relief.

Two days later I bled profusely, worse than a menstrual cycle. Blood clots. Cramps. I was so scared, panicked really. I knew I was having a miscarriage but it was so confusing as my hormone numbers were so good two days earlier, the embryo sac was there, with my developing baby. My only hope was that it was a vanishing twin. I was miscarrying the second embryo. When we did the ultrasound—K holding my hand, both of us crying, the embryo sac showed up. So did a healthy little heartbeat! 147 bpm. What a strange sensation to be grieving and then rejoicing with the same set of tears.

It was a “vanishing twin” and although I was relieved with the sight of one healthy embryo, I grieved my second baby. All so surreal, really. Two babies for six weeks.

And then there was one. And there’s still one. With ear buds, developing vocal chords, a huge noggin and a strong heartbeat.

I’m now on week 13.  Baby is the size of a peach. Just a few more shots ALLELUIA, pills and vaginal inserts. Placenta is taking over and no need to artificially take care of the baby anymore. I’ve finally made it into the normal-pregnant-woman’s club versus the high-risk IVF pregnant one.  Next week I get the release from the infertility doctor and will start seeing my midwife from here on out.  Have gained lots of breast weight so far, but that’s about it … so more “porn star” than “pregnancy glow” at this stage as I’m still waiting for a little baby bump.  Dreaming up nursery themes, researching parenting philosophies and lamaze classes and feeling like a pregnant cliche, as I ate two jars of pickles JUST this past week!

Mama bear is thrilled in her core, that this little mystery miracle baby is living and growing and manifesting inside her; inside me. God willing, I’m having a baby when I turn 43.  Due date is August 6, 2015. My birthday is August 2, 1972. “I’ll be a grandma having a baby,” I joke with my friends.  Always a truth in jest …

Life is so strange. And I’m so very grateful.  Oh, and he’s a BOY! Here he is, week 13, showing off his junk.  Ultrasound was from this morning! I’m over the moon.

Keep Calm and Carry On

I’ve been avoiding my blog because I haven’t sorted out how to write about my recent disappointments.  The quick: I’m not pregnant. After five vaginal ultrasounds and anxiety-producing blood draws I got a “trigger shot” which is a shot that goes into the hip to promote ovulation. Then I went in the next day for the IUI.  When the doctor analyzed the sperm he determined that my donor had a low sperm count.  As in get-a-refund-low sperm count. In layman’s terms, only 7% of his little swimmers could swim in a straight line (to presumably meet the egg).  Earlier that day I’d made a quarterback decision to order another vial, same day delivery (aka $1,000) and have my friend E do a 2nd IUI the following morning, at home.  This was before I knew my donor was a dud.   Those 7% didn’t make it either morning.  I’m hoping to get a refund for the vial that was analyzed.  Unfortunately, I have to eat the cost for the other five vials, since the only analysis of those vials were my friends and I … well, looking at them.  I was upset.  Well, truth be told, I got a little crazy.  The doctor had me on nine hormone pills a day post IUI, for the two week wait.  When the nurse called me and told me I wasn’t pregnant and that the doctor was not available for a post-procedure consult, I lost the plot. I turned into an unhinged, desperate lady on the phone, accosting the messenger.

Are you telling me the doctor won’t talk to me?  I just spent #$^%& dollars (shamefully, I went there) at your clinic and now my body is all jacked up, I’m on all these hormones and I just want to talk to the doctor!  I’ll talk to him on the phone, I don’t care.  Doesn’t he OWE ME a follow up?!

I’m so sorry, but he doesn’t really do that.  Would you like to set up an appointment to meet again and talk about trying again?

Will that cost me money?

Well yes, it’ll cost the initial consult fee of $150.

I looked down at my arm, which was still bruised and hurting from the confirmation-you’re-not-pregnant blood draw earlier that day. The nurse had dropped the cotton ball when she was ready to pull the needle out and had me reach across the room to grab another one for her, with the needle in my arm.  It was an accident, but the needle moved in my arm when I moved and created an ache that I hadn’t experienced prior to that particular blood draw.

Are you serious?  He won’t just talk to me and let me know what he suggests now?  I just want to know if my eggs are good.  Was it solely the sperm?  Do I have fertility issues? How long until my body gets back to normal?  What about all these hormones?!  

I’m embarrassed to say that I was almost yelling by this point.  I wasn’t truly yelling, but I wasn’t just talking either.

Well, I uh can talk to the doctor and uh call you back.

I gathered the shred of composure I had left and told the nurse I’d collect myself and get back to her in a few days.

Then I walked into a client session.

The whole scene was not one of my better life moments.

That was a week ago.  Since then I’ve stopped all the extra hormones, decided to see a therapist for a little while and have slowly started to think about the next step.  I’ve decided to take this month off, mostly because of finances, but also for some sanity.  And perspective, as elusive as it is at times.

I’m sure all this sounds terribly dramatic for those of you that haven’t experienced infertility, or trying to have a baby on your own.  I think it would to me. I can hear the judge in my own head: get a grip; it takes a while; you can’t get pregnant if you don’t chill out and relax.  I know, I know.  And still … you know–if you’ve been down any semblance of this road, how crazy sneaks up on you.  It becomes a primal face-off: maternal desire meets unbridled emotion.

Longing and capitulation; then repeat.

Last night I made tapioca pudding, which is what I do when I’m feeling down or stressed.  The rhythmic slowness of stirring the milk, eggs, sugar and tapioca from liquid to pudding soothes me. The transformation of the elements offers perspective. I think, ultimately, this is what most spirituality and therapy boils down to: a reduction. In foodie terms a reduction is the process of thickening and intensifying the flavor …  I’m realizing that as I’m up against the most elemental parts of myself, everything does intensify. I’m being exposed to what I’m fundamentally made of; my relationship with impulse control, tenacity, trusting the process, trusting God, vulnerability, hope and renewal.  It all gets cracked open and exposed, with or without my consent. Recapitulation.  Last night I made pudding, which made me happy.  It was really good too, I might add.

I’m not really desperate or hopeless or unhinged, in the grander sense of the words.  I can pick back up, try again and maybe again, and life will take its course.  Right now I’m a student of my own process, learning what I’m made of and what I can endure.  That’s life-giving and edifying, in it’s own paradoxical way.

Recently I read this line by J.M. Barrie in his book The Little White Bird: Shall we make a new rule in life … always to try to be a little kinder than is necessary?

Kinder than necessary.  What a marvelous line.  Kinder than is necessary.  I love that line, that concept, because it reminds me that we carry with us, as human beings, not just the capacity to be kind, but the very choice of kindness.  Kindness to others, to ourselves, to God and the universe when they serve up the wrong order. In the face of primal rage, there’s the primal counterparts too — love and grace and the simpleness of kindness.

So I grapple with this and other existential truths while I’m researching other sperm banks, more pregnancy options, having drinks with friends, going to NFL games and laughing when things are funny.

Keep Calm and Carry On.  So cliche; so true.

meltdowns, hormones and gratitude

I know, I know … it’s been a while.  In fertility-talk I’m another cycle down and gearing up for round three of Project Pregnancy sans a Man.

I’ve been discouraged.

Perspective is not the easiest part to grasp when you’re 41 (I had a birthday in August) and on the fertility/infertility roller coaster.  I’m reminding myself this is only my third try and most people having sex try at least this long to get preggers before the BFP (big fat positive).  I haven’t blogged because I’ve felt full of complaints … and what does another woe-is-me add to the world, the blogosphere, my life, or yours?  This is my current path, for better and for worse, and I’m doing my best to just get on with it — with gratitude (I’m trying, truly!) — since, financially speaking, I have the means to get on with it (for now).

In August M the midwife did an IUI at home, which was a sweet time indeed but didn’t produce a baby.  Last week I went to the fertility clinic.  It was a bad day.  Doctor showed me his 20-year-old wedding pictures, which I wasn’t interested in because I wanted to talk about my fertility not his days of being ‘thin like me,’ (his words). I went to the pharmacy to pick up my prescription and the pharmacist couldn’t understand the nurses script (according to him she had talked too fast in her VM) so I left empty handed. Day went on like this.  I had my first true meltdown that day, with the support of P in the afternoon and S in the evening.  (My meltdown came in two acts.)  I was also — insult to injury — PMS-ing.  Thank God for good friends through this process! 

Emotionally, I was overwhelmed.  Primally, I was ornery that my little plan didn’t work.  One day I wanted to tell Baby Dirks (we’ve affectionately named him after his donor look-alike) that Aunties E, M, S and K helped bring him into the world.  I wanted to be pregnant by now and have a baby at the end of March.  I had it all planned out (dammit) and, per usual, Plan A has turned into Plan C and may go all the way to Z for all I know.  Funny that we still get tripped up by this tried and true reality.

Still, hope has resurged and I’m feeling positive right now!  Although the doctor tells long-winded rabbit trail stories about all things not related to fertility, he’s aggressive and wants to get me pregnant; for that I’m grateful.  Also, his nurse is really nice and we’ve become friends.

I’m going to be jacked up on hormones this month.  Taking synthetic estrogen now (a big dose).  Will do a trigger shot to induce ovulation next Friday.  A big dose of pseudo progesterone after the IUI to help strengthen the uterus lining (I think). Four doctors office visits to do vaginal ultrasounds (to observe the growth of my egg follicles) and blood work, along with acupuncture three times a week.  I’ve had more needles in me that past two weeks than I have my entire life.  I’m that girl that’s never too sickly, has never broken a bone or been to the hospital  …  for which I’m so grateful! (See how that works?)

Sadly, I’m a little weary of my donor.  I’ve used four vials of his sperm so far.  I’m giving him one more shot before I move onto another donor.  There are five reported pregnancies with his sperm, which keeps me going back. I know he CAN get women pregnant … maybe not me, though.

I recently bought a new piece of art for my office.  It has a lyric on it from a favorite Mary Oliver poem.

Tell me,

What is it you plan to do with

your one wild and precious life?

This makes me smile, gets my tenacious little self out of the pity pool and back to the business of my ‘one wild and precious life.’  Gentle perspective, staring at me every working day.  For this, I’m grateful.

Baby Making part 2

Well, as some of you know, it didn’t work.  I wanted to collect myself before I got all bloggy about it.  I “spotted” last Thursday.  Felt very discouraged.  Nothing Friday or Saturday.  A twinge of could-this-be-implantation-bleeding surfaced.  Full fledged menstrual cycle on Sunday.  Blech.

Its funny, the Internet.  You can find all the data you need to either be A. confounded: (I had three months of periods but just knew I was pregnant and I was!!) or B. thrown into despair: (nobody gets pregnant without IVF after 40.  NOBODY!!)  I knew that statistics weren’t on my side on this first go.  Everyone knows it when they try to get pregnant.  And yet we all hope against the odds.  I guess this is true for most things in life.  And my inseminators were still pretty amazing, we must all admit; I’ll always remember the “first time.”

So I felt sorry for myself for a few days, took a deep breath, got out my credit card and ordered some more sperm.  Because that’s what you do when you are single and wanting a baby without the hassle and headaches that come with going to a bar and trying to sexy-talk a stranger.

On the upswing, lots of fun stuff has been going on in my non-baby-centric life, so that’s good.  And I’m on vacation, actually writing this blog from a hammock.  Things could be much worse.  They always can be.

Lastly, I’ve noticed I talk in fertility-talk these days.  Last week a client was talking about a situation where she was excited, if not nervous, and wondering if she was getting ahead of herself with her life’s current agenda.  I heard this metaphor come out of my mouth:  Well, it’s a bit like wanting to have a baby.  You can have the intention and desire to have one but still have to wait until you ovulate.  And if it doesn’t work, you have to wait some more.  She agreed.  Great analogy, she said.  If she only knew …

Another upswing is that I don’t have baby envy anymore, right now.  A friend recently had a baby and I loved holding him and being with her.  I didn’t want her life or her baby.  I felt very content with my own–and this crazy path I’m on, and that felt nice.

Started Clomid today.  Trying again at the end of next week.  Round two, my friends.  This song comes to mind.  “I know my faith will lead me on.”

baby making

Last week was a big week for me since making a baby was on my to do list. I had a date last night and the guy asked me what’s been going on since our last (and first) date a few weeks past. Brazilian food at dinner club, a birthday party, pool time, A moved to town and oh I almost forgot, my girlfriends tried to get me pregnant last week!  Pass the salt?

I had four of my dearest friends (I now fondly refer to as ‘my inseminators’) help me create this baby.  Here’s the newest chapter of my ongoing modern family love story:

The players:

M–the midwife

K–the dermatology nurse practitioner

S–the OBGYN

E–the nursing professor at a local university.

(This, my friends, is the perfect team to have in your inner circle, if you plan to have a baby without a man.)

Last Wednesday, after my LH surge, M and K came over after work for the first of three inseminations.  We felt all bad-ass and excited, as you might imagine, prepping to potentially make a baby.  I had a big clanky tank Fed-Ex’d to my home earlier in the day with three tiny vials of sperm in it.  We read all the instructions, prayed, cried (happy, hopeful tears), laughed and got on with the task of getting me preggers! The vial was small, with only about 1/2 tsp of sperm, so if doing this at home, I highly recommend using someone that knows how to do a pelvic exam, exact a little specimen into a tiny syringe and is very familiar with the cervix.  Without getting too graphic, we made it happen. We thawed one vial of sperm in a warm water bath.  I laid on my bed as M inserted a speculum in me and K used a light to sort-out where the cervix was.   There was so much love and expectation in my bedroom it didn’t occur to me to feel awkward or self-conscious as my friends were examining my girly parts. Afterwards, both girls left and I elevated my hips for a bit, blissed out by all the love, hope and anticipation I was able to share with my girlfriends.

That night a guy that I’d been out with the previous Saturday texted me (different guy from last nights date), suggesting we hang out again.  I really want to see you again, he texed.  Hmmm.  Dear Guy, I just tried to get pregnant. Isn’t that amazing??  Too much for a second date?  What I really said was this: Sure, that’d be fun!

Still navigating the dating life  …

The next day S came over at noon.  My 11 AM client was late and, going to the restroom at 11:05, I noticed that I had ovulated since I’ve become somewhat of a cervical fluid expert.  I called S.  Can you come at noon?  S: I’m on it!  I switched my 12 PM phone appt to 1 PM, cancelled my 1 PM lunch and voila, 45 minutes after ovulation I had my OB bestie at my beside with syringe and catheter in tow, putting everything in its proper place.  We had a round of I love you’s, she left, hips up–take two.  I dreamt about pregnancy possibilities for 15 minutes and then my 1 PM phone client called and business as usual.  Usual, except I was lying on my bed with my hips elevated and sperm swimming up my cervix.   Surprisingly, I was totally present and focused with my client.  Because really, you can only think about potentially being pregnant for so long …

On Friday, day three, E and K showed up after lunch.  We were pros by then.  Almost felt prosaic to thaw the sperm, prep the syringes, yada yada.  E was amazing too.  Found the cervix, poked me with the syringe, Did you feel that?  (I did!) and performed the final insemination.  Hips elevated, I was texting friends and making evening plans.

That night I was laughing and toasting champagne, here’s to Baby H, with the same crew I broke down with three months earlier, over the challenges and stark disappointments in life.

Life is like that isn’t it.  It’s unbearably hard and then … time passes, we risk and we hope … and it gets better.

The reality is that I could not be pregnant.  For most people it takes more than one (or three) shots.  That said, even if it’s a bust, I’m grateful.  This is a burden of love and I’m not alone.  I have four (but really more) people that are in it with me, committed to getting me pregnant.  And when this baby finally comes, he or she will be born into so much desire, love, community and intentionality … I get chills thinking about it.