Reminders of Spring

Little Birds...






It's Winter Solstice! After today, the days will stay light a little longer and Spring will be a little closer to erupting in life and loveliness.

As a reminder of the coming spring, I've been listening to an album made for and with children, You are My Little Bird by Elizabeth Mitchell She is able to revive the sweetest gems of songs and make my heart ache with happiness and longing.

Years ago, K and I stumbled upon Mitchell's You are My Flower (with a beautiful cover of A.P. Carter's You are My Flower--Carter Family Fold) and spread the love to many friends with kids, but adult me found it to be so uplifting and good.

And now You are My Little Bird is feeling me up with gleefulness. Birds always bring
out memories of spring--the time of life unfolding in waves of bounty before our eyes. But Winter has little tid-bits of life lingering on the edges. Even the snow is full of new energy falling onto the frozen, semi-inert earth. Problem is when the snow stays put and no new snow falls; the old snow gets all hard and dirtied (from too many cars and too many factories and too many people) and out-right unsightly. When this happens, my yearning for Spring gets bigger.

For now, I will listen to this sweet music and celebrate the coming longer days and today's longest night of the year.

she started bleeding

ahh fuck.

k's cycle was super long this time around and she went to a 15 day lunar phase; plus she ovulated super late so her whole cycle was like 38 fucking long-ass days.

Why all the sudden is her shit getting very whack?

She spotted on Sunday and Monday (very tiny amounts of pink) and then nothing yesterday. We thought--maybe just maybe...But then this morning she started her period.

So no prego. And now I can go back to the dull drudge of rolling in my winter blues. I am exceedingly depressed and overworked and stressed.

A michigan winter night--strange and beautiful

We had a big old snow storm here on Sunday. It was lovely. I shoveled for hours and went on a snowshoeing adventure through my neighborhood. That's the best thing that has happened in days.

clearing a path during the storm.



Yesterday, I thought I might crack...

Today, I am leaving behind the work I am supposed to be completing while I am technically on my goddamn vacation. For all of the times I try to lift my heart into places of hope, there are the equivalent times of despair. I guess that is where I am floating now--in this hazy despair.

Don't get me wrong--I love so much about my life. But when I seriously start to think about the work that I do day in and day out and the state of the world on top of it, suffocation surfaces. While I do not want to lean on the creation of another being to relieve me of this not being able to breathe, I do believe concentrating on a wee semi-innocent creature would help mend some of the cracks that my work (often fruitless, or at least I am not fortunate enough to see the fruits of it)leave on the surface of my insides.

That said there is no wee creature implanted this time around...We will keep on keeping on and hopefully something will take someday and help lift my heart up out of the thick haze.

the stuff of winter blues

Rain, with intermittent spits of ice, is falling here in southeastern Michigan. It is the kind of day I would love to spend in bed. I have not been able to cycle to work since November 30th. The weather has been wet and cold. I can ride in wet or cold, but the two together make for unwieldy roads and I would rather not slip into traffic.

So, this gray, cold weather makes for downer kinds of days. When I slap on the fact that I am absolutely overwhelmed at work, well then the days sink even more.

However, waiting for the outcome of our latest injection efforts has added a bit of hopefulness and thankfulness to the winter blues mix that has been reeling through my head. It is not that I totally expect kk to be all knocked up (cause i do not) that draws a little smiley face on the inside of my otherwise frowning eyelids; rather, it is this time of waiting with kk that makes things in life a bit more hopeful.

Our mutual desire to have a kid has become super solidified over the last few months and this time of waiting amplifies our shared desires and dreams in a very real way. I am touched daily by the blessing of being able to share my life with this amazing woman. She is the kindest person I know. While I often think that people are mal-intentioned or mean-spirited by default, kk thinks the best of folks until they prove themselves assholes.

These things I know about my girl come surfacing into the forefront of my brain and then I think yes we are on the right track—to build our family/community with friends and neighbors and a homemade, biological experiment!

Now back to the rigmarole of work accompanied by the freezing cold, rain drenched air that is circulating outside and leaving the inside of places damp and cold—the stuff of winter blues.

learning more about the mystery from a whack cycle

I’ve decided that kk’s cycle is whack. She is on the 22nd day of her cycle and supposedly she is having her LH surge right now. According to all other calculations—this includes temperature, goo check, and horniness levels—she was busting with fertility last week.

We dosed on Monday evening, Wednesday evening, and Friday evening.

This time around we bought the CVS brand (much cheaper) ovulation tests. While the line got darker, it never got all the way dark. After Friday’s injection, we thought we were through for this time around.

However, kk woke up yesterday and said, “I think my mucus is egg whitey and fertile; maybe we should try again tonight.” That was it, though, we put the notion aside thinking 22nd day, no way.

Then, a sweet, serendipitous email came from potential bio-dad. He asked kk if we were all through for this time around? His message got kk and me thinking—maybe we should give it one more try.

So last night after watching the witches of eastwick and discussing which of those foxy ladies we thought was the foxiest, we shot another wad of jiz up inside kk.
Then this morning using the more expensive ovulation predictor kit, kk got a positive for an LH surge in the next 24 hours.

Obviously, none of this is precise. Even though we try to narrow it down into a kind of perfect science, it just does not work that way. And so I have been toying with opening myself up more to using loving kindness and calling on the wisdom of elders and wise women in this process. Not that this hasn’t been about loving kindness from the get go, but as much as I want to call on the mystery and scoff at modern day reliance on scientific inquiry, I still find myself wrapped up in using the rational to make sense of this process. Alas, the rational is the last thing I should be relying on.

So, whacky cycle I adore you for your unexplainable patterns and when we do find some method to your flowing, mysteries ways, well thank you for that. Here’s crossing my fingers and bowing to the winds.

a thursday to remember...

Last Thursday, I had some good moments and some bad moments. We had family over for dinner. I’m not into celebrating thanksgiving. While I think it essential to be thankful for the bounty and blessings associated with my living, this particular holiday marks a remembering of history that has been distorted and unashamedly glorified. The glazing over of the violence that accompanied the arrival of white/european folks on this continent impedes upon recognizing the persistent force of colonization that still permeates the very fabric of—the every move of—the ultimate foundation of u.s. “foreign policy” (year 2007;think iraq). The ensuing genocide of the indigenous peoples of this land now called america is unforgivable and we should not ever forget that it happened and that the mindset of imperialism still lingers everywhere in america.

Nevertheless, my mother likes to be with her children on the holidays. So, this year I thought we could work on combining pieces of our families, and I could make a large dinner to celebrate the harvest of 2007.

We had kk’s grandmothers over (grandma c is 86 and grandma s is 94); her dad and brother; my mama and dad; one of my sisters and her boyfriend; and kk’s aunt a (who came early to hang out with us and help). This is the first holiday minus b (kk’s uncle—her dad’s only brother who was married to aunt a). He succumbed to lymphoma last December. Actually, that was the first holiday without him, but it does not really count. He died 11 days before x-mas which resulted in a blurring of the next many days.

Everything got off to a terribly rocky start. Kk’s family (dad, bro and two g-mas) showed up an hour early. As they walked through the door, I was commanded to turn the Detroit lion’s football game on and kk had just stepped out of the shower so she was no help. I was not into being told what to do in my own house and had been listening to good music, as I cooked, which I then had to turn off. So, I got a little peeved. But better than that wee glitch, is what follows. For some reason, grandma c (86 yrs old) ended up pushing grandma s (94 yrs old) in her wheel chair. K’s brother was outside smoking a cigarette—he was supposed to be in charge of taking care of grandma s. Grandma c ended up pushing grandma s into the coffee table—it plummeted to the ground; a full vase of flowers spilled water everywhere; my little candy dishes, full up of squirrels and mary janes and double bubble, broke all over and the candy got saturated in water. The topper is that I yelled out loud, “jesus fucking christ.” Later I felt horrible for yelling such vulgarities in front of two old ladies, but I think their hearing is a little weak so maybe they heard something else all together.

It took more than forty minutes of me and aunt a handling kk’s family before she finally showed her face. At least her face is beautiful and her heart the kindest I have ever known. Once I was safe in the confines of the shower, (I had yet to take my shower when the early arrivals busted gracelessly through the front door –crashing the living room and filling the air with the nasally sounds of tv announcers explaining the runs, moves, and grunts of oversized men who like to touch one another’s butts in bent over positions) I talked myself out of the explosion that was wavering ever so hot in my head.

I cooked a turkey for all the fowl eaters; I mixed up some gravy; I made some veggie stuffing, brussel sprouts, and veggie French onion soup. My ma brought sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce; my sis brought mashed potatoes; kk’s dad brought green bean casserole; kk’s grandma brought pecan pies and an apple pie; and aunt a made a couple of pumpkin desserts.

No grace at our house instead I read mary oliver’s when death comes
This may seem a little dramatic, but the overall message of the poem is quite profound and I thought we all could use a bit of a wake up call to make of this living the most that we can.

To end the long day, our good friends a and r came over with a’s parents and a sweet visit ensued. It was that mingling of chosen family and blood family that made the day just right.

a bit about fluids

in response to some questions posed on comments (see biscodo's:))to the pipette post.
bodily fluids, in general, do not freak me out all too much--i look forward to exploring mysterious fluids with k and the kid someday.

When i first went down on a woman, well, i had this feeling that i was finally coming home. As for male fluid, i've just never been much into cock; unless of course i am imagining one on me. And, i am a lesbian who has never gotten it on with a man (no intercourse; no oral sex), so maybe my aversion to having male fluids in my mouth has something to do with keeping my orifices male-fluid free (my lips have only been graced with the strange, gentle fluid that spills forth from females).

I think that's it...but maybe tasting the stuff would do me good. i've gotten much more comfortable, since we started this process, getting the spermy liquid on my hands a bit and washing up the syringe and jar after we inject.

tmi--i know, but what can i say--i'm really into fluids!

the long pipette

We are trying some new things this month. First we are paying extra close attention to kk's mucus; second we are going to inseminate when the mucus seems slippery and egg whitish even if the other signs don't line up; third i might, just might, give this special little instrument called the pipette a try.


the pipette--waiting to be used

I've been meaning to reflect on this long, fine glass tube for some time now. Many months ago, our friend, tm, pilfered a few of these devices from his work and gave them to us to try out. I've been nervous to use one for many reasons:

1. It is glass and my baby's tender cratch is just that--tender.
2. Sucking fresh jiz up anywhere near my mouth deeply disturbs me (i've gone my whole life with out any male fluids landing on my tongue or teeth, and I plan to go the rest of my life unscathed).
3. I am hesitant due to the extraordinary length of the pipette. It is longer than the insemination device should be (unless of course the insemination device happens to be a very gigantic penis), but maybe it will do fine just partially inserted.
4. And, this is the most unreasonable of my paranoias--I once heard this myth about the dangers of blowing air up into a woman through her vaginal opening(at least i think it was a myth, but who knows i could be the person that proves it to be a truth rather than a myth). I am scared that if I blow the sperm through the pipette into kk that i will also blow air bubbles up into her that will contribute to her spontaneous and untimely death due to an air bubble lodging in her heart, lungs or brain.

Last month I was all geared up to give the thing a try. I practiced sucking up some beer in it, and the Bell's best brown ale scampered right back out--spilling all over my lap. But beer is much, much thinner than sperm. And sperm is much more difficult to come by than beer.

All in all, I will most likely stick with the regular, old syringe, but it sure is fun to dream about putting the pipette to good old baby-making use!

Speculum days

In spite of the recent let down--no lovely encounter between the swimmers and an egg--I'm feeling pretty chill at this point. I'm trying to overcome my usual twitchy, anxiety laden behavior for something more subdued. So a calmness has been setting in to my gut and heart--what will be, will be, and I will remain glad to be alive and in love with life.

Now calmness does not mean I am forbidden to imagine how to become the best injector I can be. We are about to venture down the road of speculum dominated days. Kk is buying a speculum off ebay (oh, not really, but that is where i thought she was buying it from and announced this to a group of people only to be laughed at)--Maia Midwifery is more like it.

Once the speculum is in hand, I will be in charge of checking the mucus. This means I get to look up inside kk and see what her mucus is doing for the day. I hope I can tell the damn difference between the fertile type and the brick wall, tangly web, block the sperm type. Right now, kk usually just reaches up and pulls a little out and stretches it in front of me and asks "do you think that is egg whitey stretchy?" And I say, "not quite sure; do you think it is?"

I will have to become a better decipherer of the thick, thin, slick, clear, white, opaque, translucent, shimmery liquid that sloshes so sexily between my darling, darling lover's legs. This challenge will hopefully keep my mind off the anxiety and more on kk's oh so sweet body that I am blessed to hold and snuggle and kiss and lick and love.

Daughters and Sons; Sons and Daughters

The other day I rode in the passenger seat next to my kk on the way home from work instead of riding my bicycle in the fierce wind (the morning wind had whipped me, and I needed a break). I’m rarely in the car with k anymore, except on the weekends, so driving home and listening to tunes is a special treat.

On this particular drive home, dark had fallen all around, and the lights glistened extra hard on the rain slicked pavement. It was a glossy evening.
The Decemberist’s Sons and Daughters came on the iPod, and the thump, thump of the music and the sweet lyrics of the chorus brought tears to my eyes almost instantly. “When we arrive/Sons & daughters/We’ll make our homes on the water/We’ll build our walls aluminum/We’ll fill our mouths with cinnamon now.”

There is something about the building of homes together and filling up mouths with cinnamon that is so hopeful and simultaneously dreamy. Upon hearing the song my heart was prompted to that place where it sometimes travels—the place of this deep desire to have children become part of our family.

Even in the midst of a lot of ugliness, I can, at times, find traces of hopefulness that make me want to bring a child into this world. On the individual human level I witness the aftermath of interactions that perpetuate the grit, grime, danky, stinky parts of humanity. And on the macro-level I witness, simultaneously, the reproduction of ugly ways of being that are inherent in our racist, classist, sexist, heterosexist, violent, and war driven institutions. I see injustice rule in our supposed justice system. I see the residue of that injustice coating the people who have been rammed through the “justice” system and deposited in the enormous prison system—a system that is sucking up funds for education, health care, and other social services that may have (just maybe) helped keep some folks from ever getting trapped in the wrong place at the wrong time. Once the people are disappeared into the world of prison, well then human rights abuses abound.

Falling into these moments of desiring to bring children into this world with all of the struggles of the aforementioned mess always pressing on my skull, is rare and heartening for me. Even in the midst of very stressful work—prisoner rights advocacy/activism—,I know that the move towards more just, more compassionate, more love-filled ways of being is hovering over and within social justice work.

It is my hope that our child (if one day we can really get knocked up—did not happen again this month)and the children that we are blessed to interact with will choose to work for the greatest good for all beings.

Another song that shuffles the resonating image of hope through my ears and onto my brain is “Your Daughters and Your Sons” as sung by Scottish Folk Singer,
Dick Gaughan
This song holds up future generations as the potential creators of something better than what we have right now and what we had in the past.

They wouldn't hear your music
And they pulled your paintings down
They wouldn't hear your writing
And they banned you from the town
But they couldn't stop you dreaming
And a victory you have won
For you sowed the seeds of freedom
In your daughters and your sons

Your weary smile it proudly hides
The chainmarks on your hands
As you bravely strive to realize
The rights of everyman
And though your body's bent and low
A victory you have won
For you sowed the seeds of justice
In your daughters and your sons

They taunted you in Belfast
And they tortured you in Spain
And in that Warsaw ghetto
Where they tied you up in chains
In Vietnam and in Chile
Where they came with tanks and guns
It's there you sowed the seeds of peace
In your daughters and your sons

And now your music's playing
And the writing's on the wall
And all the dreams you painted
Can be seen by one and all
Now you've got them thinking
And the future's just begun
For you sowed the seeds of freedom
In your daughters and your sons

putting the garden to bed

Yesterday was marked by a sweet sadness and the reminder of a deep, coming coldness. I began the work of putting the garden to bed. I chopped down the pineapple sage and rosemary to hang to dry for the season. I tore out the withered bean vines, thai basil plants, Serrano pepper plants, tomato plants, the leftover parsley, and the banana pepper plants. I still have three cabbages to pick out of the eight I planted. And, I still have two more tomato plants to tear out. I left the Zinnias for another week or two cause they are still throwing off yellows and orange-reds that make me think of sunset in summer.

cutting back the basil

I will make another batch of sauerkraut with the remaining cabbages. My first batch turned out pretty damn good. Kk loves it and my friend R ate a whole jar. I like it a lot too, but I’ve had serious difficulty eating sauerkraut since my bout of food-poisoning from a tempeh reuben this summer. Sauerkraut, mustard, and all things pickled are some of my favorite foods, but alas the spoiled thousand island that sent me to the pot shitting and puking has left me with an obstacle to overcome.

I already put our plot at the community garden to bed a few weeks ago. We grew potatoes in our community bed and the yield was small (only about 4 potatoes per plant on a total of 9 plants). We’ve already consumed all of them!

Overall, it was a plentiful season. Our mini-roma tomato plant yielded at least 300 tomatoes. We ate off the thing all summer. The heirlooms were lacking in quantity, but the flavor of the few was worth it. The thai basil provided many a batch of zesty pesto and some yummy, gingery, basil noodle dishes. I have enough rosemary to get us through the whole winter, spring, and summer and still give some away. The green beans thrived, and I managed to incorporate them into all kinds of recipes. I’ve already gone over the cabbage, but I must highlight how awesome it is to grow and tend to cabbage, cut it down with a saw, chop out the core, shred it by hand, beat it down in a jar, add some salt, put a weight on it and then set it in the cupboard to ferment for 6 weeks. The results are amazing.

before you were sauerkraut--freshly picked from the garden

Now the brown, withered skeletons of the plants are cut back and left to decompose in the compost and lawn bags. This cutting down of things once alive marks the end to the warmth of summer.

I love all of the seasons, and autumn and winter bring a zeal for being alive to my body, but the end of the growing season also marks the coming of a coldness that persistently chills the good people of Michigan’s veins. In winter in the mitten state, I can rub my hands together for hours on end and still have frozen fingertips. I savor the moments that my core gets deeply heated on frosty mornings, as I ride my bicycle to work, because once I am at work, I can drink 10 cups of tea and 3 cups of coffee, piss all day long, and still have a chill clinging, like the best velcro, to just below the surface of my skin.


the garden so green and full

So, one more hoorah for the plentiful garden that flourished with green things and goodness and kept our bellies full and our hearts warm. The memory of you will hopefully help in keeping my chilly, winter digits a wee bit warmer this dark, cold season.

the thought of you, pineaple sage, will keep me warm in winter

the roommate and his harp

Kk and I have finished up all the injecting for this time around. We now begin the wait to see if any of it met up with a lone egg and stuck.

We had quite the hilarious adventure this time around, at least for some of the process. She received one donation relatively early in the evening and since she remains horizontal in various configurations for at least two hours after an injection, she wanted to be in front of the television set and tune out as the swimmers slipped through her dark, wet parts.

Problem is, we currently have a roommate so dosing up on the couch proves to be tricky when he is on the grounds. This particular evening the roommate had brought his harp home and he was upstairs, in his room, plucking away on it. I was keeping the wee sperms warm as kk squirreled around getting a gigantic comforter. She proceeded to wiggle her body under it. I gathered up the 3ccs in my trusty syringe and burrowed under the comforter. All the while the sweet plucking of harp strings echoed through the house, and I kept my fingers crossed that the roommate would remain doing just that. She pulled down her pants; I got on all fours under the fluffy cover of comforter, and then I found her precious opening, plunged it in, and slowly, accurately, determinedly let it spew into her.

Then I came up for breath out of the blanket nearly sweating in our freezing house due to the nervousness of potentially being caught by our kind, sweet roommate. The harp still resonated through the house. We had slinked through the whole injection without detection. We laughed.

thank you good straight men

I've been meaning to reflect on the following subject a bit for some time now--straight boys who are my friends and who have the patience and interest to listen, at times, to my adventures in this world of sperm in jars, sperm in syringes, sperm in kk.

Throughout the last many months, many of these fellows have shown genuine interest in this escapade of ours. They have listened with wide eyes; given feedback and ideas with gracious eagerness; and asked with hopeful hearts how things are coming along. Of course, we've laughed lots along the way.

One of the things I like best about this time in our lives, is the candidness that I am allowed to dwell in. I'm a pretty forthright gal. I tell it like I see it. I cross the boundaries of properness on a frequent basis. I talk about my private parts and other people's private parts in the adult public. Shit and puke and piss and ejaculate are frequent bodily fluids that find their way into topics of conversation when I am involved in those conversations. I think it is important to be frank about our bodies. Prudish america has contributed to a repressed, societal sexuality that helps young girls get knocked up way too early and way too much by young boys who are being taught to see young girls as objects, while simultaneously the young girls start seeing themselves as objects and begin wearing their bodies as just that an object to be consumed, controlled, confined--and on and on and on...

When in all actuality we are mammals with the ability to think and reason and imagine and love and think and create and on and on. So this mammal part, the part about our ability to gather and hunt food, eat, digest, shit, piss, get horny, have sex (in all kinds of ways for procreation and recreation) and die gets pushed by the wayside too much and from there the repression begins to build up, or dig down, or pile backwards.

Anyhow,that is my quick,non-academic perspective. I could go on about it, but I will not.

Around straight boys who are my friends, I have found that I can tap this frankness about the whole process of girl on girl conception done injector/kk style in ways that bring a smile of surprise and happiness to my face.

How lucky I am to have good men in my life (both gay and straight). Men who listen, reflect, offer advice, joke, and get all "indecent" with me about this new adventure for everyone involved.

Ode to Autumn in Michigan

Autumn finally hit Michigan. I love it. On Saturday, we went to a family halloween party and then came home early enough to catch a dose of sperm. I rode over to the BD's house for a generous portion of the live little swimmers(he is no longer new, so now we can refer to him as Bio-dad or baby's donor, but BD does him fine). If I have not mentioned it yet, I will now, the BD consistently ejaculates between 3 and 3.2 CCs. I am amazed at the quantity every time I pull it up in my sweet, orange syringe.

Now back to the love of Autumn...We arrived home from the family party. My kk and the BD exchanged texts regarding drop into jar, ready, set, send the injector on over via bicycle. Except this particular night marked the first super chilly ride over to the BD's, so I had to dress a bit warmer and wear gloves. It was edging down to high 30s.

I was speedy on the way over. I got there and realized that the little swimmers needed to be kept warm due to the glorious arrival of the real fall (chilly nights, cold mornings, warmer afternoons, chilly nights, and on it goes). So, in front of the BD I reached down and up my shirt simultaneously to try and maneuver the former tomato paste jar, transformed into sperm vessel, between my bosoms and up against my chest wall and sports bra. Injector, "Sorry but it is getting colder out." BD, "Yeah, you gotta keep em' warm, now."

Then we chatted about pumpkin guts scattered by terror squirrels, social gathering woes, and a particular horror movie.

I pedaled home with a burst of energy trying to keep my little critters warm in the crevice of motherly love.

KK was waiting, but I made her take pictures of me pulling the potential sugar patch elixir out of my shirt. I sucked them up in my trusty syringe and once again (i've lost count now) let the suckers fly.

I kept you warm when you were cold

To look in great befuddlement upon the liquid gold; warm and sticky

Upon injection the sugary, bleach scented liquid found a constant warmth to combat the chill of Autumn in the cavern of kk's female parts. So is my ode to fall in Michigan.

Bike Ypsi--Cycling and Community

Cyclists gather at Recreation Park Pavilion in Ypsilanti, Michigan

Over the last couple of months a small group of Ypsilanti residents have been meeting regarding bicycle awareness in our sweet city. We came together because the police had announced that they would start enforcing the "NO BICYCLING ON SIDEWALKS RULE" in our two downtown areas. Well, in this town a lot of motorists don't know what a bicycle is, so shout outs like, "get on the sidewalk" are normal.

Since the police announced their enforcement intentions, it seemed like a perfect time to come together to raise awareness about where bicycles are meant to be--the road! By the way, the toughen up on enforcement came about cause drug dealing folks have been engaging in "criminal" behaviors via bicycles.

Our first step in making Ypsi a more bicycle friendly place was to plan a fall ride in order to have a fantastic time in this fair city of ours and to get a solid list of people who are interested in cycling in and around Ypsi. The culmination of this planning took place on Sunday, October 21 at 2:10 in the afternoon.

And the people they listen hard and contemplate it all

10/21 @ 2:10--Bike Ypsi(the ypsilanti bicycling coalition) Bike Ypsi's website--this constitutes people who are interested in all things bicycle related in Ypsilanti--put on our first ride. About 62 people turned out which was more than double what we expected. I cannot begin to tell you how amazed and happy I was as more and more people, of all ages, pulled up to the pavilion on bicycles of all shapes, sizes, designs, and kinds.

We broke into 3 very large groups (probably too large--but next time--there is always a next time) and we rode 17 miles entirely in the City of Ypsilanti and Ypsilanti Township.

Riding along a path by Ford Lake--yes there is a "Lake" in Ypsilanti

This was such a good example of community coming together. A small group of citizens pitching in their time, energy, creativity, and a bit of cash--no sponsors (not this time); simple, old fashion posting of fliers; word of mouth; use of email/myspace/and excellent local bloggers; and one brief article in the ann arbor news and we doubled our expected turn out. Of course, the weather was fucking amazing (super windy, but warm, sunny, blue skies at the end of October in MI). A little group came together and now we have fifty emails and more snail mail/phone contacts...

And we rode. And then we drank beer at the Corner Brewery, and socialized and thought about the next ride, and the next event, and the next time we could all come together as people enjoying one another's company.

At the Corner...

Okay, now I am teary eyed...this is the kind of place where i want to raise a wee sugarpatch into a kindhearted human.

Thanks, people of ypsi; you always come through...

For more reflections see:
Mark Maynard's Blog
Fine Bike Ypsi Organizer Georgina's Blog

Oh, the people...

Update on our attempts at making a sugarpatch

me with a jar of jiz--wet and sweaty from my ride to pick it up...








I've been a slacker in describing our most recent experiences in the world of procreation. Mostly, I think I've been lacking in words because the last injection phase was so excellent and I was not sure if I could do our experience justice here.

I will be brief, but give a simple play by play.

1. We got a new donor.
2. He is super great.
3. His lady is super great.
4. We like their family a super lot.
5. We signed some papers.
6. I performed the first pick up by bicycle. Riding through the mist to their house to claim the prize was invigorating and fun. I sucked up the first gift of jiz and shot it up into my baby. His smells different--but still bleachy and unusual with a hint of candy, sweetness.
7. The following evening we picked up another gift and shot it up into kk real quick on the couch. We covered her with blankets and crossed our fingers that our roommate would not arrive while I was under the covers injecting the swimmers up into her body.
8. We tried again the next morning. The NBD (new baby donor) arrived on our front porch with a gift of jiz early. How sweet. Again, I shot kk up on the couch so I could talk to her while I made coffee and toast.
9. We went up north for the fall get away and hoped that the swimmers might take.
10. On Sunday morning, while still up north kk had her SURGE of HORMONES. We trucked on home. NBD gave us a hand off that evening. I shot kk up again.
11. Monday morning our very kind NBD dropped another wad of jiz to us. And once again we did a couch injection.
12. Kk's temperature went up on Tuesday morning which means her egg fell right into some swimmers.
13. We had our fingers crossed for days.
14. I started my period before kk; this does not usually happen, so we thought hmm....(I also got this really cool tampon pouch. It is called Vinnie's Tamp Case--it is cute and makes me laugh.)
15. Alas, while in Nashville, before we came home to find our treasured pumpkins ripped off, kk started her period.
16. Swimmers failed to take this time around.
17. Looking forward to this next round of tries.
18. NBD thank-you for your steady stream of fluids:)

Pumpkin Thieves Beware

pumpkin thieves beware of the clown killer (this photo was taken the day of our pumpkin hauling adventure)

Monday night kk and I arrived home from nashville (I had to go for work). When we pulled up in the driveway, the porch seemed strange. And then I realized that our pumpkins were missing. They had been snatched right off our porch. I reacted badly--well I over reacted to their missingness. I yelled out loud to all of our neighbors, "if any of you stole my pumpkins you are a fucker."

The thief/thieves stole 3 large pumpkins and a very special banana squash that I brought back from up north. I planned on eating off that banana squash for days.

So, some people, and it had to be at least two folks cause our pumpkins were big, took it upon themselves to steal our pumpkins. I cannot express how peeved this made me (and continues to make me as I re-hash the story). K, T, R and I all went to the farm together on a hot october sunday. We hiked into the fields and stacked a little cart full up of pumpkins. Then we hauled that load back out. R did a lot of work pushing the load along and then I took over. I was dripping with sweat when we got back to the main entrance.


Choosing the best ones

All of this picking and hauling and sweating while spending time with good friends in a field makes me very connected to these pumpkins. I would have preferred for the culprits to take my television set.

Alas, we cannot choose what gets taken from us.

But Pumpkin Thieves Beware...

this godlike mystery

a view from the top of all seasons resort

I realize I’ve been kind of missing in action. Life is too busy, but all in all it is marvelous. Even though I bitch and moan almost every single day about the shit of injustice, inequality, and destruction that I see falling all around, I cannot dismiss the fact that I am able to see the billowing, steel gray clouds of a Michigan Autumn and breathe in the chill air as I sail over the roads on my bicycle.

I am blessed. Amidst the pain and suffering I see all around me, I can still catch ever-cascading glimmers of joy and mystery. Two weekends ago we traveled up north in Michigan to kk’s cabins. Her family owns a “resort” on Paradise Lake in Carp Lake, MI. Her dad and mom bought the place over twenty years ago, and now we are fortunate enough to travel up there every fall for a getaway with many of our dear friends. We also go up for a one-week vacation every summer.

My heart moves to a steady stillness when I am able to sit in the cleaner air of northern Michigan. We are surrounded by such beauty and quiet in the ever-changing landscape of the north. By ever-changing, I mean that we move from thick, forested areas to sandy coasts within minutes. I can hike through forested dunes and end up on the edge of Lake Michigan; I can cycle over paved hills and look out on apple orchards, corn fields, sheep farms, bee hives, wooded plots and still beyond the horizon see the Straits (the place where Lake Michigan and Lake Huron meet).


a far-away view of the straits--at the top of a hill on bicycle ride

During this year’s Fall Getaway hike, we took a 3-mile trek over a Harbor Springs’ Chapter portion of the enormous North Country trail. We entails a group of 6 friends, k and me, and Pookah—the whippet—and Turner—the standard poodle.



a walk in the woods

The hike was full of fungi. Mushrooms of all varieties busted up out of the loamy earth. Some seemed as if they had just erupted, right before the humans and dogs bounced by; gray sand-dirt was practically trickling of the smooth, strangely colored surfaces—the mushrooms in motion.


mushroom on the rise

It is this privilege of seeing the mysterious unfurling before me that makes me yearn to create life more than ever. What a joy I anticipate in the sharing of all things mysterious with a wee mystery—a child. To be up north in the company of michigan’s lakes and dunes and forests and animals, is to be in the company of that which is bigger than human understanding.

The pieces of something godlike re-surfacing in my heart are deeply connected to the joy I find when sitting, walking, biking, hiking, or swimming through the bounteous land and water that I am fortunate to call home. If there is a god, it roams somewhere within all of this beauty.

www.free-burma.org

A New Ride

The past couple of months have been void of sperm. We have not injected since July. The distance of the don don and the insane business of our lives have proven to be major obstacles in our attempts to get pregnant. So, here, in public, I give a shout of thanks out to our don don. Thanks for trying with us. Thank you for familiarizing me with sperm—its smell, its texture, its elasticity. Your sperm will always be the first I ever sucked up in an orange syringe and let fly.

But now, we must move on to closer swimmers. Some very gracious people have offered up the male half of the couple’s sperms. And we have found this arrangement to be comfortable and to make sense. Laughing about the process with these folks has made me love the adventure even more. Now, fresh sperm will be just a few blocks away, and I will be able to pick the stuff up via bicycle and ride it home to my sweet girl’s eager cavern.

I cannot stress how happy I am that I can ride my bicycle to pick up the life giving liquid. Riding my bicycle makes me incredibly happy. Every morning I wake up excited to get on my bike and ride to work. Many mornings I meet my dear friend T and we take off for the wild world of Ann Arbor. Riding my bike to work makes me feel like a kid; riding my bike to work with a friend makes me feel like a super kid out on a play date rather than on my way to the stress riddled realities of social injustice that I become submerged in throughout the day. The ride in prepares me for a long day; the ride home helps take my mind to the present moment.



my single gear-redline 9.2.5.

Riding is like that. It turns a mind and body to the presence of air and ground and wind and gravel and concrete and grass and rivers. Riding over roads and paths, consumes the senses with all that surrounds the body. I have to become consumed, because I have to pay attention to every detail happening around me. The wiz, wiz, wiz of too many cars becomes a mantra of refusal to be clipped. The ferocity of the wind can set the pace and make me feel like I am riding in the midst of something miraculous.

Riding in a rainstorm initiates a deep satisfaction in my soul. It is like swimming on land. We are able to delve into the mystery of water while breathing in oxygen. Even the freezing months’ rides deliver a thrill. While it may be difficult to get my ass out of the house on those 20-something degree mornings, once we are on the road the anticipation of warming up by mile 5 speeds up the heart, warms the muscles, and breathes life into our blood.

I am amazed and blessed and thrilled that I can now combine my love of being out in the world on my bicycle, traversing the landscapes and moving through the present moment, with this sugar patch creation adventure.

Again, thank you dear don don.

And now, onto the new ride

don't read if you don't feel like hearing a vent about injustice

Today I am furious. Today I am sad.

The reservations that arise in my heart about having a child are intimately connected to the injustices I witness day after day after day.

Below is the story of a man that wrote to AFSC, the organization where I work, with a request to get him a tent and sleeping bag so he could go live in the desert once he maxed out of prison. I should point out that this stint he has served five years and spent almost every single one of those days in solitary confinement. That amounts to 23 to 24 hour lock down 7 days a week, 365 days a year. The 23 hours gets referred to cause five times a week people in solitary get let out into a dog run for one hour. If a prisoner exhibits “bad” behavior, he/she gets the one-hour out privilege revoked.

Anyhow, this fellow was serving prison time on a non-violent crime for a B & E. He’s been in and out of prison since 1974 all for B & E type crimes (all because he has mental health issues and has been homeless his whole adult life).

Through our good American practice of punishing to the max, we have intentionally contributed to the exacerbation of this man’s disconnection, isolation, and mental anguish. We, and yes it is us and if you don’t feel responsible then you are even more responsible, passively stand by and watch the planet gasp for air around us, the animals of the planet disappear, and the human animals of the planet stumble about in the throngs of unnecessary suffering. That is suffering we create folks, not that suffering inherent to being alive. I mean for fuck sake there is no reason, no matter what, to keep people locked up in 10 by 12 cages with no freedom of movement for years on end. And I do not want to go into how the justice system is predicated on a racist, classist foundation that renders behaviors that deviate from the norm as criminal, but I will say this more than ¾ of the people incarcerated in MI are in there for no good reason (not that there is ever a good reason to lock people up)—and yes I pulled the ¾ figure out of my ass.

So, we keep this man locked up for most of his adult life and then dump him on the street. Except this time we, people at AFSC, have been able to minimally intervene. This minimal intervention amounts to the following:
Correspond with him and ask what he wants out of life
Ask the DOC to transfer him downstate so that we can pick him up from the prison gates upon release
Ask the Psychological services at the DOC to evaluate him so he can get back on the mental health medications he wants to be on (or at least he did want to be on)
Ask the DOC to help him fill out his SSI paperwork so that he can get some assistance from the state upon release
Ask the DOC and him to help us get a copy of his birth certificate so he can re-establish his identity upon release
Ask the Michigan Prisoner Re-entry Initiative in Washtenaw County to try to get him hooked up with services upon his release

What happens with all of this intervention?
Not a goddamn, fucking thing. Oh, except my director spoke with this man’s counselor at the prison today. The counselor was kind enough to pull the man out of his segregation cell and report that the man is doing okay. He needs a haircut; does not smell too bad; and won’t come close to the counselor even thought the counselor told him he could. Counselor stated, “I can tell he’s been in segregation a long time.”

And the other thing—my director will go pick him up at the prison gates on Monday and bring him to where?? Good question. He has no place to go.

So, here it starts. He hits the streets; he might use some illegal substances if that shit makes him feel better; he might just keep to himself. But when no money is coming in, he might end up taking something from the self-righteous citizenry. And then one of us might call the police on him cause some dirty, long-haired black man is snooping through our trash looking for bottles. Or maybe he walks into your unlocked home and steals some of your home appliances made in china and then you call the police. And then he gets picked back up and sent to the jail where they discover his long rap sheet. And then he gets tried on some B & E. And then he goes back to the state prison. And then he gets no psychological help. And then he ends up back in solitary confinement.

And five years from now, maybe I’ll have a little kid on my lap and another letter will arrive at our office asking for a sleeping bag and tent so that this same man can go live in the desert by himself.

Or maybe—if I can muster a bit of hope out of the cavernous mess of gloom I seem to have fallen into—we will have found a bit more compassion for one another and he can go live with some people who will show him what it means to be loved and cared for and safe no matter what.

Gone is the nipple ring

Last night K did the unthinkable--she removed her last nipple ring.

Many years ago, on a sunny day (or maybe it was gray; i was not there. i'm just the teller of the tale, so there may be inaccuracies and falsehoods due to ignorance and misunderstandings) KK decided it would be fun to go to a strip mall piercing place in Cheboygan, MI and get her boobs needled. She did not go alone; she made her way to this decision with the help of her then-girlfriend, A, and her friend, D. As K tells it, the three ladies lined their six boobies up raw, in a row, and a piercer-man let into their tender flesh.

Then at least 10 years ago, K removed the left nipple ring in some Eastern European Country, due to an infection that had erupted which caused immense pain. Her then-girlfriend, A, had to coerce the metal ring out of her sweet pinky, brown nipple to bring relief to my girl's aching tit.

Now, a good 11 years later, my dear one has decided that the metal must go in her right boobie, also.

Of course, we all know why--it may be incredibly harmful for a
wee infant to wrap his/her mouth around a hoop the size of a dime. K is already suffering from premature nerves regarding the scar holes residing in the left nipple; she is under the impression that her breast milk will shoot in twenty different directions because of the former piercings. She holds this bizarre fear even though D, one of the three who lined up for the needle, has told both of us that she breast fed her boy just fine after removing the results of her youthful risky behavior.

But back to me. I was all for the removal of ring number 2. But then the removal went down all strange. See K just got a notion to tug it out; I was not there when it happened. And she came to me and said, "Baby, you'll never guess what I just did?"

And I was like, "What did you just do?"

And then she said it. And then I looked. And then I was sad.

I've only ever witnessed her beautiful boobies with this piece of metal wrapped around her little pucker of a nipple. I've had my reservations about the damn thing cause sometimes it tended to get cheesy stanky--like a belly button that needs washing out. Of course, this only happened when the thing got irritated from certain fabrics rubbing it wrong. But alas, when you go in for a nice booby suck and are forced to come up for air cause the nipple ring needs a heavy dose of Bactine, the ring becomes a nuisance not a joy. It never provided any titillation for me and it over-sensitized her breast which she was not fond of. All in all, it is good that it is gone.

But now I have to get familiar with a nipple-ringless nipple. I think I'll have conquered my sadness by, oh --maybe--yeah--tonight!

Thankful

Thankful for it all

I think skipping a month was good for us. We are entering this new time of K’s fertile time with renewed hearts and a fresh spirit. I am also becoming more patient and thankful.

Thankful for life—for living, breathing, being alive—Thankful for even having the life breath in us to toy with all of this trying to create new life.

This living that we do is so precarious. It all could end tomorrow; it all could slow tomorrow; it all will be so different in the evening no matter what we do to try and stop change. I am thankful for the uncertainty. I am thankful to be able to encounter the day and hold the slippery edges of the minutes that tick away—each moment sailing silently through my fingers like fine slippery figs sliding down my throat vanishing into the pit of my belly and intestines.

Not that I was not thankful before, but the many lives we are touched by bring such news of newness and challenges; heartache and joy, trials and growth. So all of these events of living are becoming so much brighter in my head and palpable in my mouth. As loved ones struggle through harder days and as laughter in the neighborhood drifts carelessly over our heads into our hearts, I suck it all in like the feeling might be my last. And I give thanks to every thing and being that surrounds me for sharing this living.

Now the patience thing, that’s a harder one to embrace, but I am trying. Since uncertainty is what each day whips or tosses at us, then cultivating the patience to deal with these spheres of not knowing should be easy. Not quite. But then again, I wait with the patience of a good monk for my garden to grow. I tend to the soil with calm persistence and dream of rain when it is too dry. So, if only I could come into that same kind of patience over the creation of this kid, I think all would be a bit better.


Thankful for my love

Surrounded by bodily fluids

We skipped trying this month. We just could not make it to Chicago—not k by herself, not me with k. It just didn’t work. I could not have gone even if we had ended up stumbling into cash and time, cause I got food poisoned on Thursday night, and I was recuperating all weekend.

This food poisoning caused me to puke for the first time since I was 6, save for a drunken spew when I was in the 10th grade. That is how sick I was—my fear of vomiting was enormous until one week ago. I shat almost uncontrollably for 6 hours. And part way through that the puke came. And then the next day my body was like a defeated vessel of lifelessness. I had a fever—all day long—from dehydration (or maybe whatever toxin had waged battled on my intestines and gut). For the rest of the weekend I mostly sat around on our very uncomfortable couch and watched mindless television.

I think some spoiled Russian/thousand island dressing on a veggie Reuben caused the explosion in my body to occur. Ughh…

Anyhow, I’m better now. I sucked on gatorade and vernors, popsicles and jello for a few days and now my belly seems happy.

I hope that overcoming my fear of puking will help when it comes to raising up a kid when ever the sugar patch decides to take. Cause wee ones are like test tubes of germs and stank and viruses. And I need to really be able to clean up a pile of puke or diarrhea, so that k does not get stuck with it all.

When I was 19, I was still living at home with my ma and dad. I got some really nasty virus and passed out in the hall way and shit my pants. My loving mother attended to my mess like it was second nature. I need a gut and heart like the one my mom demonstrated that day. So, I am slowly building it.

As I stroll through this journey with all of these bodily fluids surfacing around me, I am building the kind of stamina that it will take to be there, strong and constant, for another life in all of his/her alien and familiar facets.

A 2 Liter of Semen--and some musings on the injector's inability to properly contribute to the creation of this sugar patch

This month has been a brutal roller coaster of emotion. I guess that is what life is in general, but I've discovered that this whole trying to get with child thing really sends me surfing on a giant wave--a wave that I am trying to ride gracefully, but alas my feet are too shifty and my balance leaves much to be desired.

KK is up in the air about whether or not to go to Chicago this month. We cannot afford for both of us to go--time wise or money wise--, so I will stay home if she does decide to go. All of this means that I will not be the injector if she tries this month. This leaves K terribly sad and it leaves me feeling as powerless as I've been feeling throughout this process.

Plus, our dear friends are moving away and their good-bye party is right when the egg might decide to drop, so K is thinking that maybe the egg should just drop into a sperm-free cavity this time around.

All of this has become too complicated with the don don living so far away. K is exploring freezing techniques--without clinical intervention--and I am wishing hard for a penis and testes so that I can just knock her up all by myself.

When I wake in the morning to the teary eyed gaze of the love of my life leaning over and whispering, "I wish you could just roll on top of me and make me pregnant," I have to wonder about this desire for offspring in conjunction with the inability for our bodies together to create new life. Of course, we have the wonderful muscle push of my hand surrendering someone else's sperm into her special parts, but it is nothing like the jiz really belonging to me.

Not that I am a semen envier; I really could do entirely without the stuff. Which brings me to the most disgusting thing I've pictured in my head in a long time. In the hot August heat of last night, we were shooting the shit about semen, yet again, with some friends. When we stumbled into the scary vision of one of the fellows storing his daily ejaculation in a 2 liter for a week (or maybe more) and giving it to me to inspect. How vile and laughable all at once! I wonder if it rots?

how to make the red soil seed ready?

the injector tending the easy earth...

Once again, the egg and the sperm failed to meet. So, we are not knocked up. The lessons I'm learning in all of this are that I am a pretty damn impatient person and I really want this.

We debated and contemplated and went back and forth with the idea of trying to get pregnant for quite some time, and now that we are in it, I am convinced that it is the next journey we are meant to carve out.

Problem is I need to devote as much patience and steady pace of mind to the process of trying to make the darn sugar patch as I did to the process of finally deciding to set off on the mission.

I guess this mystery of egg falling from tubes and sperm swimming steadfast against all odds seeking to bump into egg is a bigger one than I ever even began to think about. I try to venture into that unknown void of kk's female organs and it becomes one vast red space with lots of fluid swishing about. So then I try to think about it in more familiar terms--a strip of soil about to get all planted up, but it is not that easy.

See when I put seeds in the ground or in some soil up in our planting room, they are mostly going to rise up with some tending. If we water and make sure the sun falls over them, germination is practically a given.

A Zinnia in our garden grown from seed...

Not true with the dark, warm sloshy place of kk's vagina, uterus, ovaries, and fallopian tubes. The mystery of planting the goods that have the potential to bring a wee human into our breathing space is a lot more complicated than the steps involved in bringing to fruition my lush, full garden. While teenagers everywhere--the ones who seem to achieve pregnancy just from sitting on a toilet seat after their boyfriends--might have a different story about the ease of the mystery of human creation becoming reality, the two queer girls involved in this particular tale are now starting to see the mystery of furrowing the female body for the reception of bleachy seed as harder work than tilling a thousand acres for the reception of veggie seeds. While pursuing conception might not be all that much physical work (that mostly involves driving to retrieve the seed and then relying on the work of the don don's hands--or don don's boyfriend's hands--to ejaculate the seed), it is a hell of a lot of emotional work.

Growing beans

Contemplating the mystery of our internal anatomy is exhausting. Not to mention the defeat associated with wading in the aftermath of a letdown--the failure of the seed to take root after I so carefully injected into that soft lush ground. Cause really that's all I can do; plunge the syringe deep inside and let loose. I have no power here. I will just have to let the mystery be and pretend I am a good gardener without any seeds of my own.

Chicago #1

From July 4th through July 6th, we tried with all of our might to make a wee little baby. We includes K, the don don, his boyfriend and me. I must say that with my hesitancy to spend a whole week in chicago--going to chi-town for days on end was not boding well with my earth sign leanings--(which did not happen; I came home for 1 and a half days and leave again tomorrow until Wednesday evening), everything was much more pleasing than my negative thinking would have painted. so, fuck you the Secret--with a lame ass copyright inserted, I thought bad thoughts and good things happened!!!

We had a splendid time trying to get little kk all knocked up.



JULY 4
Pookah, K,and the injector waiting for the don don to call so we could go back to the apartment and inject the fresh little worms.

Day 1--July 4,2007. We arrived in Chicago around 4:30 Central time. The don don and his boyfriend (i will call him don don's boy) graciously welcomed us to their new apartment; they had just put down roots, not even a full week ago, in Chicago. K was feeling like she was super fertile,so the don don and the don don's boy went to business as we exited the premises.

we took the pookster on a sweet walk through the edgewater neighborhood. we found the stomping ground to be quite darling. Folks were having block parties and bbq's all over the place. the sun shone through the hazy mix of grill smoke and smoke bombs like a fading memory you want to capture before it vaporizes.

After quite a few minutes, not leading into an hour but more like one half of an hour, pour some sugar on me came blasting out of k's phone. Yes, pour some sugar on me is the don don's ring tone.

And that is what he had all caught up in an artichoke jar for us--some sugar. We made our way back to the apartment anxious for the jiz. The don don and the don don's boy exited the premises as we arrived. We went into their bedroom and k took off her panties. I sucked up the 3 CCs of sperm and shot it into her. And guess what? It all stayed. Not a bit slithered out. Her uterus and canal and all those other womanly parts sucked his sperm up into her like she needed internal lotion to lubricate her dry, dry self.

We were thrilled. The boys were thrilled. K lounged around for a long time and then we went and had a delicious dinner at the Chicago Diner.

Day 2--July 5, 2007



JULY 5
K's LH Surge finally appears on the sweet little stick.

We woke up and K peed on her stick for the i have no clue how manyth time.
And then a gleeful scream of jubilation expelled itself from her mouth. The smiley face had appeared.

we went to breakfast and enjoyed tasty, tasty food.

And then we landed back at the apartment and shortly thereafter left for a walk as the don don and the don don's boy filled up the jar again. Pour some sugar on me came blaring on the phone and we headed back for the fresh, life giving fluid sloshing its bleachy stained self around in a jar that once contained very oily and delicious artichoke hearts.

This time the boys stuck around as we went into the second bedroom and injected the 2 CCs of fluid up into kk. A little came spewing out this second time around, but most of it stuck. We had grown much more comfortable by this time and by the third time, which i will not go into detail about on the blog, we were in the apartment as don don jacked and don don and don don's boy stayed close by as we injected (Don don even went into the bathroom to collect some toilet paper--due to his boy being in the shower--so i could wipe the jiz up off kk cause it almost all came spewing back out the third day).

All in all, it the chicago injecting experience was fantastic--good friends, good times, good food.



don don, the injector, and k hangin' our feet from the pier at the beach after day 2 injection!

Happy Fucking Fourth of July

the injector with the syringe after the fact...
the sperm was jacked off in ann arbor and driven, by car, to ypsilanti.
this potential baby is a gas hog.


yes, the jar above held the jiz.


holding the syringe after it just expelled a 1.5 CCs of fluid into k's special place.

we've injected a total of six times now.
today we are heading to chicago to get more sperm.
i'm not happy about spending a week in chicago.
see i have to be there for work on Monday the 9th through Wednesday the 11th.
so, i will have spent a full seven days there if k's temperature does not go up before saturday.
the smiley face on the ovulation pee stick is still incognito, but k thinks she is fertile now, so we are off to burn more fuel to collect sperm from the don don who moved from 10 minutes down the road to 4.5 hours away.
who knows what the freeway will be like. I-94 during holiday traffic will be just fucking fabulous.
oh, see how positive i am. if i was following the teachings of the secret, i would say let's just stay home cause my negative energy has already corrupted the mission. but that shit is just that shit.
if we don't end up pregnant this time it will be all because of this rant on this blog--for sure.

Traffic jams, sperm, and spoiled fish

The third time

Oh, now I might be able to say—what a HOOT that was.

K decided she was mighty fertile on Monday (though none of her signs were present). So, she scheduled a sperm pick up. I ended up in the car with her—my bike on the trunk rack—due to a knee injury that is keeping me from biking round trip, ughh…

We decided to grab some fish from a market to make tacos before we picked up the sperm to make a baby. The don don said not to get there before 5:30, so we had five minutes to blow in the store. We swung by the don don’s and he handed off a too cold jar of jiz, which I promptly stuffed up my shirt next to my sweaty belly. Did I mention it got up into the low 90s on Monday—humidity 60% or higher.

Then the hell began. I had had a bad feeling about getting on the freeway to make our way home, but we did it regardless only to be instantly stopped by a long, long line of traffic. The radio said an accident was causing back ups. I had to pee when we got on the freeway and an hour later I still had to pee; we were still in traffic (though we had ventured off the freeway to find ourselves in another jam, cause everyone else had gotten off the freeway too); and we still had a baby food jar that once contained pureed sweet potatoes now full of potentially perishing sperm.

By the time we made it home I thought the fish that we were going to consume for dinner had spoiled and that the sperm had died along with my bladder.

We pulled into the driveway and I jumped out of the car while it was still moving to get a head start on running to the toilet. K threw the fish in the fridge (I was still very wary of swallowing it for dinner) and jetted up stairs. She took a leak and grabbed the orange syringe. I sat on the bed, undid the jar, and sucked up the bleachy liquid into the plastic injection contraption. 5 CCs this time—that’s a hell of a lot of jiz.

Once I shot it up into K, a little came spewing out. But there was so much I did not think it mattered.

All in all, this is getting to be humorous and tedious, scientific and common, difficult and easy.

no sugar patch--this month

Welp, the flow is on. K is not knocked up. She started her period exactly 30 minutes after me this hot June morning. Maybe our flowing together is a sign from some higher being cause the two of us have never been so tight on schedule. We rarely line up and when we do overlap we never start at the same time; it is still off by at least a day.

I'm thinking the first jiz didn't find the egglette cause we still needed my extra strong womanly side to appear and make fertile the ground for conception. Okay, maybe not, but starting our monthly wonder thirty minutes apart is very strange and if I believed in something mythical or real, I would say it means something.

So, since I am starting to believe in something again--something bigger than me and you, but not too big and not too powerful--I think maybe it is a wee sign of something about to be conceived.

Or, maybe not.

Urging her to pee on the stick

Yesterday, while I worked in the garden, K waited for the second line to appear on that strange plastic pregnancy stick in the bathroom upstairs. I kept shouting up, “Did it turn yet?” She kept shouting down, “No.”

I’m the one that was persistent in the asking—the asking her to pee on the stick before she even missed a period.

I guess I’m anxious. Not a bad kind of anxious, but a I want to know now cause if the period comes spotting out onto K’s underwear I will most likely not be there with her when it happens anxious. And I want to be there for her when the first disappointment surfaces, or maybe the better word for it is crashes out onto her panties.

When we first started I was more realistic about all of this. I know many people wait for years on end to finally get the sugar patch blooming in their uteri. But then the news came that our don don is heading straight out of town—he’s moving July 1. So now we have one more serious try time and then we will have to do it on the fly.

K is having a hard time determining her ovulation, so if this period does come then we will try everyday after it ends for ten days—injecting sperm like mad women. And then we will start the waiting all over again. Waiting to see if it takes or not.

The stick showed a negative, but it was done four days before her period is supposed to start so that means that the stick is only 54% accurate. Now the anxiousness is heavier than before, but like I said it is not a bad anxious; I’m still hanging onto giddy patience. Soon this all might be as common as taking a morning shit. But for now I will treasure the anxiety and patience and look forward to whatever comes next--a period, a sugar patch, a big dose of sperm--all of it is a gift.

Sugar Patch

Well, the waiting is tricky. Waiting to find out if the sperm has taken root requires a new kind of patience. I refer to it as giddy patience. I mean it is highly unlikely that after two doses of semen K is going to find herself all knocked up, so with that thought looming over our furrowed brows, we wait with giggles in our guts and a little nervousness. I’ve been referring to the possible sperm/ egg cell concoction as the sugar patch. I think of the potential fetus as sweet and mysterious--all the stuff that a nice candy treat is made of.

We will know in a few days if it took. If it did not K’s bleeding time will start up and then we will start all over again--with giddy patience guiding us through a most wonderful process. This creation of a sugar patch stuff is really quite nifty.

taking up space

One thing that has me scared out of my guts about the possibility of raising a kid is the tendency of people with children to take up way too much space.

Whether you have kids or not, you know what I’m talking about. Screaming, spoiled rotten kids on planes; folks in groups talking about their kids as if nothing else in the world existed, “Johnny’s day care is $750.00 a week but they start teaching kids trigonometry when they are 18 months old, so he’ll have a head start in this competitive economy”; unsupervised children running through areas of streets and sidewalks where little human feet should not tread; 3,000 square foot homes for 4 people (2 children/two adults). It’s all too much.

I am not a space taker upper, or at least I try not to be. I squish me and all of my shit into a tiny ball when I am riding public transportation or walking through a crowded area. I do not like to be stepped on, and I try with all of my might not to step on anyone else.

I ride my bike to work and back home almost everyday, and mommy walkers on the Gallup park trail are my new irritant—the thing that makes me swear thirty dirty words up inside my head. These ladies take up way too much space. Sometimes they walk in fours sometimes in twos but what ever the case, with two trailer size strollers side-by-side and back-to-back on the trail, they become an enormous brick wall that is practically impenetrable even when I shout out that I am about to clip all of them at a relatively fast pace.

Cause when I yell, “On your left,” they are usually so caught up in their little bubble world of kids, exercise, and the latest health food at the Whole Foods that they can’t hear good old me shouting. So I have to come to a full stop and yell, nicely (but not too nicely), “excuse me please; I need to get by.”

And then they might see me and edge their stroller semi-trucks ever so slightly over, so that I have 2 centimeters of trail to pass them on. Other times, when their exclusive world of plastic baby RV joggers and chatter take precedent over everything else on the planet, I am left to venture off the asphalt and over the grassy/muddy/bumpy/watery edge of the trail.

I mean the geese are more willing to recognize that I exist and move their families off the trail—hissing and making a fuss all the while, but at least they see me and at least they move out of the way.

So, I swear now on the holiest manhole cover around that I will only ever use an umbrella stroller. A little folder-upper that only takes up two feet (at the very most) of space.