Before I get into this post, I want to apologize for how my last post turned up in your feeds. I was trying to post the picture way down so those who didn’t want to have to see it, wouldn’t have to. I realized today that not only did that not work, but the picture would have shown up in your feed next to the title of my post.

That must have felt like an assault, and I’m sorry. I’ll try to figure out something else going forward.


On Thursday, I had one of those days at work. Rushing to meet a deadline (that I was given almost no notice about), I ended up pushing myself much harder than I should have. Without going into too much boring detail, the project entailed getting a large number of documents shipped to our Chicago office and LA office via overnight FedEx. Thousands and thousands of pages worth of documents. 12 banker’s boxes of pages worth.

Banker's BoxYou know. These things.

My job was the print, organize and prepare for shipping the files/documents we were sending. Easy, right? But then the fast printer on my floor broke, and then fast printer on the floor above me broke, and the floor below me, and I ended up having to use a slow-ass printer to print a 3,000 page document (and make 4 copies of said document) and on and on and on. Everything that could have gone wrong, did.*

By mid afternoon, I realized I might not make the deadline and I started to panic. I’ve been in this situation a million times before, and I’ve always busted my ass to pull it together at the last minute.** And busting my ass can mean literally running around the office, with stacks of paper or boxes in my arms, slapping shipping labels on them, screaming “WAIT PLEASE WAIT!!!” at the FedEx guy, and then collapsing in a blubbering heap.

And that’s more or less what happened on Thursday, except add in the fun twist of 17 weeks pregnant me, running in high heels, hauling boxes and heavy stacks of paper, bending, twisting, (panting, dying) OH and let’s not forget NOT EATING LUNCH. Which, now that I have discovered that food is not horrifying/nausea inducing but actually quite lovely and I would like to eat ALL THE THINGS, is a travesty of international proportions.

Guys, I made my deadline. But when I got home, I felt like my back was splitting into two pieces, and I was shaking with hunger. I could barely move my arms to shovel food fast enough into my mouth.

And I realized, DUH, that maybe I can’t do everything I could do a few months ago. Maaaaaaybe I should cool my jets a little bit? Maybe I should worry less about proving myself at work, and worry more about my own health and safety and the health/safety of the pirate?

Sometimes I astound myself with my own insight.

*WHY am I printing documents across the country and shipping them, rather than people printing their own damn files in Chicago and LA? Because printing there is illegal. Now you know.

**WHY am I so often in this situation? Repeat after me: “A lack of planning and foresight on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine. Except when you control my paycheck, and then I guess it DOES mean it’s my emergency to deal with, dammit.”


I was on the phone at work today, talking to a secretary about sending out a FedEx. As she was talking, I felt this odd little tapping, like someone was lightly drumming their fingers on the inside of my stomach. Or popping popcorn. Or bursting soap bubbles.

“OH!” I shouted, as I realized what it was.

Being the smooth professional that I am, I gracefully picked up the conversation where we had left off.

“Whoever actually sends the baby will need to sign the proof of service,” I continued.

There was a confused silence until I figured out what I’d just said.

“I’m sorry, the package. Whoever sends the package. Not the baby. Sorry.”


16 week picture of yours truly below. Do not scroll down if this will upset you. Also upsetting (beside the whole pregnancy aspect): 1) that I’m a terrible photographer; and 2) that someone doesn’t shut their dresser drawers. TAMMY.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.




















16 weeks BI hate to have to break this to you all, but I am in fact headless in real life.  Shocking, I know.

Also, if you look closely (you pervs) that is not a pseudo occupying my pelvis, but the place where the panel and regular pant material meet and get all bunchy. Although a pseudo peni.s would explain my difficulty getting pregnant…

Childhood Neurosis

I’ve been thinking a lot about what our future kid is going to be like. What will their interests be, their personality, their likes, their dislikes?

And beyond that, what things will they inherit from me, good or bad?


I was kind of definitely a weird kid. I was anxious, even then, and lived almost entirely in a world populated by my imagination.

My mom and I had a good laugh about it recently when Tammy and I went to visit them. My parents are cleaning out their basement and they came across a lot of stuff from my childhood, including artwork, school pictures, and books. A lot of these things brought up memories.

Weirdo Kid Memories:
1) My sister and I each had a special “comfort item” that we slept with. Hers was a doll, and mine was a bear. We used to play together at night when we were supposed to be sleeping. We would pretend we were new moms, and we had just given birth (not that we had the slightest concept of how that process would work) to our doll and our bear.

The only weird thing about my sister’s doll was that it was bald.  Because she had thrown up on it so many times as a child, my parents had pulled the wig off it, basically saying, “fuck this”.

Anyway, we would play this game where we introduced our new kids to each other. Here’s how that conversation would go:

Sister: Sarah, come meet my new baby! She’s beautiful! Only problem is…she’s bald.

Me: Sister, come meet MY new baby! He’s beautiful! Only problem is…he’s a bear.

And then we’d play the game again.

2) I freaking LOVED the Little House on the Prairie series. The books, not the show. Don’t speak to me about that abomination.

Little House on the Prairie

(I also loved the spinoff books about Rose (Laura’s daughter) and Caroline (Laura’s mother.)

I went through a period when I was about 8 where I longed to live in “olden times”. I would steal one of my mom’s work skirts (calf length on her, beyond floor length on me), put on the prairie boots that were inexplicably in style at the time (and that I had successfully convinced my parents to buy for me) and run around the backyard pretending I was saving the crops from a looming tornado. Or frost. Or something. I also wore those clothes while making forts in the living room, and then knocking them down when the tornado came.

3) I had a dress when I was around the same age that I LOVED. Actually, I loved dresses my whole childhood and my mom had to FORCE me to wear pants when it was cold outside. I know. Worst lesbian ever. Anyway, this dress was old-fashioned, with a sash and smocking along the top. It was kind of maroon colored.

When I was in elementary school, we took a field trip to some local caves. Upon learning this, I instantly knew I would wear my dress because being in the cave would be ALMOST like being in olden times (no telephone wires, no cars, etc to ruin the illusion), and my dress would make things more authentic. I also had these stickers that were little paw prints of animals.

animal paw prints

Before leaving for the field trip, I accessorized my dress by sticking many of these stickers on my dress, reasoning that girls in olden times obviously had wild animals as friends. Perhaps people would even think these stickers were real animal prints and know me to be fabulously cool. I was so excited.

Of course, as soon as kids saw me they made fun of me. They said my clothes were dirty and ugly and that my mama should “wash me better”. While we were in the cave, I peeled off those stickers, but held on to them. That night in bed, I stuck them on my headboard. The see-through backing of the sticker showed the maroon fuzz that came off my dress. For as long as I had that bed, every time I saw the stickers I felt those kids mocking me, and was ashamed and embarrassed all over again.

Anxious Memories:
1) I had an immense fear of my parents death, and “what would become of me” (I picked up that phrasing from books). I worried constantly that they weren’t taking their vitamins. For a long time I thought it was normal for kids to worry about their parents dying, but I have since been informed this is not actually the case. My parents had to talk to me over and over about which aunt my sister and I would live with if they died. Far from reassuring me, for some reason this made my fear worse.

2) I also had a huge fear of fire. The area my parents live in often has droughts during the summer months, and sometimes the town will tell people not to water their lawns to conserve water. Combine this with learning about Smokey the Bear (and how one unattended campfire can cause a forest fire) and I was convinced our (brick) house was going to burn down every day.

Smokey the Bear(I took this sign a little too seriously)

To combat this, I ignored the town’s injunction over watering the lawn (rule bender, even then) and watered the…house. Yes, I would go outside and water our brick house during the summer. To keep it from burning down. No need to thank me, Mom and Dad. I’m here to help.

What kind of funny/weird/sad things do you remember about yourself from childhood? Do you think these memories influence who you are as an adult?


I got my first less-than-supportive comment.

When I started blogging, I expected that I would get comments that would regularly require a tough skin and a stern self talking-to (“you CHOSE to blog”). But I found you lovely people, and I’ve been impressed with the kindness you extended to me, a virtual (see what I did there?) stranger, coming over to emote in your corner of the internet.

It’s not even that the comment was so bad, but it did make me wince a little. It was on my post about sharing pregnancy news on fac.ebook:

“Popping out of lurking to say I can see why oyu are in a tough position. But to think you don’t have the email, or phone number, of your ‘less close’ friends’? So why bother telling them? If FB crashed tomorrow…oh me, oh my…you wouldn’t have ANY way to communicate with said friends? That’s weird to me. FB is your ONLY means of communication. With a potential move coming up, you may want to I don’t know, try to form more meaningful relationships, than just ‘liking’ something here or there. Just my 2cents.”

Before anyone jumps all over me, please know that I would have emailed her directly if she had left an email address or blog site. But she didn’t.

And before anyone jumps all over her, she does partially have a point and I DID ask for comments.

Before I decided to update my status about the pregnancy, I did think about why I should bother telling people who I’m not that close to. Why does it matter if they know that I’m pregnant? Here’s what I came up with:

1) We’re a lesbian couple, and I’m working hard to spread the idea that gay people having kids is normal and blase. Studies show that when people know someone who is gay, they become more accepting and tolerant. It suddenly is less of an abstract concept and more about someone’s life. Same idea with gay people having kids. I’m trying to up the tally for ‘acceptance’ in the ‘parents who are gay’ category.

2) There’s been so much about this process that has been hard, and I’ve so often felt isolated and alone. It’s a large part of the reason I started this blog. I didn’t know anyone IRL that was struggling to get or stay pregnant. I was desperate to talk to someone (other than Tammy and my mom) about it. Since getting and staying pregnant, I’ve longed for a return to some kind of normalcy. The scars that I have from this process (both physical and emotional) continue to haunt me. I wanted (for once!) to not feel weird. I wanted to be a normal person announcing a normal pregnancy. I wanted to bask in the happiness of my friends, even my ‘less close’ friends. I wanted the community affirmation, that this was a GOOD thing, and it was OK to be HAPPY.

But then on to the ‘ouch’ part of Kate’s comment:

“With a potential move coming up, you may want to I don’t know, try to form more meaningful relationships, than just ‘liking’ something here or there.”

Like I said, ouch. That comment hit a little close to home. It’s something I struggle with, maintaining friendships. I’m an introvert, but I also struggle with anxiety, often manifesting in social anxiety. I also struggle with depression. The infertility process has made both my anxiety and depression much harder to deal with.

I have people who I enjoy spending time with; friends from college, friends from work. But it’s HARD for me to maintain those relationships. I work at it, and I try, and sometimes I do better and sometimes I do worse. Since getting pregnant, I’ve been working hard on getting out of the house more, half for my sake and half for Tammy’s. She’s much more social than I am, and she’s often home with me more than she would like. We’re working on trying to find a balance.

But that comment also stung because she hit on the context of a potential move. It’s one of the things that scares me about a move; having to meet new people. I wouldn’t have the natural environment of work to socialize, and I would have to force myself to push out of my comfort zone and talk to people I don’t know (gasp!).

I have met with a psychologist off and on for years (since college). Sometimes I see her very frequently and sometimes a year or more goes by between sessions. But I’m aware that this is an issue for me to work on, and I’m aware it’s not something I will ever be “cured” of. It’s something I’ll have to fight against for the rest of my life. I know that.

Kate, if you’re still out there does this answer your question? Please don’t take this as an attack on you. Like I said, I asked for comments and you gave it to me. It’s highly probably that I’m extra sensitive about the topic given my history. It’s also likely that I over react to things. So no hard feelings?