“I have to do WHAT?!” Lesa exclaims as I sit on the bed going over all the daily checks she’ll now be required to do. I had read in one evening Taking Charge of Your Fertility (it should be called taking charge of your less-than-enthusiastic partner’s fertility) and was now summarizing as best I could without sounding like a sex-ed teacher. When she should take her basil temperature, what the different cervical positions are, and what all the phases of cervical mucus looks like. Without being too graphic since family will eventually read this, Lesa and I have had more than one comical moment trying to figure out all these symptoms. And let me tell you, nothing gets me in the mood to make a baby like a descriptive conversation on cervical mucus.  The book makes it sound like it’s a daily miracle to track these things and suggests that every woman do it, trying to conceive or not. I figure since I have to help Lesa take charge of her fertility, I can let mine stay in charge of itself.

Lesa’s said to me more than once that she feels like a science experiment. Not only is she required now to take daily account of her cyclical changes, but she has to pee on the ovulation stick every morning to further verify. The smiley face on the stick (I think they make it a smiley on purpose to get you all excited) indicates a surge in LH (Luteinizing Hormone) which, 99.8% of the time, means a follicle will drop in the next 36 hours. And even though we’re not yet at the “TTC” stage, we both got excited about the presence of a smiley face this month. Lesa even took a picture of it.

The first smiley face happened to coincide with our second trip to the Baby Doctor. The visit went as well as we could have hoped. Mrs. Science Experiment had a sonogram taken of her ovaries and uterus, and I got to see lots of potential Baby Duncan-Halls waiting their turn.  I had a moment of panic, and then excitement, standing there next to Lesa, thinking that in just a few months we’ll be back in that same room looking at a little Bean. I liked the sonogram room because it’s dark and quiet; a stark contrast to the second part of our baby doctor visit which was noisy and hectic again. “Yes, the sonogram looks great. No, Lesa doesn’t have PCOS (thank God). Yes, there is a thyroid imbalance. No, Lesa has never had the chicken pox. Yes, we can use a CMV positive sperm donor. No, you didn’t do your progestin blood test on the right cycle day (because they didn’t explain to us when to do it); I’ll write you another blood work-up”.

The upshot is Baby Doc thinks Lesa’s irregular periods are due to her underactive thyroid, so she’s on a daily pill now to correct the hormone imbalance. It should take about 6 weeks for the hormones to balance and then another month or two after that for her cycle to catch up to the corrected hormones. During that time Lesa has to get her chicken pox booster from her pediatrician, like all good little girls, which takes a month to become effective. Also, Lesa has to continue to monitor her cycle, so we can get really good at pinpointing the 12 hours of the month when we can introduce baby gold to his new egg home.

A day before Lesa was scheduled to get her second progestin test (8 days post-smiley) she got another smiley which wasn’t as nearly as exciting as the first one. After three phone calls to Baby Doctor we were told to go ahead and do the blood test and let us know the first day of Lesa’s period and “we’ll go from there.” There are tons of reasons why we might get two smileys in one month, so it’s really hard to say if this will affect our timeline. This is one of those times we just have to be patient. Taking Charge of Lesa’s Fertility feels more like Take a Guess at Lesa’s Fertility at this point. My inclination is things will even out much more once her thyroid medicine takes full effect.

And I feel like I’m going to wear out this statement, but if everything goes as expected, we’ll start trying for a baby either April or May. Statistically, we should get pregnant in the first 6 tries. This means chances are we’ll have a spring baby next year. It also means chances are I’ll have a grumpy wife all through the holidays. I’ve got my fingers crossed!

If the above title made you giggle, join me in searching through cryobanks, and this word will lose all comical meaning. Actually, it will lose most meanings. Now all sperm means to me is expensive baby-gold. Searching for sperm is a paradox.  I keep envisioning life-size vials of the sploogy stuff interacting at a bar, and I’m supposed to pick the vial that has all the best traits, like searching for a mate. But when I met Lesa, I didn’t asked her to list her grandparent’s medical history and her SAT score. I saw an attractive woman. When we were dating, I didn’t wonder if she had viable, fertile eggs (the female equivalent to a high sperm count and good motility). Yet, Lesa and I both agreed, these things are on the top our list for donor picks.

Also on the top of the list is CMV negative donors. CMV is a nifty little acronym for a virus, similar to herpes, when active creates almost no symptoms in adults, but can be fatally harmful to fetuses.  Also, similar to herpes, most of us (over 70%) are walking around with it unknowingly, active or not. I say most of us, but actually I mean most of us except Lesa. She’s never been exposed to the virus. So if she gets pregnant with CMV positive sperm, there’s a good chance she’ll contract the virus while she’s preggers, which is a no go for the baby doctor. While it’s a good thing Lesa doesn’t have this virus, it limits our donor choices by about 70%. My top eight picks suddenly becomes my top three with the news of this test result.

Knowing about things like the existence of CMV or that RH- moms shouldn’t get pregnant with RH+ sperm makes me worry for all my straight child-bearing counterparts. Although it’s a pain to go through all these tests, at least we know for sure that we’re ruling out horrible genetic disease and hereditary viruses.  It makes me wonder how anybody got born before the advent of blood tests. And although it is immensely easier for a straight couple to conceive, for this reason I’m glad we have to go through a fertility clinic.

When I was younger I used to fantasize about one day having kids with my wife. I thought by then they’ll have come up with a way to create a baby from two eggs. (Just like by then we’ll be able to get legally married.) I knew it was theoretically possible to create life with two eggs, although I didn’t like the fact that I would have only female offspring. And in fact I’ve read studies where they’ve successfully done it with animals, albeit with multiple tries and weird birth defects. But, by then has a harsh way of becoming right now. And right now I’m resigned to the fact that only one of us can be genetically linked to our children. I’ve been asked already if I mind that the kid won’t be genetically related to me. I mind in the same way that I mind I was not born male, or that I have a big nose. But in terms of having a family with Lesa, I don’t think genetic ties will make me any less of a parent. It definitely doesn’t make me want or love my children any less.  I’m excited to see a little Lesa.

So, picking sperm is bittersweet, for Lesa and myself. The good news is we get to pick cream of the crop genetics. A prospective donor I was looking at last night has a SAT score of 2300 (out of 2400). Neither Lesa nor I come close to the pedigree these guys offer. Now we’re struggling with questions like, brown eyes or blue? Should we pick someone who looks like me, or just generi-man (in case baby Duncan-Hall #2 comes from me). Do we pick based on pictures or based on a donor who wants to be known? We can’t even decide which sperm bank to use. Just when I think I’ve found the sperm bank ultimo, I exhaust their list of donors and think, “but what if this other sperm bank has Mr. Perfect?” After weeks of looking through potential baby-gold I’ve become well versed in medical terms I have no other need for. Is Vericocele hereditary? How young is too young to die from “old age”. The questions are endless.

I get all worked up trying to compare these things. Then I get all worked up because even if I pick Mr. Perfect, if his swimmers don’t get Lesa pregnant, we’ll have to re-pick Mr. Almost Perfect. And then I remind myself of the paradox. I didn’t ask all these questions when I picked Lesa. I picked her for who she is, the perfection and the flaws. And then I relax. Whichever sperm we end up picking will create our baby. And, although I’m not a fatalist, I’m inclined to think that our child will be who it was meant to be, and will be perfect for Lesa and me.

In my flurry of information-getting in recent weeks I realized that, while I’m becoming well versed in sperm bank requirements, how to track a basil temperature, and figuring out which fertility clinics in Austin don’t shun lesbians, I’ve completely forgotten to find out when and more importantly if I can adopt my own child.

If a straight couple (married or not) has infertility problems and they choose to get sperm from a sperm bank and conceive the child via IUI in a doctor’s office, when the mother gives birth to the child she is given a form to write down the father’s name for the birth certificate. She writes in her partner’s name (the non-genetic father). This is perfectly legal and nobody questions it. He is considered the child’s father.

If a lesbian couple (married or not) goes through the exact same process to conceive, when it comes to writing the father’s name on the birth certificate the birth mother has to write “not applicable.” In the state of Texas there is no blank for Other Mother.  Slowly but surely the laws in some states (Iowa) are changing, but for most of us we’re stuck, yet again, paying too much money to gain rights that are afforded to our straight counterparts for free.  Lesbian parents have to do what’s called a same-sex second-parent adoption. I’m going to call it SSSPA since that term is ridiculous.

Utah and Florida explicitly forbid SSSPAs. So, in this case, God bless Texas. I can’t see myself deciding to have a child, and raising it, without being able to have a legal right to him/her. In Texas, specifically in Travis County, the process is pretty straightforward. It’s not “not legal” for two women or two men to adopt, but it’s not touted on either. Each SSSPA is decided on a case-by-case basis by a judge. It is beyond scary to think that our family’s future is subjected to the whim of a person I’ve never met who may be having a I-really-hate-lesbians-today day. So before we decide to take the leap (or rather the long stressful journey) into parenthood, I want to make sure all our legal ts are crossed.

A quick Google search came up with three pretty good options for family law attorneys in Austin who specialize in LGBT issues. Lesa and I met with one of the attorneys to draw up marriage documents and quickly realized they were exorbitantly priced, so we didn’t end up using them. Since we want the adoption to go smoothly, I’m more worried about performance than price this go-around.

The third attorney called me back within an hour of me contacting her, which is a great sign. The other thing I really like about her is the fact that the only thing her practice does is SSSPAs. For $3000.00 she can walk us through the entire adoption process. That price is for one child, she made sure to say. (Shoot me if we have multiples.) She also said that she uses the same judge for every adoption, so there are never any issues regarding the same-sexness of the parent’s relationship. I should find that comforting. “What if that judge calls in sick?” I ask. “We reschedule.” She retorts, sounding reassuring. She also tells me that this judge normally waives the requisite six month waiting period, and home visit, which allows us to complete the adoption usually in the first three months after birth.

An eternity of things can happen in three months. What if the baby gets sick and Lesa’s at work? What if God forbid, something happens to Lesa? What if all of the pregnancy hormones make Lesa go crazy and up and leave with our child in tow? What if our daycare won’t answer questions about the baby’s BMs because I’m not the child’s parent? All these questions freak me out. I know they aren’t likely, but I’m sure they’re possible. Fortunately there are some legal documents we can have done, (for another fee) like a child’s medical power of attorney, that will give me some rights. But, the title of “parent” is not easily replaced. What I want is to be a parent and feel like a parent from the very beginning, without having to jump through all these hoops.

There are some bright sides. First, I trust Lesa with all my heart. I know she isn’t going to suddenly flip out and leave me, if for no other reason than the fact that she doesn’t want to do 3am feedings and diaper changes by herself. Second, I’m a little fuzzy on the rules but I *think* all the money we spend on the adoption we can get back in a federal tax credit. Most second-parent adoptions don’t meet the requirements for the tax credit because the second parent is married to the first parent. So, this one time, our forever single status, in the eyes of the federal government, bites them in the ass. I like it when I can stick it the man.

If we stay on the time-table we want, after we get pregnant, we will start the adoption process around the end of the second trimester. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Yesterday Lesa and I had our first visit to the Baby Doctor. This is the first definitive thing we’ve done to start TTC (“trying to conceive” as the bloggers put it). Up until this point all we’ve really done is talk about it. As we were leaving Lesa said to me “I feel like I’m being dragged into war with you as my guide.” I could definitely relate. There was a whirlwind of activity happening around us. We were shoved packets of information, and given a multitude of directions to follow, some now, some later. She was poked and prodded in all different directions. All I could do is relay information she missed and hold her hand.

Nobody seems concerned about Lesa’s mental wellbeing, only her physical ability to carry a baby. Nobody seemed concerned about the fact that Lesa and I are trying to become parents. Shouldn’t there be some sort of test? In fact, nobody seemed concerned about me at all. From a legal standpoint I was no more than a visitor taking up space in the tiny exam room. The doctor isn’t even allowed to give me information without Lesa in the room (seemingly giving permission). “Make sure to bring your medical power of attorney next time.” The doctor says. Another direction to follow.

Despite the cattle prodding and frenzied information, it was exciting. Lesa and I met in the parking lot of the docs office and exchanged cards we unknowingly wrote for each other. The waiting room was full of parents-to-be and parents. And babies, a lot of babies. Lesa and I currently live in a world that doesn’t include children, and I am often a little taken aback if they end up in my vicinity. It perplexes me how they can be so small and yet so demanding, and command the attention of everyone around. I’m holding out hope that the saying “you love your own kid even if you don’t like other people’s kids” is true. The exam room was like any exam room. Except there was a peg board full of baby pictures. If you didn’t want a baby when you came in that place of course you’d want one after seeing all the sweet little peg board faces.

The exam itself did not go as I had envisioned. I was expecting it to be more like the movies, where the doctor sits behind a desk with us as the happy couple on the other side, and gives us statistics on intrauterine insemination. Instead it was more like… a normal doctor’s appointment. The nurse took all the stats and asked why we (read Lesa, because I don’t count) were there. Then the doctor came in, went over all the stats, medical history, and announced “treatment.” In our case, Lesa has irregular periods, which we know because we’ve been tracking them for the past 6 months. I also knew, due to hours of research, that having irregular periods usually indicates some sort of mild infertility. Depending on the cause this can usually be remedied with fertility drugs such as Clomid. The doctor confirmed all of this, then put Lesa through a battery of tests neither one of us were prepared for.

In the coming weeks, Lesa has to do two more blood tests on specific days of her cycle. (Say yes to diligent tracking!). Then, test results in hand, we go back to the Baby Doctor, and get the second installment of “treatment.” So for now, we have to start getting good at waiting.

For those of you who care about cost, we did find out some useful information at our visit. For 2 sonograms and 1 IUI per month, it’s going to cost us roughly $750.00. In my unprofessional opinion, that’s about the average number of baby-making steps you’d do in a month of TTC. Add that to the cost of sperm ( 1 vial = around $600.00) and we’re looking at a hefty (but doable) monthly payment equal to a small mortgage, or a really expensive car. (There goes my new ski boat.) And, although all of that has to be paid out of pocket, all the lab work done before the monthly inseminations will be covered under Lesa’s insurance. (Thank you UT.)  Which is great new as far as I’m concerned.

Says Em, after I’ve berated her for over an hour via IM on everything I’ve learned so far about sperm banks.  I guess it was a hint. I’d had the idea before she said something; I guess I just needed a push.

I like the idea of my future offspring reading this (years from now when they’re able to read) and gaining insight into the exciting and scary journey in which Lesa and I am about to embark. I want my child(ren) to know how much I want them, and how much I love them, even now, when they’re only an idea. I also like the idea of our friends and family being able to follow our journey. And since we’re not telling anybody, lest we jinx ourselves, I think it will be neat for them to be able to look back and see where this all began. Finally, I can count on one hand the number of lesbians I know who have children. And NONE of these people are “the other mother.” So, since we’re helping to pave the pathway in same-sex parenting, I feel like it’s important to keep a record of our journey.

If you know me at all you know I like projects. Project Baby will likely be the most time consuming, scariest, quite expensive, very emotional, and best project I’ve ever undertaken.  Thank God I have Lesa as a 50/50 partner is this one. Like any project I start, I lay out the goal, plan to achieve the goal, and materials and costs -

• Goal: Make a baby

• Plan: (This isn’t your normal sex ed class) The plan is for Lesa to carry the little bundle. After a lot of thought on various options we feel like buying sperm from a sperm bank is the best choice for us. And as far as methods of hooking up the sperm and the egg we’ll know more once we talk to the baby doctor.

• Materials: baby oven, egg, sperm

• Cost: At this point all I know is it’s going to cost A LOT.

From what I know about projects and myself, I’m projecting a few things. First, I have no doubt we’ll experience bumps along the way and have to adjust our plan accordingly. Second, almost all of my projects end up taking more time and cost more money than originally anticipated. I’m keeping my fingers crossed Project Baby will prove otherwise.

For now I’m focusing on what we need to do to get this ball rolling. That means I’m spending all of my free time reading and using my very best research skills scouring the internet for information. Looking through all this information leaves me feeling like the whole thing is a crap shoot. You have no idea when/if you’ll get pregnant; you have no idea if the baby will survive pregnancy; you have no idea what the baby will be like if it does. AND that’s just the start of being a parent. I have to say the task seems a little more than daunting. I’m excited though.