Can we talk about how sexism is magnified in pregnancy for a minute?

I have been looking for ways to announce that we're pregnant when that time comes. In doing so I have found that the shitty parts of being a woman are magnified during pregnancy. Oh, Ashley, you're being a feminist kill-joy again. Probably, but for good reason. Let's take a look:

"Oh no! I'm going to get F-A-T. That's just the worst thing in the world. Fat is awful, horrible, the worst thing I can be." Sure, it's cute and clever, but the underlying joke is that the mom-to-be is internalizing fat-phobia and the joke is that she doesn't want to weather the valley of shadows of being fat alone. Pretty shitty when you break it down.

Here is one that is more subtle. The woman is glad she FINALLY gets to eat! Oh joy! To finally have an excuse to satisfy my shameful desires! I can eat without shame! Again, man gets to have beer belly to not leave pregnant wife alone in the slums of fat city. 

Again, riff on the theme of "Woman released from the bondage of shame around desire in b-fat" I mean b-flat. New shitty theme, terrified dad. You know, because men are incompetent and incapable of nurturing small humans.

Again, men are the worst. How is this poor lady going to parent her partner AND her child? Cue laugh track.

I don't get the humor here. I mean, I get it:"Having kids is awful. What have I done?" But, why is what funny? You know condoms are a thing right?

Men r dum, am I right? 

Seriously, is a non-supportive spouse really adorable? 

I mean, should I really be surprised that yucky sexism sneaks into every crevice in our lives? Or that one of the most gendered occasions should be rife with it? Likely not, but I am still irked. I think the worst part of it is that it is so internalized, it's cute and funny, and we're not aware of how damaging these ideas are to ourselves and the small people we're raising.

Let's unpack the fat-phobic thing. Women, from obnoxiously early ages are taught to deny and control themselves. We're not supposed to speak up for fear of being called bossy, we're not to eat too much to watch our girlish figures, we shouldn't drink too much/walk alone at night/dress too slutty so we don't get raped, we're taught to dress modestly in school to protect our virgin purity and not distract the boys, we're taught to achieve a thigh gap is a measure of worth- that our thinness is an inverse to our value, we want "just salads" at restaurants "just" and "salad" being a double negation of desire, we're supposed to let boys make the first move- say "I love you" first- propose first. I could go on, but you get the point. If you're a woman, you know exactly what I am talking about. 

In pregnancy this seems to manifest in fat-phobia and the bizarre dance around your growing body and claiming self worth. So, now you can eat! You have an excuse! It's ok to get fat, you're pregnant! Suddenly, you are given PERMISSION to allow yourself to express your desires around food. But, hubby needs to eat too! You're both going to get fat! It's ok, you'll go lose the baby weight immediately and wear one of those horrible postpartum girdles that tightens your belly and hides all of your pregnant gastronomical indiscretions. 

How awful and toxic is this message? Why is it a celebration that you can eat? You should always be eating, you are human and need food! You are a human person full of passion and desire, why should you have to mute that because you were born female? Also, fat isn't the end of the world. Fat is an adjective. I am fat. I am also a wife, baker, pet owner, gardner/farmer, college grad, artist, gender queer, human. Fat is part of me. Fat doesn't make all of those other things less. It doesn't make me any less-than. Fat helps your baby grow and develop. Also, having a fat lower half makes smarter babies. So....settle down.

The other thing that bothers me is that NONE of this stuff that these women are eating is remotely good for them or their baby. They've denied themselves "treats" like these for so long, that's all they're excited to eat. In early pregnancy, many of baby's vital organs are one cell, if you are exposed to toxins or stress while they're forming, you could cause an abnormality. Not to be another voice of shame for eating for women, and not to say cake and chips is going to cause your kids heart to explode, but this denial/binge cycle is another impediment to maintaining healthy eating patterns to promote healthy development. I mean, eat cake for breakfast, but get good protein and greens for dinner and snack on nuts, seeds, fruits and veggies all day. Or, aim for 6 really good meals a week, and be easy on yourself. You know, normal healthy eating with snacks in moderation? 

Let's talk about the icky sexism towards men. Men are not awful, incompetent creatures. These jokes are damaging to encourage that idea. If your partner isn't on board with a pregnancy, it isn't funny, it's a problem. If you're not in a place to get pregnant, you should be taking precautions. (I realize this is not possible for all people, but I don't think that those without options are the ones pictured above making fun of how awful it is to be pregnant or have more kids). 

Dads are not "baby sitters". They are your partner, the other parent. Men are capable of nurturing, staying at home to care for children, cooking, cleaning, doing laundry....I promise, I have seen it! It isn't funny to say otherwise. 

These themes of sexism don't end there. As a pregnant person, you're not supposed to watch upsetting things. In the bible there is a story about a dude with only striped goats given to him by someone who said, "mine are solid colored, yours are striped, I'll know you stole if I find solid ones in your herd". So dude man peels bark off trees around goats, knowing that they'll see the stripes while mating and make striped babies. So, basically my baby is going to come out either like Kimmie Schmidt or Jake or Finn. I'm rooting for Jake. Magical dog baby would be cool. 

Personally, I am pretty stoked to shake things up just by being two female presenting people having a baby. So many of these announcements are meant for straight couples with both partners present. If you google "gay/lesbian/queer pregnancy announcement" there just isn't a lot. There isn't much out there either for women who have chosen to raise a baby alone. So, we're brainstorming something to rock a few boats. 

I mean "First, girlfriends, then donut married at Voodoo Donuts because marriage wasn't legal, then elopement while the supreme court decided our human rights, then baby via donor = mommy and mommy." I don't know, that seems pretty catchy!

 People always accuse queer couples of trying to rip the  fabric of society apart, and I usually argue pointing to our totally heteronormative republican wet-dream of a life (I mean, except us being two ladies) and how queer people are totally just people...buut if the fabric you're talking about is woven out of jokes and messages in the birth announcements above: I'm getting the scissors.

There are plenty of cute announcements out there. When the time comes, we'll do something cute. It'll be clever, queer, cute, and if it's funny, the joke won't be rooted in sexism. 

Preparing, Inseminating, and the Long Wait

Another part of my midwife's self-care plan was castor oil wraps. They're supposed to heal scar tissue in your abdomen, and judging from my reaction to the abdominal massage, I had some demons lurking around my midsection. You're supposed to soak flannel in warm oil, plastic wrap it, put a thick towel over it and heat it with a heating pad. So, again I was being marinated.

The treatment was mean to be accompanied by meditation. You're supposed to imagine the healing, imagine your love for your future baby, your connection to your partner. I've always meant to get into meditating. I feel like in another less tortured life, I'd be really spiritual and really into yoga. But, this isn't my life. I know it will be good for me, but I think my self-sabotaging gets in the way of my confronting my self-sabotaging. Anyway, I'm not really good at meditating unless it's forced like on long runs.

I tried really hard to imagine love. All I felt was rage. Un-specified rage. It took me nearly a half hour to search it out, just passing through my subconscious like, "Hey, do you know what's up? Why are we mad?" Howling out of nowhere came a scream. "Why did no one love us this much?" Old ghosts never seem to die.

Tarra came to sit with me, and laid her head on my stomach. She was meditating love for me. I kept my hurt to myself, figuring someone should send positive vibes to my abdomen. She held my hand and just laid there, breathing with me. I know that's how she passed my advanced self-security system meant to keep everyone out: she's just so gentle and easy, you can't help but love her.

I could feel her start to cry. "What's wrong, beautiful?" "I'm just so sad I can't make a baby with you. I mean, we're making a baby with all of our actions, but it just feels so out of my hands at the same time. I wish it could really be ours."

I felt so bad for her. This has to be so hard. This will be OUR child, legally, emotionally, culturally, in every way except that seems to satisfy some irrational biological need. But, just because it's irrational, doesn't invalidate it.

We talked to our midwife and told her that we would like to take over inseminations. Just try at home for awhile on our own. Who knows, we might get lucky?! Even if we don't, it will feel more like we're making the baby together. The midwife was really supportive and came by to drop of some specimen jars and needless syringes should we want to use them.

It doesn't have to be "turkey baster" method, you know. If you're reading this trying to start this process yourself, know there are options! There is the Semenette, there are cervical caps, and many, many other things people have done to make it less medicalized and something more comfortable. Just because some babies are made through sex, it doesn't have to be that way either. Some people choose not to sexualize the experience at all. You might also consider that the baby isn't "made" at the time of insemination. It could happen a WEEK later.

For us, we talked endlessly about it. I felt weird that while I have dated men, it was not something I enjoyed. Early in my life, I didn't realize gay was an option. I was pretty relieved when I did.

  So, it was weird for me to have a penis involved in part of my life that was so important. Let alone, this was someone's penis that was not my partners. So, I went back and forth. Should it be sexual? Should we just do it and pretend my vagina wasn't full of semen and watch TV while I laid upside down practically, rotating occasionally? Orgasms are supposed to increase the likelihood of conception, right? Or, do you not orgasm because you want a boy? Ask the internet and literature on this subject carefully, and  grab the tylenol, it's a shit storm of conflicting information.

In the end, we didn't really get to choose. We were waiting to sign the donor agreement until the first weekend of February, with my ovulation predicted that second weekend. I had been monitoring my cycles for a few months, and while they had become more regular, they were not really....predictable. I realized that we had to expedite everything as my LH strips got darker. Expedite like, "Hey, can you meet us at the Notary in the UPS store by your work downtown, sign the paper, then come over and donate?" Yeah, it was that romantic.

We cleaned to house, made sure we had food to give to our donor, and discussed receptacles. We tested a few different sized mason jars with the needless syringes to make sure we could reach the bottom, set them out along side a specimin jar, and a tea cup I love but can't use because the handle fell off. I offered them all up to our donor, telling him to use whatever called to him.

We let our donor have the house and we took the dog for a walk. We snap chatted our friend in Colorado, like you do as a millennial, before getting a text that he was done. Tarra had to drive him back to the lightrail, and left me holding the mason jar. I just tried not to make eye contact. The insemination itself was awkward. The laying upside down was awkward. Existing for the first time with semen in my body was awkward. Our poor sperm donor felt awkward. It was all around uncomfortable.

We had him come back two days later, when my LH strip was super dark. It was far less awkward, but still not any kind of magical I think we're supposed to feel when making a baby. Oh well, life is messy but beautiful.

Now we're in the long wait. Two weeks at least before we get to test. I am doing my best to distract myself. I've got an old-school game boy and pokemon, bread to make, a class I'm taking. Just one day at a time, trying to practice patience and self-love, accepting that Tarra loves me enough for everyone who never did.

I Think I Keep My Soul In My Stomach

Part of last Sunday's meeting with the midwife was an Arvigo Massage session. I didn't know much about the whole history and culture of the massage, just that it could help regulate my cycles and has drastically helped people conceive after a few sessions. Before the massage, our midwife explained that a uterus is suspended by many ligaments that move and stretch as your internal organs (intestines, bladder, stomach mostly) move, bloat, fill, and empty. This can stretch the ligaments out of proper shape,  much like if someone let go of one of the ropes on a snoopy balloon at a parade, our uterus can go catawompus inhibiting proper elimination of the uterine lining during menses and conception. So, I figured, hey great, let's put it back where it goes!

The massage itself was I'm sure wonderful for most people. I'm just not most people. I am not super comfortable with strangers touching me. For me, massage makes me more tense. I don't know if it's a social phobia thing, a discomfort with my body, shame around my enormous breasts and lower belly fold (and every other lump and bump I a fat person owns), maybe it's related to the lack of nurturing touch I had as a child, negative touch experienced as a child, maybe it's this disconnect I've developed from my body, maybe it's the disconnection I've developed by edging around this enormous well of sadness I refuse to feel that seems to also disconnect me from truly feeling happy... who knows. Likely all of it.

I want to heal. Even if it means confronting my insecurity, diving into that well of sadness and doing battle with my inner demons, and coming out a more connected human. I am willing, I think.

We moved the living room table and rug and our midwife set up her massage table. She was extremely careful in allowing me to remain as clothed as I wanted and working around any and every concern I had and walked me through every step so that I could say yes or no to anything. She emphasized several times that I could say "no" at any time and that would be fine. With her in another room I undressed and climbed onto the table. Our dog was really confused and kept trying to lay on the table with me. Honestly, it was nice to comfort him, telling him everything was ok. I think sometimes he is my anxiety spirit animal.

The massage itself was pretty unremarkable. There was a lot of abdominal work, which is something I hadn't experienced, but mostly we talked about things both baby and non-baby related and I went to my remote detached place that I frequent when getting a tattoo, having a medical procedure done, or when visiting home. It's kind of like a lucid disassociation. It ended, and we said goodbye to our midwife, put the living room table back, and went about our day.

I often have a background buzzing of anxiety. It bubbles up into a panic attack at the slightest provocation: door bell ringing, people outside my door that might ring my doorbell, an unknown number calling or texting, mingling at parties, asking for something from a stranger, going outside just because I might like to, sitting outside alone, being criticized, and generally any time I am in an unscripted, unorganized social situation. I AM fine leading meetings, being in charge, telling a story in a large crowd, reaching out to people for donations of time or money and the like. So my anxiety seems to circle around control and is triggered when I feel vulnerable.

Like I've mentioned before I also have PTSD. My triggers are: large, aggressive men, men yelling, people angry with me, physical violence (like slamming a drawer in anger), anything on TV or in movies about abuse or addiction (Riding in Cars with Boys ruined me for days), people on drugs near me, and many, many others. Sometimes I don't even need a trigger for night terrors, those reoccurring dreams come and go torturing me with being trapped back at home, impotent rage dreams where I can't seem to scream/they don't understand me/I'm invisible/I can't hit someone hard enough, sci-fi fantasies where I am some lower class enslaved being trying to escape, monster chase dreams, travel dreams where I never get to go outside/on a ride/reach the destination. These aren't just regular bad dreams, they're like giant emotional shit storm whisks dredging emotional sludge from the depths and ruining several days. So, I've got baggage.

Why I share this is to give context to what came next: to tell you I don't understand, but it's not surprising. I had a several hour panic attack following the massage. We have been binge watching Nurse Jackie which is wrought with triggers (family trouble, drug abuse, someone numbing emotions) but it is suuuuch a good show! I hadn't been triggered majorly with it, and I don't think it was the cause for this particular attack. But, I just couldn't shake this anxiety. I had at least two hours of it while we were watching the show. It feels like when you skip class, forgot your homework, broke your mom's favorite vase, got caught stealing, and that fear/dread/shame cocktail that makes your bones ache. It's not a noticeable thing for me: I have these all the time and no one is the wiser. I'm pretty good at burying my emotions, not showing weakness was a skill that kept you safe in my childhood home. I usually let them pass, but this one was just too much. I laid down next to Tarra and just cried and cried. Just silent tears of a tired sadness next to my wife until she went to bed.

I wish I could tell you why.

I have also been having trouble sleeping lately, so that I stayed up long after Tarra started snoring (cutely) is not surprising. I have spent that time reading in the bath (this Mary Russel series is the best!), writing, and trying to be productive and manage this self-care thing people keep telling me is so important for me right now. But, that night I thought of something I hadn't thought of maybe since it happened. I tossed and turned for hours trying to shake the thoughts off.

As I think many people with PTSD, I have persistent thoughts of past trauma. Like a broken movie reel I replay events in my head, rehashing bad conversations, difficult situations, old wounds like I'm trying to explain them to myself, crafting a narrative. Fighting it seems to make it worse, and changing thoughts seems impossible. But, they're usually thoughts I'm familiar with, things I've gone over a million times.  This set of events was something I had buried, coated in shame, deep and away.

I have been abandoned a lot in my life: by my family, by people I grew close to and thought of as family, and by important people like school councilors and police officers. These people were supposed to protect me, look out for my best interest, nurture, me and guide me through the world towards success and growth. I was abandoned and betrayed by them instead. So, I guess we can call this another trigger.

I ran away from home a lot after I turned 16. I spent a lot of nights moving house to house as people got tired of me or their parents found out I was staying there and kicked me out. I spent a lot of really uneasy nights with creepy people. I also spent a lot of nights on the street, hungry, cold, and really, really afraid. I couldn't stop thinking about it. I tossed in bed remembering each person's face and how they had let me down when they should have cared for me and didn't. I just couldn't shake it.

I don't think I have a good answer why then. What triggered it. Do I keep my soul in my stomach? The Mayan tradition Arvigo comes from believes we store emotion here and that emotional pain and physical pain are inseparable. Many Chakras live in your abdomen and can be blocked with negative energy and released through various treatments. Acupuncture works on different areas of chi (life energy) in the body to reduce physical and emotional discomfort. So maybe this body work unblocked some buried hurt. Maybe I keep my soul in my stomach and like a tired, sore knot in a muscle, the massage moved blood to that area, carrying that stuck emotion into the rest of my body to be filtered and removed.

If ancient tradition isn't your style, read these:

NY Times: Can The Bacteria In Your Gut Explain Your Mood

NPR: Gut Bacteria Might Guide The Workings Of Our Minds

American Psychological Association (APA): That Gut Feeling

Psychology Today: Emotional and Physical Pain Activate Similar Brain Regions; Where do emotions hurt in the body

So, I don't know. Do we keep our "soul" in our stomach? Is our soul made out of bacteria? Is this just hard, explainable science, or is there some touchy-feely existential stuff? I think it doesn't matter right now for me, something got unstuck and flooded me with things I thought I had hid away.

I've been working in counseling to not run from emotion, but to feel it.  My councilor tells me it would be better for me to cry more. I'm pretty terrified of that giant well of emotion, but I think I've become more afraid of living outside of emotion all together. I really miss joy. I'm really afraid of what else I have hidden, waiting to come tearing into my life.

I don't know how I thought I was going to become a mother without dealing with my own "mommy issues". I don't think I considered it really.  Maybe this flashback was triggered by massage, maybe it was just the pressure of the oncoming insemination that we've been working 7 months towards. I don't know. Whatever brought it, it's here and I need to deal with it. Maybe just one foot at a time, letting myself acclimate to the cold shock of raw emotion before I plug my nose and jump in, unarmed and vulnerable, but ready to do battle with some old demons.

Do You Speak Legalese?

Everyone got together last Sunday. Our midwife, our donor, and Tarra and myself. You know, our baby team. I asked Tarra if we could all get power rings and put them together before an insemination, you know like captain planet?

With our powers combined: GAYBY!

Anyway, jokes aside, it was a great meeting. We talked about testing our donor for STD's, why and why not we'd want to do that each time, and getting a sperm analysis so we would know if I'm not getting pregnant, it's likely something going on with me and not him. We talked about where our donor might like to make his donation, how our midwife would "wash" the sperm for an IUI (intrauterine insemination). All those romantic queer baby making things.

We learned fun new phrases like "sperm snacks". This is an adorable name for the protein rich media at the bottom of a vial that you place a sperm donation into. Strong, healthy sperm swim down through filter layers to this snack bar and hang out. This removes all lame sperm, skin cells, and extra fluids that would cause a super gnarly infection if inserted straight into a uterus. Normally, your cervix acts like a bouncer for this stuff, but since we're going IUI we need our sperm snack vial to be our bouncer. Why IUI? It's double the chance of getting pregnant compared to vaginal insemination (which I've read is roughly 15%). So, we're doing everything we can to move things along and not waste everyone's time and our money (like $400 a month, sooo maybe we'll name our baby Lexus, or Subaru).

We've also decided that we're not sure if I'm a human person, or chicken at this point. Our midwife told us when we do a home insemination on our own, intravaginally (you know, "turkey baster"except it's more like baby medicine syringe with no needle, but that's not as catchy though, so baster) that I should lie down, hips elevated and roll every ten minutes to a different side, like a rotisserie chicken, basting my cervix in sperm. Sperm can live 5 or more days in the vaginal canal as long as it's hospitable (you're producing fertile mucus) and there are little crevices that they hang out in ready to make the swim when the egg shows up. Like this. But, you know, less spikes. Also, likely less corny narration.

So, baste, roll, baste. There are eggs being made, I'm eating all this healthy food and whole grain breads, so there's stuffing... yeah, I think I'm a chicken in this near literal metaphor...

We also talked quite a bit about custody. This seems like one of the biggest untouched frontiers of Queer civil rights. In California we have this law that came into effect January 2016. The non-birthing parent can claim parenthood with the form on the bottom. In California also, Tarra is going to be able to sign the birth certificate. This is amazing, right? Sure, until we travel to another backwards state and someone gets hurt. Like, if we're on a road trip through the south, and we get into a wreck, I die, one would assume the baby could go back to California with Tarra, she is my wife and all states have to acknowledge that, but custody is different. Many states are refusing to adopt out to queer couples, so the discrimination is real and tangible. What can we do to protect ourselves until our bumblehead legislature does something?

Second Parent Adoption. Ugh. Like, paying all the legal fees, potentially having a "home" visit to ensure we're treating the baby right to claim legal right to a baby that is obviously ours. Our midwife suggested that step-parent adoption is cheaper and faster and they do home visits less often. Ok, I like cheaper and quicker for anything derogitory like having my WIFE adopt her child, but SHE ISN'T THE STEP-PARENT!

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We are trying to do our best to protect ourselves. There are horror stories of donors saying they don't want anything to do with the baby, then see it and freak out- sue for custody and win. Parents of donors winning custody. It goes the other way too: donors and recipients agreeing, queer couple loses job seeks government aid and government sues donor for child support and wins. Fun. So, we're using This donor agreement from our queer baby making bible Essential Guide Lesbian Conception Pregnancy. It's a beast of a document from a beast of a book. We're hoping to meet our donor sometime this week to talk about how much we want to keep, what we'd like to change, etc. Maybe we'll just leave it alone because someone obviously much smarter than me wrote it... so maybe they know what's best?

We also read in our queer baby bible that we should expect our child to find all of this one day, as children do, and we should consider writing something "softer". Like a love letter to the future baby to let it know that while we were being careful, we were making this baby out of the love of our baby making team. I guess that's the one shred of dignity I can find in all of this: that everyone involved here is involved out of genuine kindess, compassion and caring. I guess we get to make a baby out of love, just the love of two other people included. Lucky baby.

On Micro-aggressions

An ad for a pre-conception workshop popped up on my Facebook page today. It seemed fun. There is brunch, yoga, education, and even a "stylist". I mean it's practically middle class, WASPY heaven, right? It irked me initially that there was this stylist person. So, there is going to be fat shaming disguised as "dressing for your new shape". You know how you dress for your shape? Have arms-check: buy a garment that has arm holes. Have a big belly-check: find some sewn together fabric that you can either squeeze or drape over your body in a way that feels comfortable. BAM! You're not breaking any nudity laws- great job! Anyway, I shoved that aside as my negative feminist voice that makes most public outings hard because sexism is EVERYWHERE and I feel compelled to audibly comment. I went to the event page and noted this interesting language: "Girlfriends, sisters, or moms are welcome".


Notice what's missing? Maybe you don't, but if you're a queer married person you do. WIFE. Wife is the word missing. It is who I would bring to this event with me. I married her three years ago. She goes everywhere with me, you know, like a spouse. As in, while she is not the birthing parent this time, she will become a mother to our child. So, why does this matter? Here is my comment I left on their Facebook page:

 I noticed on your webpage for this event that "Girlfriends, sisters, or moms are welcome" what about my wife? She IS my WIFE, not my girlfriend. It's hard enough as a queer person trying to conceive without being openly excluded. In omitting this language you're de-legitimizing our family structure and ignoring our presence in this community. I'm not understanding how that falls under your name, "dignity". Please reconsider this in future advertisements.

So, let's unpack that. To be clear, this is a micro-aggression. They're not openly saying, "dykes stay away!". But we're clearly not INcluded either. That means the default assumption is that women coming are heterosexual and they are going to bring girls who are friends, sisters, or their own mothers. Not ladies married to ladies trying to make a baby. Certainly not gender non-conforming queers that we are trying to have a baby. I mean talk about busting their little heteronormative bubble.

Let's sidetrack for a minute and talk about why men aren't invited. Why wouldn't we include your male partner, a good brother, or your father? What if your dad was a single parent who raised you, or your brother/best friend is the only person you know as family.  Why is pregnancy a woman's burden? Ah, there's that voice that  doesn't allow me to be in public screaming, SEXISM!

So, it's a micro-aggression Ashley, they're a Catholic hospital, why is it so important to be included? Because I want my family to be accepted for what it is going to be, totally normal. We'l be nervous as new parents, we'll decorate a nursery, think about moving to the best school district, think about homeschooling, worry about what the kid is eating, go on picnics and family vacations, argue about screen time, dread the birthday invitation to Chuck-E-Cheese's, and tuck our kids in at night. That's our gay agenda. There's no secret. We want to be normal. We want a seat at the table. We want our voice heard. We want solutions to our unique problems without having to first assert that we're even worthy of all the same basic rights as a couple who fell in love with what society deemed the "opposite sex".

I want everyone to know we're normal, and even probably boring. That's part of the motivation for this whole blog. Yes, we have unique concerns, but they're not so unique that we can't be included in your fancy white lady yoga, brunch, make-over party.

Maybe we'll go for the free brunch. Flaunt our perfectly normal selves.

*UPDATE: My initial Face Book post has mysteriously disappeared with no notification as has their post on their page about this event where I commented. I think that's moving us into actual aggressive territory. At least the bear I poked retreated with the stick I poked it with instead of mauling me?

A1C

When I went in initially to the doctor to see if it was even possible that I could get pregnant, upon finding that I had PCOS, they ordered an A1C test. As I've mentioned before, one of the fun stocking stuffers that PCOS packs is insulin insensitivity. So, even if I am eating a diet that wouldn't put a normal person at risk for diabetes, it might send my blood sugar over the moon. So, as healthy as I was eating, my first test came back at 5.7.

What does any of that even mean, Ashley? Great question. I had little idea, but knew it wasn't good because it was "flagged". I discovered what they're even testing for is the percentage of your blood that is glycated, that is coated in sugar. Since your blood cells live 3-4 months, this gives doctors a look at how your blood sugars have averaged over that time. A score over 7 is a diagnoses of diabetes and requires treatment, a score over 5.6 means you're pre-diabetic and require  treatment, like metformin to regulate blood sugars. Below that, you're within normal range and can carry on shoveling carbs into your face.

Why does it matter? We have all heard we're not supposed to have high blood sugar, but unless you know someone suffering from diabetes, you might not know why exactly it's so bad for you. Basically, too much sugar in your blood stream is poison. It damages organs and nerves. Long periods of out of control high sugars can lead to loss of eyesight, poor wound healing that could lead to infection and amputation, and just a body that can't cope and heal and restore itself so you can feel normal. This comes after years and years of bad high sugars, so please, don't start hyperventilating, you're likely fine. Low blood sugars are dangerous too. I'm sure you've forgotten lunch someday and felt woozy and like you could eat a living cow, maybe you even started to get shaky and panicky. It's like that, but could lead to unconsciousness and even coma. So, the 'betes isn't something you want, and here I was at 5.7.

The other thing I was concerned about was having the option of homebirth. I hate hospitals, like really, really hate them. Aside from my social anxiety and agoraphobia, I've had some traumatic experiences in hospitals, and would really like the option to have my baby in a space I feel comfortable. If you have diabetes, or are close to, that isn't an option. Also, high sugars can increase chances of miscarriage. So, it was a big deal to deal with this before we even started trying.

So, what do you do? My doctor of course said stop drinking juice and eat more fruits and veggies. Ok, I mean, we can all eat better. What I didn't expect was that this was going to cut so sharply into my life.

We knew this was our last year in our 20's and our last year potentially child-free. We kept referring to it as our YOLO year. We went to Death Valley, all over to the beach, we went to Colorado for a friend's wedding, and we had a weekly potluck with a new group of friends where the wine, beer, and carbs flowed freely. Tarra had also started playing kickball with that friend group in a XOSO league. She also picked up air guitar as a hobby. Which is a thing, a super real, legit thing people get really into. She's really good at it, like got to go to the Western Regional Finals, good. So, on top of running a farm, Tarra working full time, and being normal people, our social calendar was full and we had to find a way to put in running and yoga for fitness, and meditation for de-stressing about all of this shitty news we had just received from the doctor.

Here is Tarra before her air guitar Bikini Kill performance of Rebel Grrl.

Here is Tarra as Courtney Love performing Violet. 

Our gorgeous friend Stephanie at her Colorado wedding.

Our Big Sur de-stress trip.

Just as you might expect, this didn't go over well. We were overly busy, stressed so we wanted to eat easy food, which is never good for you. We wanted to go out and have fun, which meant drinking, then eating food a drunk person wants, not great. We traveled, which meant eating bad. And all of this leaves little room to work out, let alone leave time for mindful meditation. We'd get so wrapped up in having fun, a week would slip by and we forgot to go running. We'd get mad and frustrated and take it out on each other. So, long hours spent fighting, not exercising. We'd question weather we were ready to have kids, we couldn't even stick to an exercise regiment, how are we going to be examples for kids? So, we got on the binge/guilt rollercoaster and went for the worst ride we could manage.

That went on for three months, with little change, actually it kept getting worse. I went in for a retest of my A1C. I waited nervously for the results remembering how we hadn't had more than 1/2 cup of whole grains per meal, and even though we didn't run like we should have, we still were on schedule to run a 10k. I got an email with my results: 5.7. MOTHER FUCKER! I was so mad, so frustrated, so beaten down. How much more could I have sacrificed? I was angry at Tarra for not being 100% supportive. I was angry at myself for not having more control. I was frustrated with my body, which seemed to be betraying me.

Fortunately though, for us this was a rallying cry. We needed to be better. We needed to commit to this an each other. We started seeing a counsellor, cut back on social obligations, and worked together to get my body healthier. It wasn't perfect. We still fought, still fell off track, but we finished our 10k, then got on to training for a half marathon (which meant running 10k's weekly). I started saying things like, "Unnnn, I don't want to put on my running shoes for less than three miles, the first mile is horrid, and the last mile you're running home. You have to run at least three to enjoy any of it." Which as a fat girl, are strange words to pass my lips.

I used to hate running. I had all my P.E. coaches tell me there was no way I was trying running 15 minute miles. I internalized that and assumed I was fat and lazy, like my parents always told me I was. Being told I need to lose 40 pounds before I would likely get pregnant put a fire under my butt. Running was the most calories I could burn per hour, so fine. Let's run. The marathon we were training for seemed my speed. It was the Beat the Blerch run put on by the webcomic, The Oatmeal. He helped me believe it was ok to run just so you could eat cake. Actually, on the coarse there were Nutella sandwiches and cake. My kind of run.

Running felt like an affirmation that everyone who was ever cruel to me, and told me I wouldn't amount to anything (which, sadly was A LOT of really important people in my life) were total A-holes. We finished the half marathon running 15 minute miles. Yeah, coach A-hole, I was trying! I'm just slow. Like, I can run 13.1 miles, just 15 minutes each mile. Also, you try to move 210 pounds of person that far and for 3 1/2 hours! I'm basically superman: fat superman with giant boobs...you get the point.

Finish line!

Anyway, we were doing great, and I felt really confident. We tried to manage stress by not freaking out about food. We celebrated Tarra's birthday, my birthday, the holidays, New Years. I have to admit, it was work quieting that voice that kept screaming, "omg, that CARB! Remember babies!". It was a struggle to maintain balance. I'd be lying if I told you I felt great about our efforts.  I retested yesterday while Tarra was in the Urgent Care because she had a giant swelling under her jaw (who we named Pricilla: Queen of her neck). Good news, Tarra's goiter/spider egg sac/hamster storage pouch/pouch of baby seahorses was not any of those things I teased her about: it was a dental abscess. She got some antibiotics and we went home.

My A1C is currently 5.3. We did something right, I guess. I wanted to feel overjoyed and proud. I just feel tired and worn thin. I'm in the clear now though, and we're hoping to inseminate my next cycle. Fingers crossed and salad in hand.

How Do You Catch Sperm?

On the list of questions I never wanted to ask, this ranks pretty high. Let's be really frank here, I haven't had a whole lot experience with this topic. I had a boyfriend when I was a very young teenager, and we had sex, but that was like 15 years ago. I was also very young, so I don't really remember being super aware of anatomy and physiology, at least not in a way that is helpful to this question. That was really the last experience with male anatomy I have every had, you know, being gay and all.

If you've got ten spare minutes, go visit Mary Roach and her Ted Talk about the orgasm (if you have more time, read her book Bonk). Pay attention to the bit about how far an ejaculate goes. Now, wonder, how many friends are like that one guy able to launch his ejaculate several feet. Now our question is complicated. Is that something you ask your potential sperm donor? "Do you have a super soaker for a penis?". Do you ask this right after his sexual history, or do you open with this?

This question is important for us because we are doing a home insemination with a known donor. This person will come to our house, we'll give him some privacy, and likely get a text that we can come back with our Midwife to do the insemination. This means he will deposit his ejaculate into a bowl/cup and leave it for us to insert into a syringe that the midwife will wash and insert directly into my uterus using a catheter in a process called Intrauterine Insemination, or IUI. Because lesbian baby making is just that sexy...

So, like I have talked about before, this medicalization of conception is really hard for us. It's hard to have the ability of making a baby taken out of our hands. It hurts that we can't make a baby out of our expression of love for each other. So, we're having to recreate what baby making means. Sometimes, for us, that means focusing more on diet; creating a baby out of kale, eggs, sweet potatoes, walnuts, spinach, whole grains, cottage cheese, and every other highly nutrient dense foods. We're focusing on exercise, making a baby out of long runs. We're using essential oils to regulate my cycles; creating a baby out of massage and meditation. For us then, we're trying to eek out any measure of ceremony, making anything and everything we have control over- sacred.

In thinking about home insemination,  one  of the things we have control over is the receptacle to catch semen in. We also have control over music, diffusing essential oils and setting our space (making everything really comfortable). But we're already pretty set with those things, we know how to make ourselves comfortable. So, the bowl. I mean you can't just take a bowl out of the cupboard. I guess you can, but YOU ARE NOT GOING TO PUT IT BACK. Seriously, ew. So it has to be THE SPERM BOWL. We envisioned we'd have a friend throw a handmade ceramic bowl for us, and we still think we'd like to, but we  decided to see how other people solved this problem.

So, we went to Google and were offered this gem (make sure your sound is on). Awful. Who ok'd that? Also, why so much?

Anyway, we really don't have any good answers. We're trying, and I guess that's all we have.

Congratulations, You're Infertile! Now, Don't Stress About It, Because That Makes It Worse...

As a normal hetero couple, doctors recommend that you get a check up a few months before trying to conceive. I don't think many people do this unless they have reason to believe they might have trouble conceiving. From what I have read, they usually show up after six months of trying with no luck.

We knew we didn't have that luxury. We wanted to make sure from the get go that things were ok, and we wouldn't be wasting our time, a sperm donor's time or time driving to a sperm bank, tons of money, emotional energy. We couldn't just have more sex and hope for the best. We just weren't going to get to make our baby out of our natural way of expressing love. It was going to be MEDICALIZED.

We went for a check up and got some labs done. Going back in, I was told I had great blood pressure, great cholesterol, a great heart beat and I was basically in great shape. BUT, I had some elevated testosterone levels. This coupled with my ability to grow a mustache any 13 year old boy would be proud of (and my chest hair, and chin hair...), my abnormal periods, and my high A1C score, I likely had Poly Cystic Ovarian Syndrome. (PCOS) I should go get an ultrasound. I also was given some thyroid medication because my thyroid is lazy.

Getting a transvaginal ultrasound is the WORST. It's a giant 10" long like 2" around ultrasonic dildo. I cannot believe someone wanted to make this mandatory for women seeking abortion. Could you imagine someone having been raped, gotten pregnant, than been given this kind of ultrasound? How violating! Awful, awful experience, but Tarra was there with me. The good news is that I don't have cysts on my ovaries. The mixed news was either that meant I was ovulating normally, or not at all.

See, PCOS is a malfunctioning of the whole hormonal system. You might experience all of the symptoms, or only a few. You might have abnormal periods, acne, extra hair where most ladies don't have hair, dark spots where your skin touches, you might have ovarian cysts, your body might not respond to insulin making weight loss and normal dietary life just so difficult, you might ovulate normally, or not at all, and all this hormonal back and forth might make you moody and depressed.

This diagnosis of infertility didn't mean I couldn't get pregnant. It just meant that in addition to things being more complicated as two ladies trying to have a baby, we were going to have to manage this thing too. There are no "cures" for PCOS. It's not really a specific thing that anyone understands enough to "fix". You can just manage symptoms. For me, weight loss seemed the best course. It would help regulate my menstrual cycle and bring down my blood sugars. "just try to lose 15% of your body weight over the next few months". Cool, so lose 35 pounds. Not like that's something my body makes nearly impossible. Ok, fine I really want to have a baby, let's try.

So, we started eating a low Glycemic Index diet. This means nearly no carbs. The only carbs allowed are fruits and a half a cup of whole grains a few times a day. I basically was a meat and veggie monster. We started training for a half marathon too because running seems the only way my body ever wants to lose weight. We did this for three months and retested my A1C (this tests the percentage of blood is covered in sugar, each blood cell lives about three months so this gives doctors a glimpse into what your sugars have been like over that time). It tested initially at 5.7. Mother fucker it was 5.7 again and I had lived without bread and potatoes for three months. I was angry. I was sad. I felt really helpless.

We kept dieting, kept exercising, but also kept trying to live our lives. We were both turning 30 soon, the holidays were coming, and just life was happening. We tried to strike a balance. I am actually going in again soon to retest. Hopefully it's better.

We have also been trying to manage stress. Infertility has been found to cause as much stress as cancer, aids, and other life threatening illnesses. Also, stress has been found to cause/aggravate infertility. It has been hard. This was so much, all at once. We have decided to see a counsellor, which has been revelatory for us. We're both working through family stuff, and working through our own issues. It's been really wonderful to have Michelle with us through all these changes. I used to be afraid of counseling, thinking that I would dive into my well of sadness and fall apart, becoming totally unable to function. While we are dredging some old stuff up, and days can be hard after, I really think it's cathartic, and I am so glad we're going.

Our OBGYN referred us to a fertility clinic. We spoke to them initially thinking, "Well, I'm having fertility challenges, we should really do everything we can to increase our chances of conception so this doesn't drag on forever." In looking into this, they informed us it would be $1,500 per month for inseminations, $700 per vile of sperm (which isn't even a whole ejaculate btw, they split a donation up to five times and charge you per vile). We cringed but thought it was the only way. Fine, we'll get a loan. We've been working on our credit, we can finance this queer baby. We started on the intake paper work, getting our medical records released to them, and setting up an appointment. They started walking us through what would happen.

"Ok, so you'll come in, do a physical exam, a transvaginal ultrasound, and we'll show you our sperm donor options, etc". I had stopped listening because I was ready to interrupt, "I just had an ultrasound done last month. I don't really need another." "Ok I hear that but it'd just procedure." "Ma'am I know it's procedure but that's an invasive procedure and I had one done just last month." "Ok, well you can talk to the doctor, but he'd likely going to do it anyway."

I mean what the ever living fuck. Was my uterus going to transform into a guerilla and try to kill them before insemination? Why do they NEED to do it again? I was so frustrated that I had no choice about who and what was going to be in my body and how much I was going to pay them to violate me. I know this whole process is going to involve so many people putting things inside me, I get that it's part of the deal of being gay and getting pregnant. Fine. But, I really wanted to be in charge of that. I really, really believe in consent.

I started talking to my friend who was a Doula. She was outraged by the whole thing which was validating. She was sad they tried to scare me with the infertility and worked with me to create a better plan to regulate my cycles and manage sugars. She referred me to a midwife who was going to be able to work with my through the whole process for less than it was going to cost for one month at the fertility center. Also, if you ever need help with anything birth related in the Sacramento area, Madeline Shernock of Welcome Home Doula Services. They're an amazing non-profit that supply birth support to a great number of underserved people. They always need your support if you are feeling generous.

Talking to our midwife was a revelation. She was so calm, reassuring, and helpful and completely understood our need for consent. She talked about it before we did! She had just gotten her soon to be wife pregnant and had helped women get pregnant and give birth for well over a decade. We felt so blessed to have found her. She answers every question we have with more information that we thought we needed and is so helpful keeping us on track and suggesting ways to make things easier. Where we felt hopeless, trapped, and without option than to spend $2,000+ per month to go to a shitty place to be treated shittily and inseminated before- we feel supported, calm, with options, in control of an at home insemination with a good friend as a donor.

Anyway, I think the moral here is: everything is going to be ok, counseling is the best, consent is super important, Midwives and Doulas are super heroes, and being in control of your life, body, and family is the only way I want to bring a child into my family. If it can't be through our natural expression of love, then we'll make babies out of good intentions, respect, consent, running, eating well, self care, and our love for each other.

How We Got To Now: The Ikea Incedent

Truth is- I never wanted to have a baby. I never actually wanted to get married. I grew up in a home about as broken as you can get. With family legacies like addiction, metal illness, and abuse leaving me with an ACE score of 10; I never envisioned anything remotely normal or extraordinary for my life.

I worked really hard to break down that metal barrier. I worked two jobs (and finished a semester of school at the same time) for four months to pay to study abroad for three months. I graduated with two AA's, then went on to Davis for a Bachelor's. I lead volunteer groups, learned to organize against injustice, learned the ropes in non-profits, taught myself to eat healthy, live without a car and still go really far, and formed myself into my own hero. Nothing was impossible if you're willing to work for it and I learned that the only person who had to give myself permission to act was me. My life and future were my own. Simple as that sounds, it was a powerful revelation for me.

Then I met Tarra. She stole my heart when I wasn't looking. She slipped past all the barriers I had thrown up against love and trust because she was so pure and unthreatening. Even today, I still do things I think might make her mad, things that I got screamed at until three in the morning for, only stopping when the neighbors called the police and they would threaten to kick us out of the city for being a "nuisance", I pause after I do it, cringe internally and wait, and she never yells. It doesn't even register for her. I think sometimes she's God's apology for the life I lived before I left home. She pets my head when I have panic attacks, hold me tight when I have PTSD flashbacks, orders food for me and makes phone calls pretending to be me so I can feel safe with my agoraphobia and social anxiety, and pushes me when I need it to heal all these wounds. She helps me be stronger all the time, and I love her so much for it.

After I freed myself to be the master of my own life, and Tarra helped me soften my heart, I was free to believe that I could have a normal life. We might buy a house, we have owned a business, we live quietly with compassion and love, we go on vacation, we got married, we have dinner parties, we go to the museum, the ballet... and we might have babies soon. For someone who was once a homeless runaway sleeping in the park, this white picket fence deal seemed like a castle in the sky.

The baby thing snuck up on me. We were in Ikea three years ago shopping for this house we just started renting. We were nesting. We were walking through one of those model home displays, trying to envision our little nest, and what we needed to build it. We rounded a corner to the "kid's room". I had this blindsiding vision of a toddler and myself playing under the loft bunk, building a fort, pillow fighting, and rough housing until we were tired and fell asleep together in the mass of pillows and inside the fort we had built to have Tarra come home from work to find us. It happened so quickly, that whole scenario was a quick few second blip. But it was so intense, vivid, lucid- I was also shocked that I had imagined myself as a stay at home Mom and felt so warm, melty good about it.

I just started sobbing. Like snotty gasping sobs. Poor Tarra had no idea. She kept asking what was wrong. All I could do is squeal through slobbery lips, "I want a baby." She pet my head and tried to quiet me, telling me I was upsetting everyone around us. They all probably thought I had just lost a child. I swear to god now every time I even hear a baby, my ovaries sparkle. Tarra says she can hear them explode when we wander into the baby section of a store.

I had it. Not baby fever, that's mutable, manageable. I had baby rabies. Illogical, dangerous, and unpredictable. I had always wanted a big family. I mean, I had always wanted a good family, one that was warm, gentle, kind, loving, safe, supportive. For me, that meant building my own. Fortunately for me I have the most warm, gentle, kind, loving, safe, supportive partner in the world to build this family with. I'm excited, I'm nervous, and I can't wait.

Building a family of two

In the first blog post, I told a story of how we fell in love. It was motivated by a narrative of being closeted. While that was a HUGE part of our story, it's not the one we tell most often. Our love was a great tumultuous adventure constructed with the tastes of wild twenty-somethings in college. I'd like to tell this story the only way that really does it justice, in the pictures we took. 

This was our first night out. It started with me being invited to tag along to a work outing to a comedy club. Everyone else pooped out at 10, I mean it was Thursday, obviously time to go out! We saw a drag show, danced the night away until the bar closed 

After we left the bar, we were still not done with our night together and made 2:30 a.m. waffles. We just seemed to not be able to get enough of each other, even that first night.  

Our second big night was Tarra's work party. I wish I could remember why we were cheering, maybe it was just the banana suit. Maybe we just couldn't seem to contain our excitement whenever we got together. 

Things moved into high friendship gear on NYE 2009. I figured we should go big going to San Francisco (for me it was the first time) to celebrate. It still is one of our greatest adventures and best stories. 

On a beer run at my first official grown up house party, the love was obvious. 

Goth night was always a great reason to get fancied up and go out.

A high school crush of a friend is also a great reason to go out in sideways rain. 

After 8 months of adventuring, it was obvious we were in love. We couldn't actually get married, but on a trip to Portland, we got Donut Married at Voodoo donuts. Because, what's more romantic than that?

Drinking and going out wasn't our only hobby. We also traveled, a LOT for busy college students. This was a snow trip just south of Yosemite. 

Berkeley was another favorite place to go. This was in the Rose Garden. We love going to that amazing truffle place, curry, Telegraph street and the option to head over to SF for awhile. 

One year we planned an epic beer tour of Northern California. We started in Humboldt visiting the land of blurry human-like dinosaurs first, obviously. 

For my grad trip we went to Peru. 

For Tarra's grad trip we went to New York. We also got married in NYC, but our "honey moon" was a road trip through the finger lakes up to Niagara. It had always been Tarra's dream. 

I was pretty stoked about this.

Yosemite trip.

Heaven on earth: Tomales Bay Oyster Company.

Death Valley

Pfeiffer Beach, Big Sur

Mt. Evans in Colorado

We also had a love of gardening.

And u-picking. And food in general really. 

I felt pretty lost after college. Tarra had it made, she knew she wanted to be an engineer. I just wanted to do good in the world and didn't know what that meant. So I went to farm school.

So we started a farm: Tender Heart Farms

We had chickens.

We had turkeys.



We had all kinds of cool veggies.

Eventually we felt pretty great about being gay and being in love. We went to just about every pride event we could.

Pride always meant costumes. 

We knew we wanted to be together forever. I proposed to Tarra in the rainforest in Peru.

She proposed to me on the beach where she first knew she'd be with me forever. 

We handmade these beautiful invitations and had the best engagement party. 

We eloped (for reasons we talked about before) to New York City and had the most beautiful day and most wonderful, talented photographer. 

It was all just so magical. 

While we were growing our lives and building our family of two, we added our fur babies. This is our special cat, Lady Nubkins. 

This is The Great Catsby, our tabby dog who's super into ham,which is why her nicknames are hamster, hamela anderson, hamerella, hammer, hamburger, and so on and likewise

This is our dog son, Lord Byron Buttons. He's super great at catching rats, rabbits, and gophers at the farm. He's also got a great array of tricks he'll preform for any kind of bread, especially donuts. 

This is Señor Chang. He knows how to knock on the window to ask to come in. 

Tarra and I are also really into homesteading. We're pretty good at making bread. 

Making fancy cookies. 

Pickling, canning, preserving.

We're even trying our hands at making beer. 

We've been skydiving.

We started running, just a 5k at first. 

Then a half marathon.

We fix flat tires. 

Vandalize in the name of love. 

Dress up for cool themed parties. 

And hang out with these cool people (honestly this was only half of who showed up to my 30th birthday, I love all of you not in the picture equally!).

We're just two really cool people, that met, adventured, fell in love, got married, built an amazing chosen family, and are hoping to expand it soon.