Number Two?

A few weeks ago, a colleague shared some significant news with me about her life, her subsequent plans for the upcoming summer, and how it would impact my own summer workload.  I discussed it with S as we worked in the kitchen that evening.

"I think this news is embedded with a message to me," I mused.  "It has some significance for my life.  I've been thinking about it all day, and I can't quite figure out what it is."  I continued to cut up fruit for our lunches the next day.  S worked his way through a mountain of dishes.

"Maybe I'm supposed to to try to get pregnant this summer," I finally speculated.

"Maybe," S responded neutrally.  The truth is, we've been toying with the idea of having a second child for several months.  We've gone back and forth on the question, unsure about the right thing to do for our family.  On the one hand, the thought of having a second child spending ten hours per day in daycare and just a few hours per day with me and S just makes me sad.  We don't have enough time with Peanut as it is, never mind if we were to add a newborn to the family.  Plus there are significant financial questions to consider, the constraints of our limited living space, and the fact that we've been seriously exploring relocating in the next year or so.  Now that I'm not breastfeeding any more, we've settled into a nice, comfortable routine with Peanut that affords us more sleep, more quality of life, and more ease as she becomes increasingly independent and capable of communicating with us.  I'm enjoying the way things are now.

And yet, I can't stop looking at the siblings all around me.  On my commute to work, at the playground, in the historical fiction I read.  In fact, I just today finished a book that is built around the story of love and connection between a brother and sister.

I've been seeing signs everywhere.

I decided to talk in confidence with another colleague of mine, who had two babies in quick succession during the past few years, to get some advice about being a parent of two.  She spoke directly to the fears that had been consuming my mind for months.

"I was so scared I wouldn't have enough space in my heart or my life for a second child after having the first," she said.  "My first child cracked me open in ways I never expected and my love for her was so big.  I didn't think I could love another child just as much.  I was so wonderfully surprised when my second child was born.  My heart got even bigger!  I quickly realized my for each of them individually was amazing.  AND I love them together."

My chest filled with emotion.  We talked about our relationships with our own siblings and how a positive sibling relationship - nor any relationship at all - was not a guarantee.  And yet, we agreed that to have another person with whom to navigate origin family relationships is an incredibly special thing, especially when that relationship is a good one (i.e. a person to deal with all the *stuff* S and I will inevitably put Peanut through!)  We talked about the logistics of juggling two kids and how important it is to have support.  We talked about how to handle a demanding work schedule and the different ways we can create space to spend time with our kids and still maintain a fulfilling career.  The conversation, to my surprise, ended up very quickly revealing to me that I am ready.  Really ready.  I want to try to have another baby.  Now.

S and I continued discuss our fears and excitement during the next few weeks, and (not surprisingly, given how we tend to be pretty in sync about big life decisions), decided it was a good time to move forward. We checked in with our cryobank to see if the donor we used to conceive Peanut still had vials available (YES).  During my annual appointment with my GYN, I spoke with my doctor about our plans and she, too, was incredibly supportive.

I went ahead and made an appointment with our clinic for later this month.  We are tentatively ready to board the baby-making train again!  

Ebbs and Flows

As you know, the frequency of my posts here have wound down to zero per month.  And I'm okay with that.  I've learned over the course of my ten years of on-and-off blogging, this is a pretty common pattern for me.  I keep up the writing for a while, sometimes publicly, sometimes privately.  Inevitably I go through periods of feeling very exposed/vulnerable, and I start to question how much further, deeper, more personal I will allow my writing to go.  Now that Peanut is a part of my life, I think about issues surrounding her privacy, too. 

For the past few months, I've been doing most of my writing about her, me, and our family on paper.  For now, it feels better.  Friends gave me a lovely journal during my pregnancy and it has proven to be a great space in which to begin a lifelong dialogue with her.  Perhaps I'll pick up writing here again, but for now, this blog will remain a quiet space.  Thanks for your comments and company over the years.

Finding the Body

Last week, S helped create the space in our schedule for me to go to a yoga class at our local studio.  It's a wonderful, healing space, but I haven't made the time to visit since, well, the day before little Peanut was born.  After many, many months of not doing any exercise whatsoever (since my third trimester, in fact), my body was feeling neglected, my muscles were simultaneously wound up and lethargic, and the opportunity to breathe and move with intention just sounded really, really good.  Necessary, in fact. 

So I went.  There were just three other people in the class with me (which, I have to say, because I live in a city with a few too many million people in a very small geographic space, felt like such a gift).  The teacher was kind and welcoming, and walked us through the class with exactly the kind of guided imagery that is helpful to me ("feel your feet solidly on the ground, imagine them connected to a root system, pulling you firmly into the earth.")  By the time we arrived at our last sitting poses, I was feeling more limber, relaxed, strong.  I followed the instructions to pull our legs towards us, feet together in a butterfly position.  "Inhale, and bend your body forward over your legs."

So I did.  I sat on my little blue mat in the warm, dimly lit room, and I breathed.  I inhaled, exhaled, and stared at the space between my bent legs, the diamond they created on the floor.  I inhaled, exhaled, and and felt myself overcome with un/expected feelings.  There I was, seven months later, pouring energy into the space from which little Peanut came forth.  There was so. much. emotion. in that space.  My eyes filled with tears.  Many many tears.  What suddenly emerged from that little blue diamond was grief.

Before I was consumed into the impending swirl of mind/body processing, the teacher asked us to stretch out our legs and move them around.  I shook the Feelings out and brought myself back to the four green walls and pale wood floors.  I finished the class and walked home in the dark, warm night.  As I thought back to that moment, the tears came again, and held themselves at bay, right in my throat.

Grief.  Grief.  Grief.  The word echoed in my mind, over and over again.  I asked myself, "why Grief?" 

My emotional mind answered, "Grief, because what I went through in childbirth was hard.  Really hard."
The rational mind countered, "But your delivery experience wasn't extraordinary.  It was within the range of normal.  Manageable.  Everyday.  No big deal."
Emotional: "Grief, because I had an epidural, and I didn't actually feel what was going on.  Because I was a passive participant in my childbirth experience.  Because they cut me open."
Rational: "But that was okay, you did what you needed to do to get through."
Emotional: "Grief, because I haven't been able to reconnect with that part of my body since giving birth."
Rational: "Yeah, that's pretty f'ed up.  Get over your damn fear!  Find pleasure again!"
Emotional:  "Grief, because I'm really, really scared of the depth of emotion that is contained within my body.  Grief, because I went through a physical trauma.  Grief, because I didn't see the aftermath, didn't want to look at my scars.  Grief, because the act of creating a very small space between my legs feels like too much.  Grief, because I want to just cry, and cry, and cry."

And then I was home.  I neatly put the cork back in my emotional mind, pulled the keys out of my purse, and walked into my building.  And made a silent commitment to go back to class again next week. 

The Next Big Thing

I can't believe how quickly S's twelve weeks of parental leave have flown by.  A week from today, he returns to work and Peanut will be in daycare full time - nearly 50 hours per week.  (I guess I should mention here that in early June, we stumbled upon a seemingly great residential daycare in our neighborhood - and with much relief, decided to sign Peanut up.)

Today, Peanut began her transition to daycare by visiting the facility for an hour.  S sent me a picture of her with one of the providers this morning, and when I saw it, I unexpectedly started crying.  The tears came and went all day, in fact.  In the photo she was smiling, and seemed happy.  It began to really hit me that S and I are no longer going to be her primary caretakers.  We are entering a time in our lives when other folks will be helping to raise our child in a meaningful and significant way.

When I returned to work in mid-April, the transition, for me, was relatively easy.  I enjoyed being back in my routine and felt good about the fact that S had an opportunity to spend a few months with Peanut.  I needed a break from the exhaustion of caring for a newborn on my own and not really being able to take care of myself.  I don't think I took into account how much of the fact that S was at home helped me emotionally jump right back into my work.

Now that Peanut is almost six months old, I am realizing I have more emotional work to do as I continue to show up at my office every day.  Much more.  This transition is the one that involves both of us being away from her, all day, every day, for the forseeable future.  Maybe forever.  This transition involves opening our hearts to others, trusting complete strangers, letting go of control of the world around her, and picking our battles.  How important is it for us to stand up for Peanut's right to not have petroleum jelly spread on her bum after every diaper change, or to be exposed to television, no matter how "educational" the content, all day long?  How much will we open ourselves to being taught by others?  How much will Peanut's understanding of the world around her be shaped by people with whom we don't necessarily share certain core values?

It feels really scary, hard, and sad.  I'm not quite as ready for this change as I thought I'd be. 

Train ride

It was a big day for me and Peanut.  We had an experience that I've dreading since even before I was pregnant, so the fact that it all went so smoothly makes me feel like a superhero urban parent with a champion kid.

Today, we rode the train together into the city and back.  AND we took the bus.  Two modes of city transportation in one day with a seven week old.  In the icy wind and snow.

For years I've been so scared of the idea of navigating public transportation with a kid.  In my head, it would be a horrific experience trying to manage a screaming infant, avoid being pushed around by around a bunch of rude, oblivious, and uncaring city folk, and carry a bulky stroller up and down the train stairs on my own.  Instead, Peanut slept soundly.  Both ways.  People gave me seats on the train and smiled at Peanut.  And I took her out in a baby carrier, so I avoided the stroller trauma.  All in all, it was a positive, empowering experience.

Granted, the circumstances were ideal.  Peanut's doctor appointment was in the middle of the day, so we didn't have to travel during rush hour.  And she's still little enough for me to wear her comfortably.  Still, the fact that I managed to time her feedings around our travel times, I was calm and patient with myself throughout our travels, and even managed to stop by a bodega to grab a little egg and cheese on a bagel lunch for myself en route made me feel like a rockstar.  Things went so well I almost considered going shopping for a bit after the appointment, but decided not to push my luck.

I didn't manage to get comfortable enough to breastfeed her in public (I brought along a pumped bottle of milk and fed her in the doctor's office before heading back home).  And I couldn't figure out how to go to the bathroom since I had no place to put her.  We'll address those challenges another time.  For now, the opportunity to ride the train and visit the city for the first time since Peanut was born was gratifying enough.  It made me feel more like myself than I have in a long time.

Belly button

When I graduated from college ten years ago, I struggled to find a job for a number of months.  I spent the summer temping at a police department and applying for jobs in the big city.  When I couldn't successfully land a permanent gig, I moved to the city anyway and temped for another few months.  I was thrilled to be living on my own in such a big, promising, exciting place, a home where I could be politically active, connect with other queer and brown folks, and build a life for myself based on my values and needs.  And at the same time, I was worried, stressed and feeling defeated about the fact that I hadn't yet found a stable place to work. 

The day I got the call offering me an entry-level job at a non-profit organization, I cried.  Partly, because it wasn't quite the job I wanted.  Partly, because after six months of desperately looking for a next step, I felt such relief. It wasn't perfect, but I was getting my foot in the door at an organization for which I had a lot of respect. 

My first day of work was November 10, 2002.  After I clocked out on November 11, I headed to the East Village and walked into the most punk, bad-ass tattoo parlor I could find.  And I got a belly button piercing.  Just like that.  It was the most celebratory, cathartic, semi-permanent thing I could think to do to honor the beginning of a new stage in my life.  As a typically a cautious, planning-oriented person, it was thrilling to do something that was so spontaneous and "unlike me."  I've worn the barbell piercing I got that day throughout my adulthood as a symbol, as a reminder that I am courageous and resilient, that I am living life differently than how it was expected I would, that I am willing to take risks to follow my dreams. 

Tonight, after ten solid years, I finally removed the barbell.  Over the past few days, my stretched-out belly has made the piercing site increasingly painful and irritated, and my OB told me the jewelry would eventually have to be removed for my own comfort.  I didn't think it would be a big deal.  But to be honest, the moment I held the small piece of metal in my hand, I was overcome with emotion.  It again felt like a symbolic gesture, this time, of an era of my life ending; not in a bad way, but in a significant one.

The belly is such a powerful emotional place in the human body, a place I've relied on to guide me through life's major decisions and transitions, a place from which I've taken many leaps of faith and found my grounding and trust in myself.  Tonight, I'm realizing  that our little one is now nesting in the very place where a little piece of metal once did.  And it will be in the process of raising and loving that little one that I will continue to have to find my courage and strength.    

Mixed messages

It's rare I have the opportunity to write about a moment in this experience while I'm still going through it.  But I'm currently in Florida for work and happen to have a brief opportunity to process this moment "live." 

Before I left for Florida on Saturday morning, I did some counting and planning in my head.  I needed to go in to the clinic on days 2-5 of my next period.  And I would be in Florida for exactly five days.  That would mean as long as I didn't get my period on Saturday, I would be able to visit the clinic within the correct time frame. 

So of course, I got my period on Saturday, which became Day. 1.  I wouldn't be returning home until Day 6. 

I called the nursing staff at the clinic this morning to get some advice about how to navigate the situation.  Could I come in on Day 6?  Could they just give me a prescription for Clomid?  The answer to both questions was a resounding "no."  Come in between days 2-5, or wait until the next cycle.  My options were clear.  Either change my flight, or wait, given that I am living with PCOS, up to 60 days to begin the next cycle.  I hung up the phone and started crying.  And then I called S. 

"I don't understand what the signals mean," I said.  "Are we getting a sign that we should just wait?  That the timing isn't right?  That I should learn to be more patient?  Or is this a sign that I should go ahead and ask my boss if I can change my flight?  What if I do, and I cost the organization a lot of money?  Do I rearrange my work and life around this process, or do I rearrange my expectations around our timeline?"

S walked me through a quick exercise.  "What would it feel like to wait up to two months to start trying again?  Would you be okay with that?" he asked. 

"Of course," I said.  And then I started crying harder.  "But I don't WANT to wait.  I've been waiting years and years to do this.  I don't want to keep on postponing our plans.  I want to move forward now."

"Then the choice is clear," he replied.  "You know what you want.  Maybe the lesson you're supposed to learn is actually that you need to confront your discomfort around asking for what you need and deserve.  Your bosses know how hard you work.  Will they say no?"

"No," I admitted.  "But it's a lot of money to change the flight."   

"So it's just your own ethics and discomfort the in the way of you getting what you need.  To you, it's a lot of money.  In the context of your organization, it's not.  Can you talk to them?"

"Yes, I said.  The tears stopped flowing.  He was right.  I feel an enormous weight and pressure around being "perfect" and "good" and not asking for anything and making sure I am not causing a burden to anyone or costing anyone anything.  All the time, in nearly every context in which I exist.  Perhaps, this was a lesson in learning how to balance and navigate my professional and family life, in how to speak up and take care of myself. 

I cleaned up my face, went back to work, and talked to one of my bosses.  She agreed without blinking and in fact, told me she was grateful for my work, and had no problem with me changing the flight. 

So I did.  I'll be back home tomorrow, and visiting the clinic for morning monitoring on Wednesday.  Day 5.

Cycle Day 3

I went to the clinic for "morning monitoring" today.  I wasn't quite sure what to expect; all I anticipated was I would be given a prescription for Clomid to help induce ovulation.  When I arrived, I was instructed to go to billing first to get "clearance" from my insurance company to begin with the cycle of insemination.  A nurse then drew some blood, and I was ushered into a small examination room and instructed to undress from the waist down and wait for the doctor.

I struggled with this.  I was worried about sitting on the examination table while bleeding.  I worried about making a mess.  I have a lot of shame about that stuff.  I also hadn't been able to shave my legs that morning since there had been no hot water in our apartment at 6am (I heated water on the stove and took a bucket bath), and I had shame about that, too.  And my toenail polish was a mess.  I worried about being judged, about being perceived as "unclean."

I gave myself a pep talk ("this is a reproductive health clinic, hello, they see hairy legs and bleeding vaginas all the time" and "obviously you're going to get some blood on the examination table, that's why there's a big padded disposable cloth there" and "there is NO WAY to control the bleeding, it's not your fault if I make a mess, you won't have done anything wrong.")

The doctor visited promptly and conducted a quick vaginal ultrasound to make sure it was okay for me to start Clomid.  She showed me each ovary on the screen and said, "those dark, round spots are early eggs."  She told me I looked good, that I was ready to start a cycle.  I smiled with anticipation.

The beautiful thing about this process so far is each visit where I am poked and prodded helps me become more comfortable with my body.  The fact that every doctor I've worked with at the clinic has been exceedingly kind, patient and gentle has been a blessing.  I walked out of the clinic with a prescription in my hand, and was told to return next Thursday, 1/5 (cycle day 10) for another ultrasound.  I didn't feel ashamed.  I felt proud.

Ready to Fly

Last night S and I went to see Quiet Come Dawn, a “choreopoem” about birds, queer love, ecosystems, and violence. It was a moving performance; so moving, in fact, that it nearly brought me to tears. In typical fashion, I forced them back, though the ever-perceptive S could clearly read my face. He asked me, probingly, on the walk back to the train, “What did you think about the play?”

“It was good. Fine. I liked it,” I responded curtly. I then turned my gaze to the taco truck down the street, claiming hunger.

I wasn’t able to articulate the truth to myself until this morning. One of the central themes of Quiet Come Dawn is healing from violence/trauma/fear/uncertainty. The main character, Rook, goes through a powerful personal transformation - from living in fear, anger, and victimhood, to living in empowerment, courage, and joy. She learns how to heal herself and thereby, quite literally, learns to fly.

The scene where Rook fights her demons and musters up the strength to spread her wings is haunting. It shook me at my vulnerable, frightened core, the space where the Whole Me resides and bumps up against the Partial Me on almost a daily basis. The Partial Me is a ground-dweller, perpetually stuck, small, quiet, meek. Contentedly immobile. The Whole Me yearns to Dance. Sing. Speak Spanish. Write. Speak Up. Be Bold. And just like Rook - To Fly.

The enormous divide between the Partial and Whole Me has been getting inevitably smaller as I approach my 30th Birthday, our pregnancy plans, and The Conversation with my parents about it all. I feel pressure mounting in my cells with every family planning book I read, wedding blog I visit, and existential crisis conversation I have with friends.

I know there is a better, stronger, happier version of me trapped somewhere inside my body. My tongue, heart, hips, feet all ache to be free. And last night, watching a human learn to soar like the birds was just another reminder of the sweet journey that awaits.

In the beginning...

... there were doubts. And political questions, existential crises, fears, and uncertainty. But somewhere between quitting a job, working with domestic violence survivors, cardiomyopathy, losing my grandma, entering The Year Before I Turn Thirty, quitting another job, S turning forty, and really trying to figure out what it is I want in the world, I found clarity.

I want to have a baby with S.

Once I found my way toward naming this dream a few months ago, I have been, in typical Aries fashion, moving full-steam ahead with the details.  S, on the other hand, has been ready for me to birth our child since the day we met.  Thus there's been little negotiating between us about whether or not we want to or should have a baby; it's more about how to move forward.  In both technical/logistical and, more importantly, emotional/spiritual terms. 

So we created this blog.  As a space to process and share our emotions, to think through our excitement and questions, and to document the process for posterity.  And oh yeah: to give visibility to ourselves and other trans-queer couples who are paving the paths toward building beautiful families together.