Savor the Storm

Sunday was a family affair type of day.


My mother had my second cousins up from Marshfield, dragged my sister out of Boston and my brother out of Waltham. The courses were many and the food delicious. We chatted about Turkey (one of my cousins is due to be stationed there) and admired my brother’s new BMW (never has there been a car more beloved by an owner).


In due process the conversation turned to the evitable…


“So when are you two going to have another baby?”


It’s a half in jest half serious question. 100% expected, much like “What’s the weather like?” or “How about those Red Sox” (a question that could also lead to a three hour discourse if presented to any member of my family save, Erin, my mother or myself).


I gave my usual stock response of “Sure as hell not now.” It’s an answer that I don’t have to think about or even consider beyond coming out of my mouth.


Yesterday I thought about it while playing with Arden.


Serious thought of a second child is just far away, hidden in our horizon. Frankly we can’t afford it. Truly what is wrong with that?


Arden is only 6 months old.


She our bright yellow balloon, carefree and passing through life playing in the breeze.


Just looking at her makes me happy.


Somehow she is different every morning. The changes are so constant and so rapid it takes every ounce of my attention just to keep up with them.


From the way she holds a toy to what suddenly captures her attention, each moment is refreshing and vibrant (if you see a Lab/??? mix running down 93 you’re probably looking at our Lucy, trying to escape from Arden’s recent fascination with her) She is starting to develop a sense of humor and figuring out that food is an experience to be had.


Right now Arden has two parents whose attention is utterly focused on her and our journey into parenthood. As the constant blizzard of life storms around us our days as new parents are stunningly beautiful, unique crystals.


I just don’t feel the need to plow through her babyhood, trying to clear the way for something new. I want to enjoy her and absorb every change and savor every second.


Am I really all that strange?

P.S. Ripples of Actuality

Today Arden is 6 months old.


This morning in the bath she was sitting and cheerfully splashing and slashing the water’s surface with a spatula. Intent as always with the mechanics of each ripple of water as my hands periodically interrupted her play darting around scrubbing tiny toes and chubby thighs.


She looked up at me, hair slick and gives me that gummy grin that seizes my heart and rinses the memory of a night riddled with restless sleep snatched between uncharacteristic boughts of fussiness and an extra 4am feeding session.


A moment of pure connection and undiluted affection… a gift unparalleled and mine to hold close.


I think one of our hardest things about our situation with KD is the awareness that he will never have a morning like that with Arden.


He wasn’t present at her birth, her first smile or her first taste of food. Over the past six months there has been a kaleidoscope of memories that have enriched Erin’s and my life that he can never relive.


Perhaps in the beginning he didn’t know what to expect. Nobody truly did. I don’t think you can until you are confronted with the actuality and not just the supposition.


Necessity and logic required the agreement that defines how Erin and I wanted to create a family.


Human emotion does not account for necessity and logic.


KD is left to negotiate that minefield alone while Erin, Arden and I step through it as a family.

Part III: Cultural Curtain Call

I guess I owe a bit of an apology or an explanation since this post is a few days late, but lets just say I brought home a viral gift from Chicago that has turned out to be the type that keeps giving.


But a promise is a promise and here is the recap of THE CONVERSATION that made last Friday rank up there with Days I’d Rather Skip…..


After my answer that no, we hadn’t heard from KD regarding Arden she was immediately upset.


Had he forgotten her? Didn’t he care?


I explained that since we spoke constantly that KD knew she was fine.


A quick rebuff from my mom… Didn’t he want to see her? Was he going to reject her later?


For the millionth time I reviewed what I’ve shared here (plus a few more moments that I’m not ready to get into since it is too easy to judge someone without knowing him) and told her that we’d made a conscious decision to live closely by the KD Agreement to avoid more…moments.


I told her he wasn’t the type to ever reject Arden (in fact I think my past posts prove he won’t). I then had the pleasure of listening to her recount some TV program (that I have also watched) about “genius sperm” and a case where on 10 year old girl flew across country to meet her donor and the meeting was horrific.


I point out that that situation was supposed to be entirely anonymous and Arden’s situation was known. Reminded her that the mother in that situation sleuthed out who the donor was. That in my opinion the mother perhaps should have waited until her daughter was older to approach the donor since he, by the way he donated, did not want to ever be known to this girl. But that this woman had made a decision as a parent that she felt was in her child’s best interest and I would make my decisions for Arden as a parent.


In which case she countered with “Well why won’t you have a situation like an open adoption so Arden can know her father.”


GOOD GOD ALMIGHTY.


Insert tape. Press play. Same response heard a thousand times already.


We don’t want to coparent. He doesn’t want to coparent. In fact he tends to want to be more known in a situation that gives him attention. That we can barely handle our own opinions (and unsaid - all the outside opinions)


Once again…He isn’t her father in the traditional sense. He is her donor. A genetic link without any type of parenting role. He will be invited to birthdays. He will be treated much like an uncle.


We accept that eventually Arden and KD will probably develop their own relationship. We’re her parents. We love her and will do whatever is in her best interest no matter the personal cost. Erin and I will deal with that reality then. But right now, during this period and many years to come, our arrangement stands.


My mother is now angry and insists that we’re going to ruin Arden’s and our lives by not treating this as an adoption.


Like the first time she brought this concept out I point out that Arden is not adopted. Our situation is different than adoption.


She points out that I have two adopted aunts who very much needed to know their biological parents. Again I remind her that Arden was conceived with help by both her parents, was brought into the world by both her parents and has been cared for daily by both her parents. She isn’t adopted. Her own conception will of course have its own set of questions but they are different from those my aunts had.


Along with this I review that Arden will exist in the unique world of GLBT culture where she will be surrounded by other families that resemble hers and were created like hers. That with the large support system we’re consciously developing that she will not feel alone. In fact that here she is 6 months old and we’re already organizing a whole Family Outreach for HRC in Boston with events planned to gather a community of support for all children in New England.


To which she counters, now outraged, that there was no such thing as a separate world.


I believe that there is. When I first came out I had to consciously go and find it, hone my gaydar, discover where to go to meet people and develop a social network. Much later in my life such a ‘gay underground’ has helped us land jobs in friendly organizations, find a home or ‘fun extras’ like receiving extra support from airline attendants while traveling with Arden or advice on what to do in whatever town we’re headed towards.


I point all of this out.


Her outrage is reaching the level of fury, insisting that there is not a separate culture, that she is very aware of life and that I am living in a dangerous fantasy world that will only harm Arden.


I remind her that most of our close friends are straight, most of Arden’s school friend’s family will be straight but she is part of a lesbian headed family and may be the only child in her school with two mommies. That there will be times where as a result, she will feel different. She needs to be part of and aware of GLBT culture.


That there are thousands of other families with two mommies in MA. Many of those families created with donor sperm of all types. And those families to provide their children with other families like theirs do come together in parenting support groups and play groups. Right there, that wasn’t fantasy that was reality.


GLBT culture exists along with the life my mother is familiar with. That it sucks that there is veil of ‘separate’, but that while it is a lot thinner here in MA, so much so that she may not notice it, it very much exists. That even today Erin’s and my marriage could come up to a public vote. That in other parts of the country, it is a weighted curtain and until that line of separation is abolished there will be a separate world of GLBT culture.


That GLBT culture is part of Arden’s heritage and part of her upbringing. That she will live a life more enriched for the experience. Already this one child has been shown so much love and acceptance from so many people from all sides of life, how could she not help but to thrive?


This is a conversation that did not end. Erin walked in and my mother is uncomfortable arguing any point that she thinks might be controversial with both of us.


But really it will never have an ending this argument. It is a just a continuation and example of one of our struggles in creating our little family. A struggle my sister and brother will not face with my mother even if one of them had to use a donor to create their children.


A struggle we wouldn’t have had to face if we had just used #3458 from the bank.


But I suppose that is life isn’t it? A constant struggle to each reward.


Tomorrow…. The donor post script.

Part II: Monopoly of a Gray Vortex

The day ended on a high note by paying $40 for a small bowl of soup, a chicken quesadilla off the appetizer menu and a small side salad.


Behold the monopoly that is Room Service.


My phone rang and a minute into the conversation my $40 dinner was left to congeal as Erin shared the fact that Arden announced she is allergic to penicillin by becoming a demented Dalmatian covered in bright red hives.


I KNOW she was well cared for but how can I put into words that the only thing I wanted was to be there to fuss over her myself? In fact the only thing keeping me from holding up a plane to get home was Arden WAS with her Mommy.


Any chance of resting easily vanished and I was up well before my 5:30 wake up call.


After finishing the business part of the day I returned to the airport. Where once again: “Folks this is the pilot speaking, air traffic into MA has been delayed due to high wind. The airport needs the gate so I’m going to have to pull back. Estimated wait is one hour.”


At this point I am so close to going to see my baby I can feel her weight in my arms. Part of me just wants to cry. I’m tired. I’m sore from a rock hard hotel bed and I’m sick of pumping. All I want to do is snuggle Arden, check her hives myself and start the peace of the weekend.


Boston area commuter traffic sucks. It starts at 3 pm on a Friday and can back up 10-20 miles. By the time we managed to land it was after 3.


I was on 93 for about a minute before I hit an ‘expressway’ of parked cars.


Weary, drained, I made my way up to my parent’s chocolate factory which happens to be next to Arden’s daycare just after 5.


Her smile enveloped me. Her mottled skin concerned me.


The feel of her mouth sucking my cheek as she ‘kissed’ me soothed the ache of missing her.


As I nursed her my mother pulled her apron off and sat down for a chat.


Usually she queries my life in the busy way all American Italian mothers are prone to and like a well conditioned solider I report in.


Today she opens with “Have you heard from KD (known donor)?”


I hadn’t. We have regular, almost daily contact with him because we are involved with the same volunteer circles. He knows how Arden is but most conversations are surrounding what is next with the volunteer work. We are careful to keep it that way.


In the beginning, even though the contract stipulated discretion on who knew about our arrangement he made a public announcement in our presence once I was pregnant. Literally. A public announcement that he had donated to us. We weren’t even announcing we were pregnant yet.


Like a single shot in the air, that one announcement that he was our donor set off an avalanche of effects.


He told us he planned to take paternity leave from his company and wanted to come over and help right after she was born. He started having opinions on our choice of names and wanted his friends whom we didn’t know to come to our baby shower.


Our tidy situation, so black and white on paper was spiraling into a gray vortex.


Like I’ve mentioned before, the pregnancy changed what, originally was a hands-off arrangement. In fact 100% hands off was the only way he agreed to do it. It was as if now that I was pregnant the situation that a baby was on the way altered his views.


His interest intensified after her birth. Despite asking him to wait until we called he showed up at the hospital (actually we didn’t tell him where we delivered on purpose he called around and found out), after I had been through a 22 hour labor, hadn’t had time to clean up and get to know my daughter with a strange woman I had never met. We were friendly and welcoming.


I wanted to tell him to go to hell. But I couldn’t. He still had legal rights to Arden. We were/are friends with him, we adore him and did adore him well before he was our donor but now he held a stake in our lives that we could never walk away from no matter what happens.


I just hurt so badly. I didn’t want one face there that I didn’t even know and I did not want the world treating him like he was a parent. And they did.


So you had me that had given birth, he who had donated but not taken care of me for 39 weeks and Erin who did all the work and support that comes with being the other parent.


Where did that leave Erin?


In that moment the realization that we would never escape this reality hung thick in the room. In what should have been the most glorious day for Erin and I we had to deal with our first battle of WHO were the parents in this arrangement.


When we met with him at a coffee shop a few weeks later he had gifts galore from a baby shower his friends had thrown him. He said they all wanted to meet her. He took pictures and the following day sent out an email with the subject “I’ve become one of those people who can only brag about his kid”


She, by contract and over 10 months of talking, negotiation and written contract is NOT his kid. She is biologically related to him but he is not her parent. Despite all the lip service and signing of paperwork, to him she will always be ‘his kid’. This isn’t bad thing, it is just a facet in our family that Erin and I were not looking for.


We made the decision to carefully pull back. Keep our friendship exactly what it was because we love this man and want him in our lives; we just want to make sure our message is consistent to him. That our contract is what we envision, not just blather.


(as a side note, a donor agreement has never been upheld to our knowledge by a court, anybody using a known donor, realize your agreement --ours was done by a lawyer-- may not be upheld if your donor changes his mind following the birth…MA people, if you are married you do have an additional layer of protection in that your spouse is automatically included on the birth certificate and in theory assumed the other parent)


That brings us to the moment in the factory, the defining end to my crappy Friday.


Slather my mother’s obsession with KD over the above selection of background, sprinkle in my past 48 hours and really, you can see how her opening line of conversation with an inquiry about him made me cringe.


Tomorrow… THE CONVERSATION.

Part I: Chaos and Balloon Animals

Let me tell you about my day. Or I will but this will be a multi part post, so I guess I’ll be telling you about today tomorrow.


Since the beginning is a good place to start….I’ll begin with yesterday.


Just to put it all into context.


However I’m going to just run through the highlights or else I’m going to have to start posting in chapters.


Part I


Yesterday’s Highlights:


I had to leave on a business trip. To Skokie IL. IN FEBRUARY. I don’t know about you but I avoid O’Hare in the winter. It’s just logical.


Unsurprisingly, business is rarely logical. So I was off to Skokie.


For once I made it out the door by 6:30am for my 8:33 flight. Considering what it takes to get out the door these baby-laden days I feel like I deserve my own cheering section. Mothers everywhere… you’re cheering inside for me right now aren’t you? Because you know… you just know…


As I was entering the car I felt an obnoxious poke to my underarm. From experience I know what this poke is. Under-wire that is not so much under anymore as out.


Another nursing bra has bit the dust and so has my nice on-time start to the day.


Apparently Motherwear has decided that the last thing a nursing mother needs is a bra of sturdy design or even one that just stays in one piece. I own 4 under-wire cotton bras from them and all of them have needed significant repair.


Take this as a side note to all you new/future-new moms… If you’re looking for dust rags, buy from Motherwear. If you’re looking for a bra that will actually hold up to washing and **gasp** wearing…. well….just…just look anywhere else.


Off subject yes, but the bra thing was important… anyhow, back to telling you about my yesterday, the point of which is to frame today.


By now we’ve gone back into the house and are now back to the car and I’m wearing a new bra, but it’s 15 minutes later…and now dangerously cutting it close to make it to Logan and onto that plane.


Traffic? Oh yeah there was traffic…and my blood pressure? Somewhere above my head.


I get to the airport, think to myself that it was harder than usual to get a parking spot. I’m later than I’d like but my some miracle still not truly late. I’ve traveled this route often and know the terminal. Its small and the gates are easy to get to…. all I have to do is run through a self check kiosk and through security, 20 minutes tops and I’ll be at my gate.


The parking elevator opens at the ticketing level.


Pandemonium.


The breath runs right out of me. Chaos everywhere….


Chaos and balloon animals.


Apparently in honor of February school break next week every family in Massachusetts was heading out on Thursday morning. American Airlines in a brave attempt to keep frustrated families sane had people wandering through the crowds twisting balloons into poodles.


How do they hire for that? Can you see the job questionnaire?


And why balloons? Wouldn’t Prozac work better?


A quick look at my watch had my intestines doing a poodle twist of their own, 7:45am.


Every self check kiosk was obscured by confused families who seemed a few frustrated finger pokes away from taking a sledge hammer to the machines. There was frustrated crying from umbrella strollers 3 and 4 deep. There were harried attendants who had long lost their sense of direction and were literally turning in tired circles.


Pure luck brings my gaze to the left and my salvation. A kiosk being used as a backrest by a father who seemed amused by his wife’s attempts to use the machine beside him with 4 inch finger nails in a startling shade of orange.


7:56…. SIX minutes shy of the half hour before flight check in limitations I have my boarding pass in hand.


I turn the corner to security and a scene right of hell greets me. Not unexpected by this time but nightmarish none the less… a winding line of unfathomable length twisted before me.


Boarding is at 8:03.


Ignoring the death glares from the irate masses I run to the first security checkpoint attendant. Young, inexperienced with flat out mulish posture I figured any chance I had at making my flight was lost as without a word she pointed her finger back at the line.


A lucky glance to my left showed a supervisor taking the crowd under surveillance, clip board in hand. My desperation must have read loud and clear because she walked over, hand out, took my ticket, looked at my suit, carry-on, laptop already out and motioned me to follow her. I found myself joining a gaggle of harried suits with carry-ons and we passed through security with practiced ease.


8:10 I’m on the other side and striding for my gate. I dodge strollers and children playing with some sort of ball on a string. I pass booths selling coffee and pastry and smell both as my stomach rumbles with regret.


8:15 I’m on board and settled in. The plane is unusually full for a small commuter jet but I’m beyond care. I’m just grateful I’m on board at all.


8:33 the plane pulls back from the gate on schedule.


8:34 the pilot welcomes us.


8:35 the pilot announces that we’re going to be stuck on the runway for 2 hours and 20 minutes.


Somewhere up front a baby starts crying.


I think that about sums it up.

Slices of Today

This morning proved that Arden is well on her way to healthy. Sometimes I wonder if we’re going to come out alive from the “Day Care Germ War.” I suppose we will. Every other family seems to, but right now I’m pretty sure there is going to be a little memorial for us all outside the day care door.


In fact I have a sneaking suspicion that I have conjunctivitis. Which means I have to get into my doctor today since I’m on my way to Chicago tomorrow….I can just see me blinking my cherry red eyes at the hospital staff tomorrow.


Anyhow…Proof of Arden’s returning health….She got up grinning and squealing….ordered Erin around during her diaper change and yelled at me to hurry up with breakfast.


Sooner or later she is going to realize that she can lift my shirt herself. That’s going to be fun (read much sarcasm here folks).


As I was nursing her today I noticed how big her hand has gotten.


Having watched all my cousins growing up the one thing I have been acutely aware of is how fast a baby grows and how fast your memory blurs. Many memories of cousins as babies are so hazy that I want to peel back the surface and dunk my head into them just to make sure they are real.


Being aware of this is a gift for a personality like mine. It has made me stop and live in the moment no matter what pressing detail of life or work was knocking to intrude.


In those first few months when I was bogged down by a hungry, nursing infant and the last thing my exhausted self wanted to do was sit down again and feed her, that awareness made me stop, sit there and revel in that moment.


Everything else would still exist, circling my head, needing my attention, but that slice of reality with Arden would only subsist in that very instant.


I know time will win again. Already much of our early days together swim in and out of focus. However, I wanted one part of Arden’s newborn days to remain sharp and alive. Something to hold onto when life has made me a relic and my greatest companion is the static of yesterdays. So when Arden was placed on my chest immediately after birth the first thing I did was wrap her hand around my thumb and memorize its size.


I didn’t want to forget how small her hand was.


Delicate and fine, her whole palm fit just over the top half of my thumb. Pink skin wafer thin and wrinkled, each joint pliable and yielding.


This morning sturdy little fingers grasped my thumb all on their own. While beautiful, gone is the delicacy of a newborn hand. The skin remains soft but the bones are covered with pudgy reserves of baby fat. This is a hand that grasps things and pulls things, pushes things and explores a world that seems to be hers for the taking.


This is the hand of a baby. As I looked at my thumb now completely swallowed by her palm I became acutely aware that my newborn lives in my memory and today I was cuddling my baby.


Already each day together adds a few new memories weighing down the ones from yesterday and sticking them together. It made me sit there staring at our joined hands, ignoring the news, ignoring the clock knowing the day would still march on no matter how long I stared into her eyes or reminisced about a delicate hand.


I did my best to slice a bit of this morning off and stow it in corner of my mind, the edges clear and focused, alive for another morning down the road when the now becomes the then and the present wallows as part of our past.

Mommyhood Propaganda

It’s odd… you become a parent and suddenly your whole world revolves around this little person.


Anything that happens to your child strikes you emotionally 10x worse.


So when your baby is sick and hurting…. You are sick and hurting.


I’ve been told this a million times by other moms… but never bought into it.


Well people I’ve bought the propaganda and now I’m a convert. This has been an emotionally draining few days.


Arden is sick and has been sick for about a week. The antibiotics are kicking in and kicking bacterial ass.


So she was in a particularly pissy mood. She finally feels well enough to express that she feels ghastly. Her nose is draining, her cough is breaking up….


This has led to a vicious cycle.


And has brought me to the next bit of mommy propaganda I have bought into…


Bodily fluids of your child will not repulse you quite like those same fluids in any other situation would.


My day was spent sucking snot out of Arden, having Arden wipe her nose on me over and over and...


Getting christened by baby vomit numerous times.


Wet, warm, slimy, smelly, mucous laden baby vomit, in surprising volume.


I can’t stand vomit.


Yet I just calmly hold a basin under her and if I’m not quick enough calmly strip me down, strip her down and mop up whatever surface was unlucky enough to be under both of us.


Basically the mucous breaking up ends up being swallowed and when there is too much….it all comes out with whatever milk is in her stomach at the time.


I’m not saying it smells like roses.


I’m not saying I don’t squirm a bit when she erupts.


But I don’t run from the room screaming.


Huh. Go figure.


Just pat me on the head and call me Mama.


Dora

Sum of the Known

One aspect to being part of an alternative family is knowing that you are going to have to go above and beyond to bring a child into your life.


Now there are many methods of doing this and you can read and research and talk for hours with other families, GLBT and Heterosexual to find out how they completed their circle. No matter which way you look at it how the child arrives in your life is always a sum of factors.


The varied sums of the x’s + y’s = z’s to bring Arden into our life brought us to n=Known Donor (KD).


Like apples, Known Donors come in varieties…. Granny Smith, Red Delicious, Macintosh…or Relative, non-Relative, Known but unknown to you before becoming your donor, Known to you as a friend, Known to you as a close friend, Wants to Co-parent, Doesn’t want to Co-parent, Wants to be an Uncle, Wants to remain anonymous, Wants to be known to child from day one…


The list goes on and I’m pretty sure I haven’t heard them all yet.


But this is about our answer. Our answer Known Donor type #450-something after a long struggle with an anonymous donor from your friendly neighborhood sperm bank that wasn’t bringing our family number up to 3.


We used a Known Donor of the Macintosh variety…a common KD situation. He is a friend of ours who doesn’t want to parent, who will be known sort of like an uncle. We’ll do our best to invite him to birthdays and special events. We did the contract dance. We tried to speak openly and honestly about expectations.


In the end we learned that we certainly are not soothsayers.


As more and more friends look into starting families the ones who are GLBT often ask us how we decided to create our family and ask us how we felt about using a KD.


Let me start by saying that our KD has been wonderful on so many layers. He sticks pretty much to our contract. He doesn’t call us obsessively, he doesn’t offer parenting advice, doesn’t ask to see her outside events that naturally toss us together.


For the most part his role was as predicted…..


In fact our issues with a KD are not with our KD (well there are a few gaffes that I’d rather not have faced, but I’ll write about those later and perhaps in more detail on a different day.)


Our KD issues stem from the rest of the people swirling about in our lives.


My mother is a good example of our common problem.


My mother in particular developed an OBSESSION with our KD. My mother never felt this way when we were using an anonymous donor. Suddenly she wanted to know everything about him…his family, his beliefs, how he FEELS about Arden, us, life… we answered and re-answered until finally we asked her to please stop. I fought hours and hours with her, trying to explain that as a KD he was not the father. He didn’t want to parent. For my entire pregnancy and for months after the birth she couldn’t go a single conversation without asking about him. She began a campaign for us to treat our situation like an open adoption where we would let Arden know from the beginning that he was her father. She refused to call him anything but the “father”.


Which he isn’t.


He is her donor, she will know at an appropriate age (we have no idea when this will be, I’m guessing fate will let us know) that he is her donor and depending on her age, relationship they develop really will be between them. In one way I know this will be good for Arden and I feel lucky the option will be there for her.


Her obsession makes it impossible for us to think about inviting our KD over for Thanksgiving, or Arden’s birthday or even just a barbecue if my mother might be there. The last thing I want to do is give her the opportunity to speak unhindered to him.


But let’s move on from my mother…


I’m going to bypass our hetero friends and focus on our GLBT friends…the people you would most likely expect to “get” our situation.


Oddly enough, they all play lip service to understanding but are the worst offenders of treating our KD like he is the father…giving gifts that congratulate all three of us on her birth (which might not seem like a big deal, but it is awkward as hell since it takes a married couple and thrusts another person between you), picking out features that belong each biological set of genetic donors effectively shutting out the non-bio parent, never respecting that you might not want the situation shared with people you run into on the street… “This is Arden did you know that *KD* is her father?”


**cringe**


Of course there are odd things that come from the KD himself. One tiny example…He got very excited about the pregnancy and one time ran up and kissed my stomach. I’m not a very touchy person….and that just creped me out. It was just a gesture pointing out that my family wasn’t going to be like the family next door. A gesture showing our KD had a sense of entitlement to do that. Luckily I think we saw each other 2x during those long 40 weeks.


We suspect to his coworkers and straight friends he presented his role in a different light…they invited him to an expectant parent’s knitting circle, they gave him all sorts of gifts for her, they run up to meet Arden at HRC events, they want to take pictures and be invited to birthdays. I worry that someday I’ll have to say something to one of them.


Often he seems to react to me like he and *I* have done something together.


It’s a bizarre situation.


Before her birth he decided to tell his sister who then wanted to know if she was an Aunt...technically yes, but really no. Arden has an aunt in my sister.


After her birth he changed his mind about wanting his parents to know, but we hadn’t changed ours about only having two sets of grandparents. We’re already bi-coastal in the grandparent area, plus there is only so much advice I can take from people I know and love.


I wouldn’t know what to do with these people who are not part of my life or family interacting with my daughter with a sense of propriety.


My instincts would go haywire.


Our decisions, already outlined in our contract, hurt his feelings.


That is probably the most problematic part of using a KD. You, from the moment you first talk to a person about being a KD have to consider a third set of feelings in procreation, pregnancy and throughout the child’s life. You become tied to this third party for the rest of YOUR life.


It is a specter hanging over you. The white elephant in the room. It is the one thing as a married couple you can’t escape.


People know you had to have help to have this child, if they know who helped you they can’t help but drag it from under the couch and into the limelight.


Obviously this is just our very glossed over, very condensed thoughts of using a KD.


But I wanted to share it. Often couples in desperation (we were there!) see a KD as the easy, ready, inexpensive solution.


Its not. It is a different choice. One where you don’t have the control anymore. One where you can’t, no matter how much you plan, predict how the world will react or even how your partner/spouse will react. One where the non-bio parent will face additional situations where they might feel as if their role as a parent is reduced.


Let me be clear though, it isn’t a bad choice. Not at all.


It just is not going to be you and your partner/spouse from that moment forward. No matter where you move, how your life changes you will always have that third party involved.


That is the sole purpose of my “little” discourse here, to suggest to other couples to think it through carefully. It isn’t an answer or a cheap fix, it is a dimension of life all of its own.

Life Stinks... literally

Plain fact is that my life stinks right now.


Literally.


Now it could stink because,


1. my company is now exploring other companies to merge with, which means another round of layoffs loom in the future. Which means of course, that our tight budget is going to get exponentially worse. Which means that every time I walk past the closed boardroom door I want to empty my breakfast out a window. Its a great feeling.


Or it could stink because,


2. Arden is sick yet again. And this time it has settled in her lungs. Is there anything more frightening for a parent than to have your child's breathing compromised? I don't know about you but I directly equate breathing with living. Not to mention the sheer joy having a child sick since mid-december brings into your world.


Better yet it could stink because,


3. I saw Arden awake for a total of ONE HOUR. There is something SERIOUSLY f**ked up about that.


Now if 1 were to come true and my job went astray then 2 and 3 could be fixed.


Well sort of. The loss of 1 would directly lead to the creation of 4


My life could stink even more because,


4. Heating oil, electricity and food all cost money and money comes from 1.


But truly my life stinks because,


5. Lucy our adorable, neurotic lab/??? cross decided to provide a special 2am episode of "Real Wildlife Encounters" starring herself and a very large representative of Mephitis mephitis .


And people wonder why I'm developing a tic.

An Age Old Question....

There is a snow flurry outside and the baby has just gone down for her morning nap, so I figured I'd take a bit of time to jot something down.


I have a question for everyone... how do you balance career and baby?


Right now we have a bit of a dilemma in our house.


As expected having a baby has been beyond expensive for us. Daycare, clothing... yadda, yadda.


Now I am very good at knowing how to save money on clothes and groceries. In fact I can feed us both for $30.00 if I have the time to cook and stretch the food. That includes meat and fresh foods. But with work I don't have that type of time at all.


Problem is Tue-Fri I'm up at 5:30 for work. We get home from work/daycare by about 6:30. After working all day I barely have the energy to nurse the baby, take a shower and land on the couch to wait out my final pumping session.


The weekends, if we make any plans just exhaust me further and if I'm in the house I can't seem to move off the couch. I can't seem to make freezer meals (not that we have space in the freezer considering all the stored breastmilk).


So I could take an offered promotion at work and probably make up the money we need.


That promotion however will take me out on the road internationally.


And that means that Erin will become a single mother.


And I won't get to see my baby.


It's a tough call, but one that I am sure the answer is apparent. We can't live on what money we have right now. We just can't. It is too tight. Too risky. If one car so much as needed a repair we're screwed.


So how does the world do it. How do you manage to have a child, afford the child and balance time on your career (because you have to have the career to afford the child) against time with your family?


Sigh

Life Unscripted

Sometimes you look at your life and wonder how in the hell you managed to land where you've ended up.


Not that where you are is unpleasant.


Just an amnesiac moment where you somehow know the landscape but have no idea what the name of the street is you are walking down.


That is what is most interesting about life to me.


No matter how hard I try to twist life into what I think it should be it seems to happily plug along in utter chaos.


A blur of days where the ending is always unplanned. Complex, confusing, unconforming.


My own personal adventure.


Life unscripted.