Fertility

5 months; 155 days; 3720 hours, 223,200 minutes.

Posted on by arow88

Thats how long I’ve been a parent for. Does that make me an expert? Fuck no. Should anyone take any advice from me? Not a chance.

But, heres the top 5* things I’ve learnt so far:

(Note: the below post contains no smugness, no advice & no babies were (badly) harmed in the learning of these lessons).

  1. Its actually better to not want kids and then have them anyway, than to actually want them (yeah thats right, all you maternal judge-y types!) My expectations of myself as a parent were so non-existent that I don’t suffer from (as much) of the self-imposed pressure that other Mums put upon themselves. Yes I want Sonny to be happy & healthy (& incredibly good looking) but thats about as far ahead as i’ve thought (and thats all on him anyway, not me!) so everything else is a bonus! Its much harder for Sal who wanted kids so badly, and has so many expectations of herself, because she wants to be the perfect Mum. And thats impossible. So aim low guys, aim low.
  2. Fuck all the naysayers, you can take your kid anywhere you like. Sonny has been on 2 wine tours, to several house parties and numerous pubs. He will have travelled to 4 different countries by the time he’s 1 year old and the world has not ended. Sally and I go out separately, I still occasionally roll home hammered at 0500am and I have an independent trip planned for Borneo next April. Yeah thats right, fuck you smug advice givers! Life goes on!bradbaby.jpg
  3. Sleep is for the weak. Seriously, the sleep deprivation is bad. You will actually go a little crazy. Not even night shift prepares you. This is next level shit. I think its because on a night shift you’re up all night, you know whats coming and you can see the end in sight (and you’re being paid!)  but babies are like manipulative little ninjas! These fuckers wake up, they cry, they feed and then they go back to sleep and you’re lulled into feeling like you’re getting sleep but then you’re up again! And again! And again! And you’re doing this shit for free! Believe me, there will be a one week period where you think “Shit yeah, this is ok, this is easy, I can do this!” and then BAM. Sleep deprivation creeps up on you, smacks you in the face with the crazy stick and its all over. You will go back and read texts you sent during this period and wonder why you weren’t institutionalised. (Sorry friends, sorry).babysleep
  4. You will forever smell a little like vomit. Its unavoidable. Just go with it.
  5. (*I kind of already knew this one) Its okay to use alcohol and caffiene as a crutch. If all that gets you through the day is pseudoephedrine, no doze plus, 3 cups of coffee and the thought of red wine in the evening (or anytime after lunch) – thats okay! Everything is oooookay. Its not an addiction, or a problem, its a coping mechanism. Just roll with it.
babyblue

5 months old (3months corrected). What a babe. 

Love is like a fucking Ninja… 

Posted on by arow88

Warning: Shits about to get sappy. 

My love for him wasn’t sudden, I didn’t see his red and wrinkled screaming face and feel a sudden rush of love and joy. It didn’t erupt from me like a rush of hot, molten lava. It came on slow. In bits and pieces. It was the lump in my throat when I worried he might not breathe on his own. The sting in my chest as he cried when they had to re-site his cannula. It presented itself as frustration that I couldn’t hold him, as weeks of sleeplessness and not eating, as anger and worry and numbness. It came in ebbs and flows at first, as something I named only fondness or ‘like’ at the beginning. It snuck up on me quietly as I rubbed his hairy little head and put his fragile, naked body against my skin. It gently pushed its way in with his grunting and squeaking and nuzzling. My love for him tip toed around me, fooling me into thinking I didn’t need him, wasn’t connected to him, that my sleeplessness was obligation rather than concern and then it appeared as I bathed him and dried him and kissed his fat head when no one was looking. My love for him climbed gently, persistently, silently into my lap as his hot breath blew against my neck, his tiny hands clasped my finger and his feathery hair brushed my face. 

It wasn’t sudden, it wasn’t instant, it wasn’t overwhelming or all consuming. It was calm and quiet and gentle and soft. It enveloped me when I wasn’t looking, when I least expected it and it took me completely by surprise. 

Sonny David Rowe graced us with his presence on the 2nd of Feb 2016. Arriving 2 months early. Impatient little fucker ❤️

Note: This doesn’t mean my uterus is up for rent (ever), or that I’m soft, or that I want to be called Mum. Love is like a fucking ninja, that shits inescapable.

The hills are alive with the sound of judgement

Posted on by arow88

Warning: This is a very rant-y post.

When you or your partner get pregnant and a little bundle of joy (and shitty nappies and sleepless nights and the end of your life wrapped in a muslin cloth!) is on its way, every single person you know will becoming a master in pregnancy and parenting. Every single Fucking one (even those who are clearly shit at raising their own kids!) And from here on in, everything you say or do or plan to do is open slather for disapproving looks, raised eyebrows, smug laughter, commentary and a lot of:
“oh *snicker*, that will change when he’s here darling” (don’t fucking call me darling!)
“you better drink up now, you won’t be able to soon!”

“You’re in a dream world if you think you can travel with a baby!”

“Tell me how that works out for you in six months! *insert epic fucking smugness*”

Etc.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not stupid. I am 100% aware that my ‘ideal’ world in which Sally and I alternate weekends out on the booze, have dinners together in fancy restaurants while the baby sleeps quietly under the table and still travel the world on spontaneous trips is not going to be quite that. I know that there will be many nights where we both stay home pulling our hair out over a sleepless baby, that there will be months and months where the closest we get to travelling is a baby-free outting to IGA. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to at least try to retain some of my former lifestyle. That doesn’t mean that there won’t be weekends where sal takes 20k and I go and get absolutely hammered and then the next weekend we swap places. It doesn’t mean we’ll stop travelling all together and I’ll throw on an apron, some lippy, some stepford wife heels and suddenly become a heteronormative soccer mum (seriously, please kill me if that happens) I don’t even know if I want to be called Mum btw, but I learnt very early on that you never tell a parent you might just want to be called Anna. Seriously, it blows people’s conservative little minds.

The comments and advice (and chastising) I got as soon as I mentioned my intent to travel solo at some point was off the chart. The disapproval people have shown towards the family trip to Europe we have booked for September (when 20k will be 6months) is crazy. Parents, mums especially, can be such judgemental little fuckers.

I don’t mind advice when it’s well-meaning and said without the condescension. But the disapproval and the judgement? We’re lesbian parents, we already don’t fit the mold. We’re not going to fit the mold. I don’t want to fit your motherfucking mold! AND PLEASE STOP TELLING ME I SHOULD CARRY THE NEXT ONE! My uterus is not up for discussion! It’s not homeswest housing! Its not a rental property that’s searching for a new tenant –  Its not up for lease! There’s no auction, no sale, no tender, no negotiation!  This uterus is a barren wasteland that will never be inhabited!

So, next time you feel the urge to pass on your well meaning but incredibly smug little commentaries… Please take a long hard look at the onesie I’ve already bought my unborn son and take note.

This big gay Mumma doesn’t want your fucking advice.

Its not an abortion!

Posted on by arow88

So we’re having a boy! I think it would be almost superfluous to say that there was a lot of fist pumping at that scan…

There are many reasons why I had a preference for a boy – here’s a few honest ones –
 1. I am surrounded (literally!) by women! My dad passed away so I only have my Mum. I have 2 sisters, 2 nieces and a wife! I  need some balance in my life! (Note: before you say that a lesbian like myself should be happy with as many ladies in her life as possible… Just think about it. Women are batshit cray. And they hunt in packs.
2. I like more boy names than girl names. Especially since Sally likes a lot of super lame flower names.
3. I want to live vicariously through my son who is clearly destined to be a future All Black.
4. And lastly, it annoyed Sally that I wanted a boy so bad and that was quite fun for me.

So shits getting real now. There’s an actual baby with genitals inside my wife. My genes have been reproduced. We’re almost 20 weeks now and there is no turning back!

Sally is more mental than ever. Her hormones are on overdrive and she’s either always grumpy or sad or really mad. Telling her that she is all 3 of these things (just as an FYI) does not go down well and then she tends to add some rage into the mix. I feel like I need a bunker, like those huge shelters that the doomsday preppers make! Like Sally IS the Armageddon (especially when hangry) and I need to bunker down! Ride out the next 4.5months in a basement with lots of Netflix and supplies! This is actually the best idea I’ve ever had and I feel like it’s a marketable one too. I may have found a niche – “Preg-preppers! Survive your hurricane wife!”

If I don’t update in the next week or so you’ll know my wife has read this blog and l I’ve been relegated to the shed. Without Netflix. Or snacks.

Stop! (It’s retrospectively) Trigger time! 

Posted on by arow88

Back to Sydney we go again. This time for the retrieval and transfer! And also the most undignifying scan so far. Previously when I’ve had scans they’ve been in a reasonably large room with a sonographer who has gracefully left the room before and after for me to change. This time I found myself in a tiny room, feeling like I was about to be strip searched! After it was over, the woman stood about a foot from me as I lost all dignity and scooped out about a litre of lube from of my vagina post-scan. She did not even buy me dinner first. How rude. 
The silver lining in this undignified moment was that they said that 16 of my 47 (thanks PCOS) follicles looked nice and juicy, ready for the picking! Sally’s lining was also given the all clear and I was instructed to go home, rest up and set my alarm for 230am – prepare to be triggered! Every time you get told to go home and ‘rest up and wait’, time seems to slow down to a snails pace! I don’t think I really even fell asleep before 230am came around and I was up to jab myself – probably the worst injection so far, I had a mild reaction,my throat itched and I couldn’t stop coughing – a couple of Phenergan later I managed to fall back to sleep. And then the waiting game began again. 36 hours this time, 36 loooooong hours until I had to present to the clinic, fasted and ready for pick up. This means that I also had to fast from the time I woke up until after my collection (around 4pm). Let’s just say that hormonal AND hangry is not a great mix! I was anxious, irritable and hungry by the time I met my anaesthetist. He was pretty good, for the record. I asked him what and how much of everything he was going to give me “propofol, midaz and plenty of it. You a nurse?”

“ICU” 

“the best kind to put to sleep!” 

I woke up a little over 45minutes later and blearily asked “how many?” We got 4. I was pretty disappointed! 47 follicles and we only got 4 eggs?! I thought my ovaries were going to spit eggs out like machine guns! Joel (our Doc) assured me that 4 was fine, better than none! But I still felt a little disappointed, how I imagine a man with premature ejaculation would feel. What an anticlimax.

Then the waiting game began again, 24 hours of my little eggs laying in a Petrie dish full of sperm (poor little suckers) before the clinic would call to tell us how it went. The hours draaaaaagged! Especially since I was also having quite a lot of cramping and couldn’t really do much to make the time go faster. It got to about 3pm the next day and Sal couldn’t wait any longer so she called through to see if the results were ready. 3 of our 4 eggs had made it through fertilisation and were looking good! We were booked in for a day 3 transfer and settled back in for another wait. In the meantime I had started to feel a bit better so we managed to get out and do the Bondi to Coogee walk – a beautiful way to get some much needed fresh air and breathing space away from all the IVF palava.

   
 The day of transfer finally arrived and we excitedly made our way back to the clinic for the last time this trip. We got to see our beautiful 8-cell embryo (clearly my superior genetics shining through) on the big screen as Joel shot it forth into to Sally’s lovely lining. And then it was done.

And now we wait. 

Again. 

 

Theres been a lot of Ovary-acting in our house.

Posted on by arow88

I’m normally a pretty even-keel kinda gal (even-keel meaning I’m always on the verge of anger and have a perpetual resting bitchface, but I’m consistent), Sal is a little more on the emotional side, but generally she’s pretty predictable. Not this month though. This month has been insane. Sal has been on Synarel nasal spray 3 times a day and 6x Progynova a day! Whilst I have been injecting Puregon and Orgalutran.

Theres been A LOT of ovary-acting.

I cry at nothing. Absolutely nothing. Like watching re-runs of Lost makes me cry. And not just because its a terrible show! My work colleague seems to think the hormones have made me more ‘human’, according to her she’d quite like to keep them going. According to me they have done nothing but made my tear ducts disobedient and it is just not acceptable! Sally has been a more heightened version of herself with a bit more anger thrown in. She’s snappy and grumpy and wants to talk about her ‘feelings’ all the time. Like, its 11pm and I’m trying to sleep and she wants to talk about her ‘feelings’!? No. Its not fun. The hormones make me cramp and cry. They make Sally snap and sook. To repeat my earlier statement – this baby better be worth it.

This baby better be worth it. 

Posted on by arow88

Inclusive of flights and accommodation, this second trip to Sydney has cost us approximately $14,000. FOURTEEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. That’s like… A car! That’s our bathroom renovation, that’s a big chunk of our trip to America. That’s a new patio! A dirt bike! A jet ski! That’s an awful lot. This baby better be good! It better not suck! It better be the right gender! (Note: the last stipulation was just to wind up my wife…)

So we handed over our credit card and my wallet cried and what did we get? Literally a giant bag of hormones. Seriously. So many needles and vials and pessaries (aka vagina bullets!) the latter being for Sally btw, I get the needles and she gets the vagina bullets. I totally won that round! I am grieving a little for Sally’s vagina though, 2 big bullets 3 times a day… Damn. Poor vagina. We also got a schedule and a truckload of overwhelming information about when to start what, when to go where, frozen cycles vs fresh, IVF vs ICXI and the list goes on. My brain melted.

We get a little breathing space now though as we are off to America and out of the country for all of May, this means our descent into the valley of needles and fanny bullets is on hold for a bit. We did pack them onto the plane and fly them home with us though so if you look in our fridge you might get a little concerned (or excited, depends who you are I suppose and what you’re into). The customs guy looked mildly interested when the bag of needles and drugs went through the X-ray, he looked Sally up and down, shrugged and kept going though so I guess she doesn’t look like the next Schapelle Corby. Makes me think that if nursing goes bust one day we could have a new career as drug mules. Or Sally could, she must have an innocent sort of face…

A Probing Inquisition.

Posted on by arow88

Part of this whole baby process is tests, tests, tests and more tests! Bloods after bloods after bloods, pap smears, ultrasounds and probes! Oh my! I knew the process would involve a menagerie of tests, however I neglected to think about how invasive and uncomfortable and awkward those tests might be.

I do not like being probed (often). I am a top not a bottom. Pants not pumps. I am not, to use a football analogy, a wide receiver. Thus this process so far is my least favourite obstacle on the way to parenthood.

I walked into the ultrasound clinic and sat down surrounded by pregnant women who stared at me curiously, wondering a) why I was here and not pregnant, b) why I was alone and c) if they could get my number because I’m prone to turning even the straightest of straighty-one-eighties (case in point my wife).

I had a ragingly full bladder, was incredibly nervous and to make things worse the sonographer was running 40 minutes behind. That’s 40 extra minutes for my bladder to add at least another 10mls to its already bursting capacity! 40 minutes to be eaten alive by these happy, glowy, annoying pregnant women! 40 minutes to think about the GIGANTIC probing I was about to receive. It was not a fun 40 minutes.

Finally a smiling South African woman called me through and promptly told me she needed my bladder empty (What!? I’ve just sat here in excruciating discomfort for no reason!? But also, yay!). She then took me into a small room and asked me to remove my pants (But you haven’t even taken me out for dinner!?) and slide under a sheet on the examination table. I did so and proceeded to look anywhere but her face as she lubed up the probe, which was btw actually a lot smaller than imagined, and went to insert it. OUCH. Like, really, OUCH.

“Why, what tight pelvic floors you have!” She exclaimed. No really, she seriously, legitimately said this. I had no idea how t respond to such a comment! “Oh… thanks… I think…” I’m taking it as a compliment!

The rest of the ultrasound went pretty quickly, albeit uncomfortably. She probed left, she probed right, up, down and on an angle before announcing a diagnosis of PCOS with a follicle count of over 30 (wah!). On the upside though, she did describe my uterus as ‘lovely’! Yay! Pity we’re not using that part!

Eventually she pulled out (Ouch again!), handed me some tissues and left me to gather my clothes. Much like my days of one night stands really….

I’m not really sure how much the diagnosis of PCOS will affect our chances at baby success, I’m assuming my hormone therapy will probably be a little more tailored and that they’ll have to monitor a little more closely for hyper-stimulation. I guess I’ll find out in April when we make our second trip over to Sydney!

One probe down, several more to go!