Surge.

“I’m definitely ovulating.”

She yells from downstairs.

“How do you know?”

“I just got the phone call. It’s happening.”

Wooohooo.

“Do you want me to warm up the frittata for you?”

Wooohooo.

“Is that a yes?”

It’s been five minutes since my post about waiting.

Just like our engagement, the phrase, you won’t have to wait long should be permanently part of our optimistic vocabulary.

So, appropriately, here is a link to our engagement video:

It all comes full circle.

Wish us luck!!

Waiting.

Waiting ought to be the number one title of any lesbian (or straight) baby blog. Waiting for the cycle. Waiting for the follicle to be the right size. Waiting for the surge. Waiting 30 minutes with your hips propped up on a pillow. The whole thing gets to be a bit comical.

Went to a bonfire last night for a friend’s birthday. The ‘what’s new?’ questions are hard to navigate when, really, you are always aware of what you’re planning and there is a certain amount of hesitation about what you’ll say, to who, in what level of depth.

Allia has been spilling beans left, right and center. Ken is visiting from England and she was going into some pretty elaborate detail. How much do you share when some people know, some people don’t and the whole thing is both ‘private’ and ‘public,’ medicalized, yet intimate, sensitive but also really universal.

By 11:40 we hope to be hips up in the air, with me sitting beside her trying to distract her from the time spent waiting.  Ready, set, wait.

And On Fridays,… We Wear Denim (with a white tee)

“You’re good luck,” she says to me.

As we visit ISIS again, the most unfortunately named Fertility Clinic in North America (and probably abroad). We are in for cycle monitoring, following her natural cycle last month, ready to start this process all over again.

Blood, blood, blood.
Blood, blood, blood.

Measuring follicles, lots of ultrasounds, and her shy veins being poked and prodded daily to find out when we might be able to conceive… conceivably.

In solidarity with my colleagues, we are wearing denim and white tops every Friday. Totally by accident, Allia is wearing the exact same thing, in solidarity with nothing. I love that we can share clothes.

I realllly love that we’re back on this baby train and that, fingers crossed, she will surge and we can get ourselves all excited to do this again.

photo 3
Boyfriend jeans. No boyfriends.
Twins. Obviously.
Twins. Obviously.

Media: Sink or Swim

My relationship with technology has always been ambivalent.

I was thrilled about my first cassette tape purchase. As I typed this, I wondered if my computer would flag cassette as an unrecognizable word – so obsolete that the spell check turns its nose up, refusing to acknowledge it. I still have my Amy Grant “Heart in Motion” and Bryan Adams “Waking Up the Neighbours” tapes.

I was resistant when CDs came out, with the Columbia House and BMG music mail-aways trying to seduce every preteen into too-good-to-be-true penny deals. I though for sure that this fad would die out. So I held out. Then I sent away for Oasis, Weezer, Jewel, Spice Girls and The Beach Boys: Greatest Hits.

Now, fast forward (something you couldn’t do efficiently then, nor in any of my stories – as my wife will confirm), to a time when students may or may not recognize the ‘SAVE’ icon as a floppy disk (because they’ve never seen one) and where I log all my lessons on a Google Classroom and students can remotely access handouts, lessons and help videos that I post. Seems idyllic, in a high tech Jetson-y way, until something goes awry … or the whole school’s internet goes down. I’m always slightly worried that with our slow access speed the students assume somehow that I’m causing the slowdown with my 33-year-old dinosaur tech-touch. So, I’m secretly thrilled (just a little) when they have tech issues during their own use of the system, revealing that the internet is not discriminating and I commiserate with them about how it ‘happens to me, too’. In the nicest possible way.

I love technology but wish I could talk to it,  reason with it.

Happily I married a woman who is tech savvy and can, patiently, answer all my multiple button clicking questions (why!!?!_) and soothe my technology meltdowns.

Surprisingly, it was a scaled-back, relatively calm scene as I fished my Iphone out of the toilet. “Put it in rice,” was the instruction. 24 hours later, no life signs. And my ‘life in photos’ may be lost forever. I’m more sad about the pictures than the phone itself. And the calendar (with bridal showers and fun times planned, and all the other things I can’t remember). And the contact list. And lists of Baby Names and all the other ridiculous ‘Notes’ I make for myself.

I didn’t back up recently. Not recently enough. My computer is over a decade old. Not lying. It’s the one I have had since university. A big old Dell. And one of the reasons I don’t back up often is because new content slows it down… and the back up to a portable drive … it’s all just too much for me. The ‘Cloud’ on the other hand, just seems too available to others. Poor Jennifer Lawrence. Sigh.

This all providing context for some big questions. What will life be like for our child? Their life (with two doting moms) will be documented and curated from birth. Or before.

Bunny Costume: Halloween - 1985
Bunny Costume: Halloween – 1985

How will I make sure no moment is lost? Obviously, I’ll live in the moment. I’ll use my own memory. But with all this urge to capture and share their own life with them, retrospectively, for them and myself, how can I start a system that is fool proof (in other words, me proof)?

In life, real life, I am so organized that it has become the butt of jokes that made their way into our wedding emcee’s speech. Not so in the digital. There isn’t something to put my finger on, no paper to be picked up, considered and filed. How best to catalog and store digital life?

Summer at the Cottage. 1980s.
Summer at the Cottage. 1980s.

We are starting round 1 again. The period is back. So, I’ll have at least nine months to think about it.