vermont

Known Donor

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Every time he walks onto the playground, I find myself flashing a quick glance at Pidge, looking for signs of recognition. Sometimes she acknowledges him, mentioning him by name later in the evening just as she would for any one of her friends’ parents. Sometimes when he says hi to her she just stares.

We live in a small, rural community, which means lives overlap. A lot. Everyone crosses paths with everyone all the time. The idea of if-you-dress-a-mess-you’ll-run-into-someone-you-know is not a thing here because you are always running into someone you know. It’s the nature of living small.

Using a known donor to conceive Pidge has been an interesting experience. When we were looking to conceive several years ago, we weighed the ideas of using a sperm bank versus a known donor. As an attorney I knew that using a sperm bank was the safer route. Parentage is more easily established that way, and it doesn’t create the possibility where the donor could try to claim legal rights to your child. However, there were also aspects of using a sperm bank that concerned me. In this digital age, I am watching concepts of privacy and anonymity lose their meanings. I feared that even if we chose an anonymous sperm donor, our daughter might one day be able to find out his identity. What if we didn’t like him? Would she suddenly be wanting to spend time or holidays with a man we didn’t know and didn’t like? Would she end up with something like 32 siblings, as I had read about in the news?

We decided to ask a friend of ours who lived across the country to donate sperm. We were nervous to ask, worried it would be weird or jeopardize our friendship. Instead, he eagerly said yes, adding, “Y’all will be great parents.” We were overjoyed. As he is an attorney too, he and I worked hard to ensure that both of our legal rights would be protected. He wanted to help us, but he didn’t want to end up stuck with parental obligations; we wanted his help, but we didn’t want him to be able to claim legal rights to our child. Being across the country from one another, we felt as though we had an added layer of protection—it was unlikely that our paths would cross without concerted effort. After many months of contracts and research and reaching out to other attorneys, we started trying. Each time, the attempt to conceive was unsuccessful. We grew discouraged.

One evening, as I was working late, my wife went out for drinks with a colleague of hers. He was more of an acquaintance than a true friend, but they were friendly with each other and enjoyed each other’s company. He told her about how he and his wife were working on buying their first home together, and she told him about our failed attempts at trying to make a baby. Then he commented, “You know, if you ever need help with that, I would be happy to help.” My wife smiled and said thanks, but didn’t think much of it. When she told me about her conversation, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Do you think he’s serious?” My wife said she thought he was.

“Maybe we should do it,” I said to her. “I mean, what we have been trying has not been working. Maybe it’s because our donor is far away, or maybe there is something with his sperm. Whatever it is, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to try someone different.”

My wife thought about it. She thought about her colleague, and his generous offer. “He does look a lot like you,” she remarked.

She was right. He is taller than I am, but has the same color hair, the same texture hair, and the same color eyes. While I didn’t know much about him at the time, I knew he was smart, funny, and kind. Still, I was concerned about the fact that he lived in town, and that it would be possible that our children would be around the same age.

After several follow-up conversations with him, and after he discussed it with his wife, we decided to move forward using him as a donor. Three cycles later, my wife was pregnant.

My wife’s pregnancy was filled with emotion. We were so excited to become parents, but I was worried. What if I wouldn’t feel connected to this child? What if our donor decided to try to assert legal rights at the last minute? What if he changed his mind once our child was born? What if he started seeing the child as his? What if we see each other constantly and it is weird? What if our kids become friends? There were so many unknowns and, even with legal contracts, there was so much trust I had to place in a man I barely knew.

Fast forward two years and I am watching him play with his child on the playground. His child squeals with delight—“Daddy!”—giggling as his father pushes him on the swing. My daughter is playing with another child on the slide. I look over at the swings and I look back at my child. I study her face, looking for his face. I look for similarities between his child and mine. But I don’t see them. At least, not really. Sure, they are both adorable. Some of their features share certain aspects, but you would never pick them out as siblings in a crowd. Her face is not his—her face is simply my daughter’s face, perfect in every way.

Our relationship with our donor has been beautiful. His child and our child are friends, and our daughter knows him as her friend’s dad. Our donor has never once crossed any boundaries or even attempted to cross boundaries, which has been wonderful. His wife is supportive and similarly hands-off. When I see their child, I have a brief moment where I recognize that their child and our daughter are related. I mention that to my wife. She casually says, “Oh, I guess you’re right. That doesn’t really occur to me much.”

Of course, some day we may have to cross that bridge. Our contract allows us to reveal our donor to our child when she turns 18, or earlier with written consent of all three of us: my wife, the donor, and myself. But that is an issue for a later date.

Today, things are more simple and more beautiful than I could have ever imagined. I am pregnant with our daughter’s sibling, conceived with the help of the same donor. Over the course of being Pidge’s mom, I’ve come to realize that genetics mean far less to me than I thought. Still, I am excited about the fact that Pidge and her sibling will be genetically connected—not through their moms, but through the selfless giving of their donor. Their known donor, who we will always be thankful for and love.

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Pidge, after a successful day of painting at preschool

 

 

14 Weeks

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Hello, again. It has been awhile since I have written. I think I have been nervous.

Ever since I saw those two pink lines again, I have been elated and apprehensive. I was so excited to be pregnant again, to have new life growing inside me. At the same time, I was terrified to lose it. Pregnancy suddenly seemed so fragile—a precious gift that could disappear at any moment.

I tried to stay positive. It will work this time. But inside I wasn’t so sure.

Over the next several weeks, I searched my body for signs. Are my breasts still tender? How is my nausea? Are these cramps good or bad? I searched for signs and answers but it was like my own body was a mystery to me.

I sought reassurance from health care professionals. I had ultrasounds and did blood tests. Everything came back normal. There was no reason to fear that this pregnancy might terminate, but still I was afraid.

I am finally starting to breathe a little more. Just over 14 weeks along, we have made it to the second trimester. The risk of miscarriage at this point is less than one percent, and I like those odds. We started telling people we are pregnant, and we are beginning to get excited. Truly excited.

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A few Fridays ago, we went into the doctor’s office where we were able to hear baby’s heartbeat for the first time. Pidge came with us, and was in awe. All night long she kept telling us about how she heard baby sister’s heartbeat in Mom’s “yoo-tus.” It was adorable.

I am pregnant. I am really and truly pregnant.

We are so looking forward to welcoming our rainbow baby next March.

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Happy

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If it’s positive, I told myself, I will keep it a secret and then surprise my wife on June 6, our anniversary.

I placed the cap over the tip of the pregnancy test, setting it down on the counter face-up as the directions on the insert instructed. In the movies they always put it face-down, I thought. I understood why. It seemed safer, less anxiety-producing. Not wanting to compromise accuracy, I placed it face-up. Not wanting the stress, I tucked it behind a picture frame.

I walked out into the kitchen. I picked up Pidge and gave her a little nuzzle. My wife poured us some coffee – mostly decaf, of course. We talked about something, I don’t know what. My mind kept thinking about the test and my eyes kept wandering over to the clock. Three minutes has never felt so long.

My close childhood friend has been trying to get pregnant, too. We both started trying around the same time. Five days ago, I learned that this try worked. She was pregnant. I was ecstatic, but also a little jealous. It happened so quickly for her! Of course, she had a husband and what seemed like infinite opportunities for insemination whereas we only had two tries each month. I worried about how long it would take me. Would our donor get tired of helping us out? My mind was awhirl. The two-week wait between ovulation and when you can learn whether you are pregnant is just awful.

Shortly after I got off the phone with my friend, hopeful and experiencing what seemed like pregnancy signs, I took a test and it was negative. I knew it was an early test, and that sometimes early tests will come back negative even if you are pregnant. I took it after I had been getting mastitis-like symptoms. Given that Pidge has been gradually decreasing the amount she is nursing, this seemed odd. Maybe it means I’m pregnant. . . But no matter how hard I squinted, the test displayed only one pink line, dark and stark in contrast to the white space where the other line could have appeared. I hadn’t told my wife.

I set down my coffee – three minutes were up. I walked back into the bathroom. I was hopeful, but doubtful. The other test was probably right, I thought to myself. I reached back behind the frame.

TWO LINES.

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It was faint, but it was unmistakably there. I could hardly believe my eyes. My hand started to tremble.

Suddenly, all my planning about waiting to tell my wife went out the window. I sprinted into the kitchen, shaking. My wife knew before I could say anything. I beamed, she shrieked. We hugged and held each other. We were overcome with joy.

I took another test, a digital one this time. Pregnant. We could barely contain ourselves.

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My cycle-tracking application gave me the option to switch into pregnancy mode. “You are 4 weeks and 6 days along. Your embryo is currently the size of a red lentil.” The app gave me the option to choose a nickname for my growing baby. While Pidge was developing inside my wife, we called her Sprout. What should we call this one?

I picked up Pidge. “You’re going to be a big sister!” I told her. She smiled. I asked, “What should we call your baby sibling?” She paused and said “hmm,” putting her pointer finger up against her chin like she does when she’s being extra thoughtful. A few moments later she held her little finger up in the air, indicating she had an idea.

“Happy.”

Pidge grinned at me and I grinned back. Happy. It was perfect.

Mother’s Day

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“Good morning, beautiful. Happy Mother’s Day.” My wife gave me a pained smile and hoarsely responded with her own version of the phrase. She was sick. A stomach bug.

I knew the best gift I could give her would be to let her rest, and so began a day focused solely on Pidge and me. Together we cooked breakfast, read books, played with puzzles, danced, sang, baked cupcakes, made videos for my wife (“Happys day Mamaaaa!”), hiked with the dogs and tromped bare-bummed through wet grass. It was exhausting and beautiful; hard work and magic.

It was perfect.

If you don’t have kids, maybe motherhood just comes across as emotional labor and sleepless nights and exhaustion that somehow brews magic but looks like the usual assortment of diaper changes and tantrums. With the advent of blogging and social media, we’re all given the opportunity to peer into other people’s veneers of motherhood, highlight reels depicting sunshine and laughter and toothless smiles. We caption these moments with hard work and magic, because so much of motherhood lies somewhere in between.

I look over at my daughter. She notices my observance and flashes a smile, tilts back her head, and shakes her curls. She pops up to her feet and puts her hands on her knees. She’s waiting for me. Waiting for me to pat-pat-pat my legs or spread my arms wide, both acts an invitation. She squeals with delight and charges toward me. This game repeats and repeats until she inevitably face-plants, tears immediately streaming down her surprised face. I rush to her, scoop her up, and snuggle the tears away. I ask her if she needs an ice pack and she says, “No. Mom, Mom, Mom. Kiss. Snuggle. Mom.” She just needs me.

And in these moments, as I cradle my daughter who somehow seems so big and yet so very small, I realize something. My daughter didn’t just change me into a mom; she changed the way light hits an object. Everything looks different, not just because she exists, but because my own existence is so valuable to her.

Someday she won’t need me like this. Someday I may watch as she runs wide-armed to someone else, or seeks solace or comfort in another. Next weekend we will focus on my wife and her special relationship with Pidge, and I will rejoice with her as we celebrate her Mama. But not last Sunday. Last Sunday it was Pidge and me and hard work and magic and love. Last Sunday it was my Mother’s Day.

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Cycle Day: March

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“This is the time of year that makes Vermonters strong.”

It was one of the first things said to me when my wife and I moved to Vermont in 2012. At the time, we didn’t understand. How could we? At the time, we were still star struck by our new state, in awe of the bare trees, the shadows they cast, the rock formations proudly jutting out of the landscape, and the snow. The pretty white snow blanketing any misgivings we may have had about moving 3,000 miles away from our families.

Today, we know. Even as people who love winter, the snow and the skiing, the coziness of inside, we understand the meaning of that statement uttered to us seven years ago. March is hard. Winter, despite its beauty, is long. It is dark and cold and icy. Our days are predominantly spent inside and our skin longs for the warmth of the summer sun. Unlike many places in March, Vermont is not abloom. Vermont still vacillates between arctic chill and sloshy mud. The wind howls and everything, including much of the snow, is brown. So much brown. Everything is dirty, everyone is inside.

Our first spring with a toddler, this March has been especially tough. She has no place to run or stretch or dance in our little home. She began experiencing slight delays in her gross motor development.

Adding more mud to March, Pidge is having health issues. She began experiencing a phenomenon where her hands and feet and lips would occasionally turn blue, something called cyanosis. Her pediatrician ordered some tests, and the results were frightening. Hypothyroidism. Possible autoimmune disease. Possible Type I diabetes. Blockage in the heart. We held back our tears but stress and fear welled up.

I was trying to get pregnant and my period was eight days late, but every pregnancy test was negative. What was going on? I felt trapped between waiting and pregnancy. Women who are trying to conceive monitor their cycle days. I felt like I was in cycle day March.

But here’s the thing. March is how you look at it.

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Pidge looking out the window at March

Fifteen years ago, I was living with my brother in Northern California. I remember lounging on my back on the living room sofa reading a book, when I looked up and saw the moon perfectly framed in the highest window. It was full and clear and there was even a redwood tree right next to it, like a postcard picture. I pointed it out to my brother, who was in the kitchen.

Look. The moon.

The only trouble was, from where he was the moon was blocked by a big piece of house. There was no moon, no postcard redwood in his view.

But instead of telling me it wasn’t there, he set down the pan he was washing and walked over to me, leaning and tilting his head until he could see my moon in the window.

And I’m thinking about this because I’m thinking about March, and about what a difference a little perspective can make.

Pidge’s cyanosis led us to have her tested at Dartmouth for a whole host of health issues. We are thankful that we are able to get ahead of these issues, and to treat as necessary. And, according to her pediatric endocrinologist and pediatric cardiologist, her prognosis is actually much better than we thought.

After forty days of waiting, I started my period. I am not pregnant. Not this time. But at least the waiting is finally over. My hope is renewed, and I am excited to try again.

Last Sunday, I redecorated a room in our house. If we are going to be stuck inside, I thought, let’s create some space to move. I got rid of bulky furniture and added a big, bright, colorful rug. When Pidge saw it, her eyes instantly brightened. She ran over to her rug and danced.

Maybe March is tough and beautiful. Maybe the snow is tedious and brilliant. Maybe it is making the most of inside time with a dance on a rainbow rug. Maybe it is just a matter of walking into a new room to come see that there really is a moon in the window.

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First Try

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Just relax, I told myself. I looked at my phone to pass the time and to occupy my mind. I was in the bedroom alone, preparing myself for my first insemination.

A week earlier, after my first period since our daughter was born had come and gone, I began tracking my ovulation. Tests and mucus and body temperature—before trying to conceive, I had no idea how complicated all of this stuff is. And we’ve got one shot each month, so we have to get it right. No pressure.

Then Thursday morning it happened. The digital indicator on our ovulation predictor kit showed a smiling face. My heart stopped. Oh my gosh, I thought. It’s time.

We called our donor who, several months prior, had signed a contract with us to facilitate the process. He agreed to come over that evening and the next day as well.

I spent the next eight hours desperately trying to focus on work, but my mind was elsewhere. I wish we had tried yesterday, I thought. I knew from my copious amounts of research that it is better to inseminate prior to ovulation. The smiling face indicated that it was likely I would ovulate in the next 6-48 hours, but that’s all. If it was later, we still had time. If it was earlier, we missed the window.

But I had to stay positive and relaxed. Everyone tells you not to stress, because stress inhibits conception. From experience I can say that this is much easier said than done.

I waited in the bedroom. I heard our donor come in, greet my wife and daughter, and then head to the bathroom. A little while later, I heard the sink run. He walked downstairs and said to my wife, “I left it on the counter. Good luck!”

As he drove away, my wife and daughter came into the bedroom. “Mom!” my 18-month-old exclaimed. “Mom, Mom, Mooommmm.” She shimmied onto the bed and climbed on top of me, rubbing her face against mine. My wife got the sterile cup and syringe ready. I laughed. Trying for number 2 is so different than trying for number 1, I thought. My daughter giggled and played with a tube of Pre-seed.

“Okay, Pidge. Let’s go.” My wife scooped up our daughter. “Bye bye!” our daughter waved cheerfully.

I took a deep breath and held my legs up in the air. My wife leaned down and kissed my cheek. She smiled. I smiled back, full of nerves and hope. “As of right now,” she said, “we officially have a chance.”

 

last night

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Last night was one of those nights. Where a few hours makes your whole day. Where the laughter piles onto laughter filling your whole house with joy. My wife and Pidge came home beautiful. Beautiful like our Christmas lights, bright in their simplicity. Beautiful and brilliant to me. We played and we laughed. I rubbed my face into Pidgie’s neck. Tickle tickle tickle. Her husky voice chuckled back. She smelled like a sunrise. She felt like cake. She flung her buttercream body onto the dog bed, flopping into her best pal. The beagle let out a sigh then nestled in. All’s fair in love and toddlerhood. Pidge let out a yawn. Night night.

My life is such a dream.

What’s Important

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“But you’re so good.” “But you can make so much money here.” “But… this doesn’t make any sense.”

Those were the responses I heard from the partners at my law firm when I told them I’m leaving the legal profession. In a way, they’re right. It doesn’t make sense. And yet somehow it does. Because more than success, more than money, more than anything, what I want is time. I want time with Pidge, time with my wife, time with my family. I want time to write, time to create, time to be me.

I’ve been spending a lot of time recently thinking about who I am and what is important to me. For so many years my identity has been wrapped up in being an attorney. But on August 14, 2017, I became a mother. My whole world changed.

And yet, it didn’t. I was still going to the office each day, still measuring life in 6-minute billable increments, still stressing about malpractice and procedure and the Civil Rules and the (dis)satisfaction of divorcing clients. I would spend time with Pidge on the weekends, or in the early mornings before I went in. At first, when I would leave her in the mornings, she would cry and scream for me, stretching her little arms my direction. Now she just says “bye” and waves. She expects me to leave her each day, and I hate that. When I come home late in the evenings, she’s already melting down. Maybe we’ll have dinner together. Maybe I’ll bathe her. Or maybe I will see her for 15 minutes before she needs to go to bed. I was missing my child. I couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, there was a better way. Maybe I should settle for more.

I’m not sure who said it, but there’s a quote I think about often: “Don’t cling to a mistake just because you spent a long time making it.” I spent a long time becoming a lawyer. I studied and studied and studied and took the LSAT and applied to schools and got in and studied more and stressed and cried and graduated and studied and studied and passed the bar. Phew. Then I went to work. I worked in private firms and for nonprofits and as a public defender and as a solo practitioner and then back to private firm. And to be honest, I’ve not loved any of it. The closest I came to enjoying my career was when I was working as a public defender because I love being in court. But even that was arduous. I worked very long hours for very little pay. It was unsustainable. For me, every way I have practiced law has been unsustainable because it does not sustain me emotionally. I find no joy in sitting in an office by myself, staring at a computer screen answering countless emails. I am simultaneously stressed and bored. I like being in court, but time in court is sparse. I sit and stare at a photo of Pidge I have framed on my desk and my heart yearns for her.

I’m opting out.

I’m choosing what’s most important to me. I’m choosing my family. Today starts the beginning of a new adventure: I’m studying and preparing to become a teacher. While the pay won’t be as good as attorney pay, I am looking forward to having a schedule that is better suited for my family. I am looking forward to being able to exercise creativity. And I know that I will be a damn good teacher. I just will.

But anytime there is a big change like this, excitement is always tempered by fear. And I am afraid. I am afraid of walking away from financial security and from my future as a respected lawyer. However, I look at what that future looks like and I don’t want it. I don’t want to be a partner at a law firm, a business owner. I don’t want to be hustling for the next dollar. I don’t want to be afraid to take time off of work. I want regular hours, summers off, and a pension. I want a lovely, modest life filled with family and love.

It snowed on Friday. Pidge, who is getting over her first illness, toddled over to the window seat and stared at her backyard. She was looking at the same space she has seen every day for 15 months, but today it looked different. It was shimmery and white and fresh with promise. Pidge placed her chubby little hand on the glass, knuckles dimpling in that adorable way that they do. That’s my world too, little one. The same, but different. The same, but new. Let’s build a snowman. Let’s eat the snow. Let’s put on our boots and our mittens and our hats and do anything we want. Let’s do it together.

Together.

That’s what’s important.

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Hello, again.

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Busy is an understatement.

Between work and home and baby (now, toddler!) everything is a blur. Days splash into days and tumble into nights that crash like waves. A series of nurse, sleep, comfort, nurse, wake up, snuggle, nurse, nurse, nurse. I’m tired.

That is not to say that it has not been wonderful. Outrageously wonderful.

I’ve been meaning to write about how wonderful it has been. In fact, part of the reason that I have not posted is because I kept meaning to write about my beautiful first Mother’s Day and I couldn’t bring myself to post anything until I had posted about that glorious day. We lounged in bed, open gifts, ate brunch, and then lazed outside, blowing bubbles and adorning our daughter’s hair with dandelion halos.

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It was perfect, and I meant to write about it, but I didn’t. Then I meant to write about other things, and I didn’t. And I grew tired.

Here’s to getting back on track, despite being tired. Here’s to the world’s best Baby (who from now on I will refer to as Pidge, her nickname). Here’s to sleep deprivation for all the right reasons, and here’s to hoping better sleep comes soon.

Here’s to the renewed commitment to blog, and to tell you about all of the outrageously wonderful things that have happened and that are happening in my tiny one-year-old’s world.

Dear Baby

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Dear Baby,

Let me start by saying that you are my world. My sun rises and sets with you. You bring me such joy. Because I am working full-time, I don’t get to spend as much time with you as I’d like, but when I do, it’s so sweet.

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I love waking up next to you each morning. You usually wake me up to nurse shortly before my alarm goes off at 5:30 AM. You make a little searching noise and I know that it’s me you want. I roll on my side and you nurse. Sometimes you coo and grunt while you’re nursing. I feel your tiny little legs kick, kick, kick me under the sheets. Not hard, but rather it’s as if your body is saying, “Oh, yeah. That’s the good stuff.”

I hear the buzzing of my alarm and I roll out of bed, careful not to wake you. I go through my daily routine — turn on the heat, start the coffee, put away the dishes, clean the cat litter, shower, pump. I wait for you to come down.

I hear footsteps on the stairs and know that it’s Mama. You’re in her arms, bright as a shiny new penny. You look at me with your open little face. Sometimes you give me a big smile. Other times you’re sleepier, staring at me glassy-eyed. Your mama hands you over to me and I melt. We snuggle for a bit and then I put you on your little potty to do your business. You baby-talk and bounce. We tie up your footie jammies in the back and it looks like your donning butterfly wings.

Then we play. We sit together on your rug and play with your book, your stacker, or any other toy. Sometimes you just roll around. I smile and stare into your perfect face, telling you over and over again how much I love you. Sometimes I cry when I have to go to work. Leaving you is really hard.

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But you are there, in my office. Your face adorns my walls and your smile is framed on my desk.

At 5:30 PM, I rush home to be with you. Mama is usually cooking dinner and you’re hanging out in your swing or on your play mat on the floor. Sometimes you give me a big smile but usually you just look up at me like, “Oh, it’s you. You’re supposed to be here.”

I scoop you up and we go upstairs so that I can change out of my work clothes. You sit on the bed and watch me. Once I’ve changed, I bound on the bed. You giggle. I kiss you all over and blow on your tummy. You squeal with delight. I kiss underneath your chin and you chuckle, “heh-heh-heh.” You smile so big that I can see all of your gums and the two small teeth you have on the bottom. After we’ve played, you nurse.

We eat together. I love watching you try out new foods. So far you’re a lot like me — you like things that are saucy. You like to suck the sauce out of broccoli. You like scooping up noodles or rice and slurping out the sauce. You’ve been surprisingly adventurous about spice, but if something is too spicy, you’ll hold your arms straight out to the side and shriek. You’re very good about communicating how you feel about things.

Most nights, we give you a bath before bed. You used to bathe with me but now you’re big enough to sit up in the tub on your own. You splash and play in the water. You like playing with a ping pong ball and with a cup. You watch that ball and you follow its movements in the water. Then you reach hard and grab it, so proud of yourself.

We head upstairs for bed. Mama has gotten everything ready, from your diaper to the sound effects to the twinkly rainbow lights above your bed. I tuck you in and you instinctively roll toward me. We nurse and snuggle and eventually you fall asleep. I kiss your little head and whisper softly, “Sweet dreams, my precious one.”

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