I’m a thirty-nine year old woman who wants a baby.
And to prove this, I’m going to detail everything I’ve been going through in order to try to have one.
Well, everything but the sex. That’s none of your damned business.
I live in Brooklyn. No, I don’t think it’s the coolest place ever. I moved here for love, (well, that and the fantastic IVF clinics on every fuckin’ street corner in Manhattan). Ok, maybe it was the union job that’s paying (well, mostly) for this in vitro craziness had something to do with it, too. Yay New York.
But I’m a country girl living with a city boy – goat farmer meets bond trader. No really. He writes books now, and gets them published. I write and don’t get published. In my not-at-home life I’m a teen librarian in Queens. He’s got grown daughters. I have a dog – Nellie-the-wonder-whippet. We’re still working on the picket fence. And the, uh, baby.
Which has proven more difficult than either of us anticipated. Just finished IVF #3 – which gave us nothin’ – after a miscarriage resulting from IVF #1 & and an ectopic pregnancy/miscarriage resulting from IVF #2. Um, I seem to be pregnant. A spontaneous pregnancy while waiting to start my first Frozen Embryo Transfer. Everything’s going just fine. Naturally, I’m convinced it’s about to go to hell, because that’s who I am.
Going to go pet my dog now.