A New life

I gave birth to a most beautiful baby boy a short while ago. He’s healthy and everything I could’ve ever hoped for. The pregnancy was hard on me and I was put to bed rest for the last months so that he wouldn’t come too early. The labour was over 24 hours long all together but I still pushed him to the world myself. I got to feel it too because of the medication wearing off right before. There were a couple of scares during the labour and it almost went to a c-section because his heartbeat was too low. I am thankful beyond any thanking to the medical team, the midwives and the doctors who helped me give birth to a healthy child. All the fear and pain were worth it when I first got to hold him. All the years of sadness and worry were worth it.

I can’t believe that he’s real, he’s here and he’s mine. When I breastfeed him in my arms I can’t help but wonder in amazement that we created him. There’s parts of me there, parts of Wonderboy. I thought I wouldn’t get to see myself in him; I was prepared to have a child who wouldn’t be genetically mine. It was hard to get used to the idea during pregnancy, but it isn’t’ anymore. He’s himself, so tiny, so frail, so wonderful and curious about the world.

It’s only been a little while since the baby was born but we’ve already started to look for the thing that brought us both so much joy when we had very little of it. First sexual experiences after the biggest change in a woman’s life and body have been scary and yet I’ve been supported by Wonderboy through all this. Finally it doesn’t have to be a place to hide in from all the grief, it can be a place of discovery again.

I wanted to come back here and tell everyone who might still be reading and wondering what happened to us. We got everything we want now. This story really has a happy ending.

A Miracle

I’m pregnant. I’m almost four months along now and starting to believe it. By starting to I mean that I don’t check the toilet paper for blood every time I go, just every other time. Also, I’m becoming huge. Surprisingly none of this has been a problem for Wonderboy. You should see him. He’s so happy all the time it’s impossible to remember what he used to be like. And he can’t go more than a couple of minutes without groping my huge boobs. I’ve already upgraded a cup and I fear I’ll have to upgrade my winter coat and every clothing I have in no more than a month.

I am happy. It’s been so much easier to negotiate sexual things even though I’ve barely been able to share any with Wonderboy in these passed months. There’s such a sense of fulfillment. It’s not only in my body, although it most definitely is in my body, it’s also in our relationship and in my relationship with the world at large. I’ve fulfilled this potential I had, this demand I faced within myself. Sex can finally be lifted out of the hole of having anything to do with infertility and it can start to be itself again. It has surprised me how much happiness the news brings to people close to me, even people I don’t know that well. Especially women. They don’t know about our struggles but yet they tear up, want to hug me and make sure I’m okay. This makes me believe even more that there’s something deeply engraved in us, that it wasn’t just me with the pain, that it’s in us (most of us anyway). The desire to be fulfilled and fulfill the potential like this as a miracle worker.

It’s quite disillusioning, being pregnant. Seeing that little critter spasm inside my uterus didn’t exactly bond me with it. Nor did the fact that I learned that it doesn’t have brains yet and that’s why it moves like that or that it’s entrails aren’t even inside its body. Still, everything is like it’s supposed to be. It’s healthy, it’s growing, it’s going to be our child. And seeing it was important. It made the fact real that it’s a another person, not just my ever changing body.

I’m guessing you’d like to know what happened? How did we conceive finally after almost four years?

Our money was running out. We’d had to move onto a private clinic because of the treatments I needed. This was the third IVF at the clinic, our fifth all together. I’d had to stop taking the hormones that helped me produce more and more viable eggs, because they gave me pretty severe cardiac dysrhythmia. In the end I also started to suffer from breathing problems during the treatments. My throat kept closing up and sometimes I would wake up startled and try to catch my breath sitting down. It was pretty clear that my body wasn’t handling the treatments well anymore and it was endangering my health.

After the first try after the help of the hormones, with the starting pregnancy with the twins that twindled so early on, on fourth to sixth week like all the eight other pregnancies, we decided that it wasn’t worth putting my health at risk. What was wrong even the doctor couldn’t guess. The embryos were perfect. My uterus, the hormones, everything was perfect. Except the result. We decided that we would make one last attempt and then settle in on the donor program to get eggs from someone else.

To my doctors (positive) dismay I already had three donors lined up, because my little sister and my friends love me to death and I will never forget what they promised me and how they changed my life when they did. Everyone just wanted for us to have a child. Everyone wanted us to be happy.

But we still had that last chance. And since it was the last chance I begged the doctor, like I’d asked a number of times before, if we could try the cortisone treatment. I’ve had a lot of time to read in these 3,5 years and I’ve read a lot of research. If I had an immunological decease, like the celiac decease, my body could be attacking the embryo thinking it was a virus. And the only thing that would help with that is cortisone. They didn’t find any antibodies in my blood to suggest I had celiac decease, but our first doctor had put me on gluten free diet anyway. And it had helped. It changed my body shape because I lost so much weight. It changed my bodily functions, my activity levels, pretty much everything for better. But they couldn’t find the antibodies in my blood, so they wouldn’t put me on cortisone with the IVF treatment. The doctor finally caved. Since this is the last try, she said.

I started the cortisone straight away since the treatment was right around the corner. When we started with the injections I already felt the difference. It didn’t hurt. My ovaries didn’t burn, I couldn’t really feel anything while the eggs were growing but some mild discomfort. I knew straight away that this was it. I knew that we had found the answer and that this was what I was supposed to feel all those other times. Even the doctor was intrigued when I told her about the pains not being there this time.

We got fewer eggs than the last time and like last time none of them were considered ripe. The doctor had noticed that all our viable embryos had sprung from the raw eggs and from the ones they didn’t use ICSI for. So it turns out that Wonderboy’s sperm was actually doing its job best when it was left to fend for itself like it’s supposed to. So we chose to put them all on the petri dish and hope for the best since there weren’t many eggs to begin with. There were six when we left the clinic.

And when I went to see the doctor a couple of days later there was only one that had developed normally to eight cells. Only eight little cells put together! How could that ever grow into a child? Its inner workings weren’t perfect so they couldn’t do assisted hatching like we had talked, but they had added this embryo glue to help it attach. And in it went.

The excruciating pains started four days later when it was supposed to attach and I knew of course what was happening. But it was like all those eight other times. I was just more in pain than before and the pains didn’t subside. I spent the weekend under a duvet with a painkiller and a hot water bottle. After that I got used to waking up every night at 0.30 am and 3-4 am to pains that the painkillers I was allowed to take weren’t really combating very well. And I became pretty hopeful. Since the pains were continuous, they weren’t fading like before, they were getting more strength.

And then one thursday morning I did the pregnancy test. It was the fourteenth day after conceiving in the lab and I was due to take a blood test the 18th in the clinic. I had barely had time to put the stick down when it brightened with two crossing lines. No doubt, I was pregnant. But doubt there was… so much doubt and fear. Wonderboy wouldn’t believe it until we saw what the blood works would say. On monday I went to the clinic and later that day I called for the results. With the twins my hcg levels had tipped a bit to 6-8 hcg. I knew that it was supposed to be 280 by now and I was scared. But there was no need. It was over 800. I was most definitely pregnant.

I went to the first ultrasound on week 5 and we already saw the heartbeat. Then we went together at the end of 6th week and it had grown to twice its size. Everything was good. Everything was normal.

And every night I woke up twice to the excruciating pain that even my doctor was a bit concerned about. But I wasn’t. If I had felt pains the eight times we conceived before, it was only natural that this would hurt even more. Because this time it had worked.

I haven’t had a lot time to process this. I haven’t had a lot of time to be happy. I’ve been so sick, the pains have been at times unbelievable and I have suffered from near continuous migraine for the first time in my life. This is the first time I am able to write anything this long without puking or having to go into a dark room to lie down. This is the second week there has been some normal days. Yesterday was the start of the week 15 of the pregnancy, and it was the first day I didn’t suffer from anything until late at night.

It must be self-evident that I don’t care. I don’t care. We will probably only ever have this one child. And it will be so loved, it is so loved already. We have fought this battle together and we have conquered. Everything is better now. I didn’t think it would be, but it is. Everything is easier, well, except moving and maybe sex. And even that doesn’t matter so much anymore. We have had to learn to wait, to be patient, to tread lightly with sexy things. But we have had ample time to learn the skills to do that: negotiate, be frank and unassuming when it comes to sexual acts.

Last time I said I didn’t want him to hit me or strangle me at all. There was a pause, he was scared and uneasy, because he had noticed that my responses were different and didn’t know what he could do now. We cuddled and talked and then started again. And when his hand went gently on my throat when we were getting close it wasn’t enough for me. I pushed his hand to grip more tightly. Because he had listened to me and I had spoken to him, I could do that. I could ask for it.

There were some droplets of blood, and even though our nurse had said after the first ultrasound and my freaking out on some blood that it was perfectly normal, I asked that we’d not have intercourse again. The blood was too scary. It’s not worth it. I don’t know if we will or won’t, if I change my mind. But I know it will be different. It will all be different. And it will all be the same, too.

It Gets Better

I’m sure this comes as a surprise to no one. I decided a long time ago that I wouldn’t be writing a farewell post, if I somehow found myself in a situation where I wanted to stop blogging. But here I am writing it.

I needed this so bad when I started out. I needed the outlet, a place to hash out things and the connection with other people who had gone trough something similar. And I just don’t anymore. I am really happy with who I am and what I desire.

I’ve met wonderful, intelligent people through blogging here. I’ve gotten advice in difficult situations, and I’ve been offered help and consolation that has made my life better. You have been invaluable to me while I fought my way through the dark underside of my desire.

I will always remember that. And I wouldn’t change a thing.

If it seems I’ve given up on anything I’ve brought up here, I haven’t. We have been experimenting with new things and found new ways to pleasure each other. All of this we’ve done even though I’ve been through hell with the infertility treatments. But I can say without a doubt that I wouldn’t be this happy, if we didn’t share a sexuality like this. Even the infertility would be harder to deal with without this outlet, this journey with Wonderboy.

I suspect that I will never be ready. We have so much to learn and so much to find. But I’ve learned that all that matters is that we are able to communicate with each other. That there doesn’t have to be a magic trick that would make everything right. I am so much in love and so happy with my Wonderboy. He did things to me today that I need, that he needs, things that make us love each other even more. I don’t have to get the approval of the world for this. The world doesn’t get to decide what I can and cannot enjoy in my healthy adult relationship.

But I still want to speak up so that there wouldn’t be little girls like the one I was. I want to show the world what I am made of, how wanting to be hurt and dominated can be healthy and make a person happy. And I want to show how any desire or sexuality a woman has can not be un-feminist. I want girls who are like me to grow up listening to their desires and not hiding them.

It does get better. I was so lost but now it’s almost hard to remember why this desire was so scary, embarrassing and wrong. It’s not. There are just a lot of people out there saying it is. It’s healthy and good for you, and trying to hide it can make you really unhappy, can leave scars that you really don’t need. I want to be one of the people saying it out loud. No one needs to go through with it alone.

Now, all that’s left to do here is to say goodbye.

I will leave this blog here and go into the world. That’s where I was meant to be all along.

I love you and I’ll miss you.

A Changing Sexuality – Eye for Men

I had a dream. I was standing alone with a police man. I don’t think he was dressed in an uniform, but I can’t be certain anymore. He was a man build like a bull, big, fit, very muscular and had a hair the color of straw. I wanted him. Somehow because he was so big, I wanted him even more. I never used to like men like him. I picked my men from a narrow pool of wuthering hights and showing rib cages. Men who worked out with me, those with arms as wide as my thighs, bulging muscles and clenched jaws, never had my attention.

Until now.

I notice every bouncer who isn’t butt ugly. I look after the working men coming to have lunch in the near by restaurant. I shamelessly eye the very young men in the parks throwing frisbee without their shirts on.

I was left speechless when there was a new cashier in the grocery store near us. He was beautiful, arabic features and coloring, but spoke our language as a native. He looked into my eyes a while too long when giving me the receipt and I was struck by a lighting. What a beautiful man.

But when I see a really big guy, who has been working out. When I did my workout near a guy who lifted 170 kg just like that. I smiled at him, I smiled so wide. I want to touch men like him. I want to be under them. I want them to take me. And him, as any other decent man, smiled at me and was polite, wonderful. Cheerful even.

In the dream there had been a crime: a rape I think. We were talking about a woman going to a car with a stranger with the police man, not a nice one, not a one you could trust. A brick wall of justice and menace at the same time. Like a superhero gone bad.

You know how that’ll end up, he said.

Yeah, I said.

She’ll get raped, he added or then we both just knew what he meant.

But he meant more than that. He was propositioning me. His car was just around the corner, and I could just walk there with him. He was promising me he would rape me if I did.

I took a hold of his hand. I wanted him to ravage me. I remembered I was married. I knew I shouldn’t, and I had to stop for a second, to try to convince myself not to do it. But I took him up on his offer and called his bluff. Well, what are you gonna do now?

His hand was bigger than mine and wide and warm. He guided me, not to his car, but to a huge warehouse with sheet metal covered walls and hallowed halls filled with car parts and wooden crates.

When we got in I saw a woman dangling from the ceiling by a harness farther inside. She had wings and a huge black dildo in a harness at her crotch. I mean huge, the thing was down to her knees, shiny and bouncing as she swung on the harness back and forth. Her face was hidden in a glittery and feathery mask.

The man was now more a bull than a police. He grabbed me and started to hump me from behind before I could touch him. I suddenly knew that he wouldn’t give me the satisfaction of his own cock, that he had a mechanic cock pushed between my thighs. He pushed me down on a bed and came on top of me. I could see his square jaw, his broad neck and his blond hair. He was so not like my Wonderboy. And I craved it.

Suddenly his humping and desire came to a halt. He clutched me into his arms rough and panted in my ear.

The lady in the harness came down, took the mask of and was at the door before I could realize what was happening. She had a giant tube like gym back and was dressed in gym clothes, not so scary anymore.

Men, they are all like that. What a pity, she said like we were accomplishes in a mutual scene.

It took me a while to realize that she was referring to the guy. He had come too soon, all over my clothes.

I woke up not horny but craving the physical overpowering of a strong, big bodybuilder like my police. The dream made me smile through the day. I daydreamed about it. But it is so like me. Even in my dreams I don’t get the pay-off of cheating. I get realism.

As I’m growing older I seem to notice my horizon on sexy changing, widening. I like that. I can appreciate bodies I would’ve felt were unattractive before. And it seems to me to be somehow very symbolic that I’d mostly desire after the big, masculine men. They have after all, the age old marks of high testosterone levels – bulls for my ever needy womb.

I doubt it’s as straightforward as that, but I believe that’s one of the reasons. And I don’t mind. As long as I can admire from a safe distance. As long as I can dream.

Radical Acceptance

It occurred to me today as I was making my way home from another part of the country. I sat on the bus, excited, my stomach fluttering with anxiety. I was looking forward to meeting Wonderboy again after just three days. And I was giddy as a school girl.

I don’t want to be tied down. I want to be tied together. 

That’s what I thought. It puts together what I’ve been feeling. How I’ve been feeling about this thing we do. It’s not so separate anymore. It’s not just sex or just anything. It’s a part of who I am. What is between us is love and a relationship that can fulfill us both in a way we need it to. I don’t really have any qualms with it anymore.

I expect to grow old with Wonderboy. I see it happening already, the receding hairline, the changes of skin, the aches and the problems we didn’t have even five years ago. With a sexual relationship like this, with a desire like this I see a way to the future as fulfilling, or even more, than now. There’s so much to explore and every step always takes a step or two back.

It’s never ready, there can never be perfect certainty. We change and the relationship must do so too. We have learned how to communicate, and this blog, all of the friends out there reading and commenting and writing experiences of your own have helped me learn to speak. But I’m not done learning and I doubt I ever will be. It’s exciting. I doubt that will ever change either.

I will always feel butterflies in my stomach when I make my way back home. Because it’s scary. Love. Not being ready. Having to learn everything all over again, every time. And that’s what makes all this worth it.

Just A Word

It happened when I wasn’t looking. I wasn’t paying attention. Suddenly I realized I used words that I never had before. And I meant them. I said them again, to test if they would keep their meaning.

You’re the love of my life, I said to Wonderboy. Something had changed, I think, irrevocably. Our relationship feels different to me. It feels solid. I have no doubts. I will be with him. He’s the one for me. 

Can you guess how he replied? 

Oh come ooon! he said, bashfully. Such huge words that he hid his face.

I wonder what he thinks? I wonder if he wonders how it would be with someone else. Can he believe that this is it, I’m the one? I don’t know. But I don’t have to know that. I only need to know what I feel. And I know now! Funny how this kind of a thing can surprise you after being together over 5 years. The love of my life. It started as so small, so… normal. Everything was so difficult for the longest time, because of our pasts, because of the draw to play with power and sex. It’s not so hard anymore.

Would you like to take charge of what I eat again? I asked when he commented on what I ate the other day.

Yes, he answered solemnly. 

And now he does again, for most of the time. He says what he expects of me but I’m in charge of deciding on the smaller scale what will be good for me.

We’ve been to the gym twice this week, together. I can’t even begin to describe how happy that makes me. Silly me. Silly love. 

When we were walking back home the other day I commented on my sweaty clothes  – sneakers and tights – making me uncomfortable and he said: I love you all sporty like that. You’re a dream come trough. 

Imagine all the hard labour of putting on makeup and grooming myself when all the while he actually likes me all sweaty and red faced after a workout. And I do understand him now. I like him like that too. I like to know that he’s doing his best to stay healthy and beautiful and strong, and I love that he’s doing it with me. It makes me feel connected to him that we share meaningful goals like that – and the hobby itself. I want to be strong and beautiful and healthy for him when we’re 60, too. That’s what this is. This is no short span thing. This is true love. 

Guilty As Charged

I’m beginning to realize that every time I get angry… I actually feel guilty. I’m angry right now. A coworker insinuated that I’m bailing out on work because of other freelance stuff I have going on. I know that she was trying to make me feel guilty: she even did the classic “Well, I wouldn’t get stuff done either if I would do X, W and Z”. At the time I took it with a grain of salt. But it bugs me still.

Why does it bug me?

Here’s what I gathered while running wildly in the woods (jogging on the tracks near the river):

• I feel guilty that I have more than one job. I know that I don’t always give 120% the way I’m used to  at work since I got to save up some juices for the freelance things I’ve got going that are really important to me. But I also know that most people never give their 100% at work. I’m very efficient and passionate with what I do. If only I could stop feeling guilty or like I owe others something.
• I have been unable to do my best at all times and sometimes even failed being present at work because of the treatments. I know I’m doing my best, but since I also know that at my best I’m way better this bugs me to no end.
• There had been no one doing what I’m doing now for quite some time when I got the job so there’s zero continuity, there are no plans for whatever might come, no strategy and I’m swamped up to my ears trying to build everything from ground up. People at work are like “but we had X, W and Z when s/he was here” and they don’t realize nothing is saved and so the work needs to be done again or that systems have changed so drastically that everything needs to be done again because of that.
• I am very, very good at most of the things I do in my line of work. (There are some things that I’m fairly poor at, but they are up to 3% of my workload.) I mean, I fucking rule most of the time. I am also very, very, very particular about the way I want things done, and mostly what has been done earlier doesn’t meet my standards by a long shot. So now I feel like they look at me like I’m the  one who takes a month to do things that used to be done in a week, but they don’t realize the difference in class and strategy. Also I have already started to lower my standards, because no one can keep up with the demands I get unless they settle on doing nothing else for the rest of their lives… or doing it with a slightly lighter hand. I feel immensely guilty for this.
• I tend to feel that I’m not doing enough. I guess that’s part of my upbringing (I had to prove my worth to be loved) and part of my feeling of self-worth (I still have to prove myself in order to be worth loving in my own opinion). I’m fighting the old habits, but I guess they die hard.

So, I’m angry because she struck a chord. I’m angry at her for trying to guilt-trip me. I’m angry at myself that I am unable to do everything perfectly. I am angry at myself that I need time for myself, too, which is CRAZY. And I’m angry that she has to keep bringing this up like I’m doing some kind of a huge betrayal when in all honesty I’m not the only one who has a life beyond those walls. But I guess no one will ever thank anyone for being a success and working for it. People seem to be jealous for success that in their minds was just a blind coincidence when it never is. My freelance stuff keeps me away from work as much as someone’s kids do when they get sick.  This is a contract we have and I am not paid for those times… unlike my colleagues with kids who are. But I’m being punished for it.

Try to do everything and people will hate you for not being able to do the same themselves. And what I’m thinking? That many in my place would’ve been on sick leave way longer because of the treatments… But I’m handling more jobs than one and still being guilt-tripped about it. BAH. I just wanted to do my job well. All of them.

Just A Little Play With Daddy

It might be hard to believe but tonight I called him daddy. It’s obviously been a while since we fucked, even a longer while still when he tied me to the upper cupboards with rope and fucked me from behind after beating me. I was standing still on very, very high red heels. At least I was until my knees buckled. It didn’t take very long for him to come, and the experience that I’d been praying for for so long didn’t leave my mind after it was over, either.

Tonight was the night. I’d had a huge success at work which was in no way dimmed by the fact that it felt like I miscarried yesterday. Today I was more than fine, I was in epic condition. I’d like for someone to make some sort of a research on women going through miscarriages. I bet I’m not the only one who picks up right after, harder than ever, because it’s easier than to stay still. Everything is easier than staying still.

After Wonderboy had eaten I danced in to the bedroom, and quirkily poked my head into the living room where he was sitting. I just hummed and smiled to him and went to bed. He got the hint so quickly I didn’t have to say anything. He undressed at the foot of the bed, but didn’t lie down.

I have to go to the bathroom first, he said.

I heard the shower and I knew it was business time. 

We started with cuddling and kissing, caressing hair, cheeks, kissing the neck, the lips, the nose, the forehead. But it didn’t quite escalate. He pulled me on top of him, the thing he does when he’s feeling uncertain and vulnerable.

What you wanna do now? I asked.

What do you want to to do? he asked me back.

I paused to think. There were certain ideas flying in my head, teasing my skin already.

I want you to dominate me. I paused for a moment still, looking into his eyes. If you feel like it.

And he did. But of course he didn’t show it to me yet. Finally when he pulled me from my hair and held my nipple in a torturous pinch he said,

I’m going to dominate you now.

Yes.

He let his hand wander down my neck and the other down my throat. Suddenly I realized I was held captive and choked gently but firmly between his hands. I was all his to keep and to play with.

And I don’t care what you feel. I’m going to use you.

He did things to me then that made me move away in shock, but I couldn’t. He was holding me by the hair.

Lick my cock, you slut, he ordered, but I didn’t just lick it. I deepthroated it. He had to position me again on all fours to get his cock in more, deeper, and he did. I let the saliva and precum flow past my lips into his hairs on his cock and on the sheets.

That feels so good, so damn good, he murmured over and over again until he had to lift my head from the hair hastily so as not to come already.

He tossed me away rolling right on top of me seamlessly.

That was really hot, he said. I was really turned on by that, he said all the while sliding his slick cock against my pussy.

He pushed his cock inside. It hurt a bit and I said ouch, but he didn’t care. He kept pounding me, straight away with vigor. That was all I needed. I grinded my face against the spiky stubble of his cheeks. He voiced his pleasure. He hit me in the face a couple times more startling me than delivering pain.

Call me daddy, he said suddenly while holding my wrists.

I have never played into it like that. I have never given up on myself like that. But I did now.

Oh daddy, I love the way that feels like, my voice was cut in peaces because of his pounding. Then my voice was lost to lost and to emotions, then it came back again.

Daddy, please touch my tits, please daddy. Daddy please don’t, oh daddy, oh, oh, oh…

It felt so good to freely commit to it for once. To admit it turned us both on so much. There was finally no voyer inside me looking over my shoulder and analyzing what he was feeling. There were no fucks given to what if he’s secretly laughing at me. And he wasn’t. And we both came so loud and so intensely – not at the same time though – that it was very clear what we need. Just a little dominating. Just a little submission. Just a little play.

Tears

A lot of crying going on here today. I had to leave work straight when I got there, because the cramps were so painful I almost didn’t manage to get out of the bathroom. This is, I think, the first time that I’m setting this up like this within myself: why can’t I carry his child? Why can’t I give him a baby? Wonderboy’s been so unhappy this past few days that it has made me unhappy too. I’ve never seen him like this. And I can’t change a thing. And I’m hurting.

Carrot Soap

Another one of those possibly pregnant weeks of my life has just ended. What a relief. My period was over a week late today, so I called the clinic. They don’t know yet, if they can still treat us before the summer holidays or not. We’ll have to wait and see when my next period will start. I hate that everything is decided by my body. You’ve all heard about the dichotomy between body and soul, mind and matter? Well, this so makes it official. How can I grow better follicles or bleed more quickly? I can’t. I can’t change the body I got and I can’t really help the hormones either.

They gave me this youth hormone, DHEA. It’s not even considered a real drug, if you live outside Europe, but here it’s a prescribed drug that I was fortunate enough to be given. Our doctor is trying to get better follicles out of me, if she can. I hope and then I despair. It’s hard to believe that it could happen, and still I mostly do.

It’s really hard to see my coworker’s rounding belly. Almost even harder, because I know they were in treatment too. It worked for them. So, we’re in a smaller and smaller minority. Will we soon be in the minority that gives up, childless? I hope not.

My little sister will be donating her follicles to my big sister in the Fall. It’s arranged and everything. There’s a small chance that she’d donate to us at the same time. That’s why I want to do this now. I don’t want to wait forever. I can’t.

It’s devastating to think the child wouldn’t be mine biologically. But when I dreamed about having children, when I made the plans, I was working under the mass illusion we have in our civilization that children pop up wanted or not and it’s almost impossible to stop that. So, obviously after a lifetime of laboring under that sort of illusion it’s hard to steer my mind in to a new kind of tomorrow. One were social parenting becomes as meaningful as biological. One where love isn’t only romantic, but also between siblings.

True love conquers all. Yeah, I’m beginning to see what they meant by that. If my sister and my husband can give us a child, I am forever in debt. To love.

I am crying again. But isn’t it beautiful? Can you imagine a better way to express your love? I know I can’t. I am so loved, and now I finally feel that I deserve it. And I will shine it all back to everyone. That’s the way love works.

This childless life is so hard, Wonderboy said yesterday. He was in the dark of the bedroom, alone, just lying in bed looking at the window with closed curtains. Everything is all sad. Nothing makes us happy. 

A lot makes us happy! Look, I made a funny face. Look, look here, I am caressing you, hugging you, tangling into you and kissing you and – oh sorry – crying in your ear.

When we don’t have any little babies just toddling around here, I answered and he looked even sadder, if possible.

He wants to have children with me. He is sad that we don’t have them. He’s scared that we won’t have them. It broke my heart a little bit. I want to give him babies. My body and soul are agreed on that. He even fantasized one day, out loud:

I could be a stay at home dad. I could take the babies into the park and play to them.

He has never talked like that before. He has never made plans or even been at all interested about the babies, just the trying. I can see it, now, in my mind and I can’t shake it off. My Wonderboy sitting near the sandbox with all the other mommies and with our Wonderchild. How lovingly he would take care of our child. He will be a great dad. And he will let me be who i am: very attached to my work, so worry passionate about it.

Doesn’t it break your heart too?

That’s why… I bought handmade soup today. Two different hues: avocado&olives and carrot. How could anyone stay unhappy, when they wash themselves with carrot soap? Obviously they can’t. I have the answer to everything. I am the master of this body. Which will soon, very soon, smell like a carrot.