The moment life changed

Read Time: 6 mins

“I better not be right.” I stuck the toothbrush back in my mouth and continued, “Ish yu foll prehenant furst tyme, I wheel not be happee.”

“What?” Christine called from the shower, “I can’t hear you over the sound of the water.”

I spat out the toothpaste and tried again. “I said, if you fall pregnant the first time, I will not be happy.”

The tap squeaked shut and Christine stepped into the bathroom in a cloud of steam.

“Pass me a towel,” she ordered. I obeyed. “How many times do I have to tell you that it NEVER works first time?” 

“I mean if it was never then surely there would be no unwanted pregnancies?” She shot me a sideways glance as she dried herself off. It was of the exasperated variety. “I mean, it must sometimes work first time and, to be honest, if it does work first time I might panic.”

“I think you’re already panicking.” She said.

“Yes, well, I’m not sure I’m dad material.”

“Emma, you’re going to be a mum.”

“Gosh, I’m definitely not mum material.”

“What are you then?!” She asked sarcastically.

“At best,” I paused to think, “the drunk uncle who makes inappropriate comments at Christmas dinner.”

The process of becoming parents, as a lesbian couple, is a complex one. The journey started on our second date when, quite bluntly, Christine asked:

“So, do you want kids?” I tried to seem cool about the question but Coca Cola came out of my nose. We had been sitting on the floor of my studio for less than 10 minutes when she asked.

“Umm,” I snorted it back up. Feeling honesty was probably the best policy, my words came out in a bit of a jumble. “I, uh, well, I don’t know. I think I do but over the years I’ve convinced myself that I don’t.”

She sat in silence contemplating my answer. 

“See,” she started slowly “I want kids. And I won’t waste my time with someone who doesn’t.”

“I understand” I paused, “I just got out of a long relationship where my ex didn’t… and I think I need time to revisit how I feel about having children.”

“I can work with that.”

Our relationship took off quickly and as I started to feel safer in this new relationship, I began daydreaming of having a coo-ing baby on my lap and of teaching a toddler how to annoy its other-mother. The only real and serious debate was about the timeline. In an ideal world I would have waited 5 years but I have no desire to carry and Christine was already 34. We couldn’t agree on when because, in my world, as we would have to go through a fertility clinic anyway then what was the rush? But she felt the clock ticking on her dreams. 

It took no small effort on her part to get the notion of time into my thick skull. When I would think of having a child, I would think of it being there the next day and turning my life completely upside down.

I did not think that it actually involved: Finding out how do two women go about getting a baby, finding a donor, wait times for tests and clinics and such, various meetings at the clinic, all the legal hoops you must jump through as a same sex couple, the fact that getting married makes claiming your own children easier, the time to try, and the time to be pregnant - among many other hurdles. 

So, today was a big day, all of the above was - sort of - sorted and we were off to the clinic for our first month of trying. I was hesitant. Christine had been struggling with chronic stress for a while and we were renovating the house. A baby, I thought, would not be convenient right now. 

A few days prior, we had discussed whether or not to try. This was the first month that we could and it was exciting that after 9 months (the irony was not lost on me) we could finally start. Both of us were on the fence but in the end we agreed to give it a shot to at least see how the procedure worked. After all, it would take some months of trying.

After peeing on a stick and delightedly showing me the urine stained smiley face indicating that she was ovulating, Christine called the clinic and they booked us in for our first insemination appointment the next day. We drove to Limburg. The car was full of a restless energy akin, I suspect, to that of those who are about to go skydiving for the first time. In this case, while the result might be less terrifying, it would be longer lasting.

I always found the colour of our clinics seats intriguing. Red and pink is not a natural colour combo. As we sat in the waiting area, surrounded by many angry looking lesbians and lots of single women and their mums, I couldn’t help but wonder if the colours were meant to make you think of one’s lady parts. Possibly even a certain time of the month that everyone in the waiting room was hoping to avoid. 

“Can you sit still?” Christine was calmly flicking through a magazine next to me.

“I’ve never been able to.” I said.

“It was rhetorical.” She smiled at me. I grimaced back. Placing her hand on my bobbing knee, she said, “it never works the first time.”

I exhaled. I couldn’t really work out whether I was nervous or excited and I definitely couldn’t work out if I was ready. The problem is, and I knew it more than anyone, I would never be ready. A child, while I was excited to start our family, would always be at the wrong moment for me. When you are a restless artist with too many hobbies and a deep need for alone time and projects, a baby will never be at the right moment. But I, luckily, knew who I was and I trusted that once the baby was here, it would feel like it was the right time.

In the doctor’s office, Christine was asked to take off all offending pieces of clothing, sit on the chair, and open wide. The doctor swivelled round on her stool holding a small syringe attached to a very thin tube the length of my forearm. 

I felt my eyebrows raise at the same instance as I heard an audible gulp from the chair. In an attempt to make the process somewhat less awkward, I awkwardly asked, “that doesn’t all go up the hoohaa right?” making everything distinctly more awkward.

“You didn’t just call it a…?” The doctor sounded bemused.

“—Let’s forget that, shall we?” Christine said before I could dig an even bigger hole for myself.

It was over before we knew it. It proved to be a slightly more painful job than it should be due to Christine’s uterus being tilted, clearly neither it nor its owner wished to do as the crowd would. To make matters worse, as the doctor tried to angle the tube around the bend, she added “also, your uterus likes a good hug.” I still don’t know what she meant by that but I think it would make a good tattoo.

Three weeks later, the day I arrived back from a sister’s trip to Liverpool, we could test. 

Wishing, presumably, for this to be a romantic endeavour for two, Christine frogmarched me into the shower and made me hold the stick. Both stick and I were covered in urine by the end of the experience.

Bustling around the bathroom tidying the towels, Christine finally picked up the stick and gasped.

“YOU SAID NEVER.”