You Came Out of My Vagina

You came out of my vagina, but that’s not when our story began.

Seven months before you came out of my vagina, I got a positive pregnancy test on the day my grandmother died, and I hoped this time I was really pregnant so that my dad (your granddad? weird.) could get some cheery news. Also, it would make me happy. I guess. Yes, of course it would. Happy. Obviously.

Five months before you came out of my vagina, I saw you on an ultrasound and found out you’re a girl. Bummer. I don’t like girls. Don’t get me wrong: I like women; I just find little girls to be annoying as shit – all that squealing and crying and frilly pink shit. It’s so much easier to deal with boys’ broken bones than girls’ broken hearts. But hopefully you’ll be an athlete or a lesbian or into cool music, and you’ll hate pink, too.

Three months before you came out of my vagina, I was scheduled for another ultrasound to get a better picture of your hands because so far it looks like you have no fingers, and I don’t know if I can love a kid with hand stumps. But no matter what the ultrasound shows, 50% of you comes from your dad’s genetics, so I’d be stuck with you. I wondered if this would be different if you were also 50% me, and this is when it becomes clear that I may not have been the best candidate for using a donor’s egg.

One month before you came out of my vagina, conversations with your dad go something like this: But what if I don’t love her? Don’t worry; you will. But what if I don’t? I know you; you will. But what if I don’t? Stop over-thinking it; you will. But what if I don’t? Etc. etc. etc. You can see why this is a problem, right?

The day you came out of my vagina, labor was short, and during the last few minutes, I wondered whether I could stop pushing and change my mind about the whole thing, but there were all these people around me saying things like “you’re almost there” and “I can see her head,” so I plowed forth.

You were a gross, slimy, wrinkly thing.

When it was over, a gross, slimy, wrinkly thing was handed to me, and I asked, “is this her?” Considering that the other end of your umbilical cord was still inside me, it should have been obvious that I wasn’t looking for an answer from the nurse as much as I was looking for an answer from myself.

“Is this her?” meant “Is this it?” It meant is this really happening and did seven years of wanting a baby just come to an end? It meant who will I be as a mom and who will you be as a daughter and what will we be to each other?

It meant that I really wished someone would help me figure out a game plan for what to do if I don’t love you.

During the first couple weeks after you came out of my vagina, you wouldn’t look at me. You just peed and cried and ate and slept and shit. No eye contact whatsoever, which – frankly – wasn’t a great way to get started on your part, now was it? As it was, what with our lack of genetic connection, how did you think we could build a relationship if you wouldn’t even look at me?

It was during this period that your dad asked me if I loved you. I said I didn’t know yet, which upset him. I guess he thought that the reality of your existence would melt my heart, but he overestimated my capacity to adore people that come out of my vagina.

I felt fiercely protective of you, though. I got pissed when you were left unattended on the changing table for a millisecond as if you could somehow leap to your demise at 2 days old. I woke up several times a night in a panic that you’d been scratched or had a fever or died from SIDS. And every time I picked you up, I was terrified that I’d trip and fall and smash your tiny skull into a wall. My every moment was riddled with anxiety that something awful would happen to you, and that with that, my world would crumble. But anxiety is not the same as love.

You looking at me.

And then some time later, you looked at me. Not a passing glance with untamed eyeballs, but actual eye contact. And that’s when I thought, “Oh, hi, baby. How nice to meet you.”

Was it love? Well, let’s not get crazy. I mean, we don’t really know each other yet, and one can’t rush into things like this.

But you came out of my vagina, and a little while after that, we met. And now that we have, and our story has begun, it’s possible that I’ll love you after all.

And as it turns out, you look seriously fucking cute in pink.


About TG

My eggs don't work, so I manifested a baby via egg donation. Let's blog and see what happens.
This entry was posted in Donor Egg Parenting, Donor Egg Process, My Head, Pregnancy and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

20 Responses to You Came Out of My Vagina

  1. Beautiful… your words and, of course, the chick in pink.


  2. Kristi says:

    She is adorable. Congratulations!!!
    7 years is a long wait. I have waited 5 years and thought that was a long time. I am still waiting 24 wks pregnant as of yesterday :)


  3. Terri says:

    I cried the first time I read it. Cried again just now. And laughed both times too. Thank you, once again.


  4. Smallstones says:

    I love your way with words… sheer honesty! Thank you for sharing these moments. I am on the egg donor journey as well and appreciate your roller coaster of emotions presented here. Gorgeous baby-girl!!! Congrats!


  5. Ready says:

    This made me tear up. I love this blogpost so much.


  6. Sarah says:

    What a beautiful baby. After they put my son on my chest, I remember thinking “Okay, universe, whenever you want to bestow that overwhelming feeling of maternal love and devotion on me, I’m ready!!!” . . . and it didn’t happen. Like any relationship, I guess, it all takes time, and a different amount of time for every person. These days I regularly tell my son that if there were some kind of mom-son marriage that wasn’t weird and illegal/incestual, I’d be 100% on board.


  7. Catie says:

    It’s not only ED moms that feel like they haven’t “bonded” right away. :-) I felt that magic bond with my son the minute I saw a second line on the pregnancy test but I know it took months for both my sister and my best friend to feel that “magic” connection with their biological children (my sister lovingly referred to my first nephew as Chuckles The Poop Machine for the first few weeks of his life.) When I said I felt like my baby was my everything while still pregnant they looked at me like I was nuts. We all fall in love with our kids at different rates and that is okay :-)


  8. Valerie says:

    I’m so happy that your journey ended the way you dreamed it would. Enjoy, mommy!


  9. Kate says:

    Awesome! SO happy I found this


  10. A. says:

    Swung by your page looking for that email and didn’t see one…could really use some perspective.


  11. OK says:

    It’s been a couple months since you posted, how are things going?


  12. TeeJay says:

    Well, I was just about to ask how you are doing when I actually took the time to read through the other comments and saw that you replied so someone a couple of days ago. :-) Hope to read a post soon…I know how hard it is to get thoughts together enough (let alone find the time) to post.


  13. Cinthea Greenberg says:

    I’ve been waiting for my baby for 8 years and am ready to consider donor eggs. My thoughts have been identical to yours. Your story makes me feel better about moving forward. Thank you.


  14. I just read this aloud to my husband as if this IUI doesn’t work we’re going this route. You rock.


  15. share14 says:

    This must be the greatest site I have ever stumbled upon. So true and raw and bad ass!!!!!!!!! I love it!!!

    Liked by 1 person

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