The Beginning

Having a child on my own wasn't the way I planned to do things. A child should have a father and mother, I thought. Because. Because that's the way it is. Because that is the way it should be. Life has a way of colliding with my assumptions and beliefs and turning them on their ears. I learn this again and again with increasing humility. Each time it is new and each time I have the same niggling sensation that I've learned it before. 

It's been nearly a year since I divorced, and marriage doesn't hold the slightest appeal. However, I've wanted to raise a child for the last ten years, and I have never made it a priority. While I'm beginning to be interested in dating, serious dating just sounds gross. I don't see wanting a long-term relationship for at least a several years. But, with my thirty-fifth birthday just weeks away, I realize that I want a child, and the time for waiting has passed. I've spent a year thinking about this decision and questioning the wisdom. It seems right for me. 

I've made an appointment with fertility specialist to discuss how I will become pregnant. Not having sperm is a huge fertility issue, and I'm about to dive into the realm of sperm banks and turkey basters. It is unknown and scary and hopeful--all at once. There are too many stories about dashed hopes, and I try to restrain my dreams of a child until the unknown factors are more certain. But hope is a stubborn thing.