I’m running out of sheep :-\

Thanks to an ill advised afternoon nap I’m having trouble sleeping! So I decided to empty my mind by writting.

I was wondering earlier today whether or not to tell The Kids about my donation yet, and debating with myself whether they need to know. The Son (age 5) wouldn’t really understand, and The Daughter (age 8)  would ask too many questions that I feel she isn’t mature enough yet to have answered. I don’t think they’ll have a problem with the injections I’ll have to give myself, in fact they’ll most likely not notice – The Husband is diabetic, so injections in this house are common place. So when IS the right time to tell them they might have a genetic half sibling, I wonder?

In addition, Mr and Mrs Recipient aren’t part of our family life and The Kids haven’t met them. Although that may change in the future.

So anyway, the next appointment is on the 29th with the consultant, and I’ll also have my screening done that day. Thinking I maybe should have asked what I’m being screened for, I assume genetic conditions and STD’s. I’m sure I’ll find out on the day.

I sometimes think I’m a little too laid back!


Planning permission from the council

Yesterday was the first appointment for Mrs Recipient and I to attend together. Mrs R is a work colleague of The Husband, and our first face-to-face meeting was when I got in her car 2 weeks ago for the AMH test.
2 weeks later, we’re setting out for a counselling session …

For all the chatter and laughter in the car on the journey to the clinic, there is an undercurrent of nerves. The councillor we are on our way to see could put the kibosh on the entire endeavour. In my head for the past week I have been practising key phrases and sound bites to sound as intelligent, dedicated and assured as I feel. However some nasty little part of my brain is going “ner ner, she won’t believe you”. I hate that bit of my brain.

After some stellar reverse parking from Mrs R, despite (or maybe because of) the enormous private-plate Jag next to us, we present ourselves at reception and sit down to wait.

Mrs R had mentioned that the councillor sounded airy fairy on the phone, so I’m expecting a fully-paid-up member of the beads and bangles incense waving hippy brigade. I’m mostly right. Imagine how a middle aged hippy would dress in an office situation, except with Tiffany jewelery, and you have the general idea! She comes to call us, and I follow on behind Mrs R poking her in the back while we both try to swallow our giggles, that can only partly be attributed to nerves. We get a hell of a lot more serious, however, once we’re sat in that room realising this woman writes a report to the ethics committee and the consultant to say whether or not we can cope with this.

I’ll not go into details – there are some things that aren’t mine to share – but we convince the woman that we are sane enough to go ahead. My private rehearsal obviously worked to my advantage, although a few surprise corkers tumbled out of my mouth. With regards to a claim over a potential child, I likened it to claiming the artwork yours, when you only handed over the paper and pencil to the artist. And when asked about any unused embryos kept in the deep freeze (as legally, as contributor of the ovum, they in part belong to me until implanted in Mrs R), I was adamant that Mr and Mrs R decide their fate, as I feel as much attachment to them as I do to my fingernail when I cut it, or when my menstrual cycle flushes eggs away. I’m not standing to loose or gain anything, I do think she’s making a rather larger fuss than necessary!

The car journey home is much less tense, with us screaming with laughter over what The Husbands would have made of the councillor, amongst other things. I wonder if by the end of this, we’ll be firm friends?