Friday, April 29, 2005


I'm not doing well. Just now though, this minute, I realised how angry I am.

I'm angry because this is supposed to be what I wanted. I'm meant to be happy. I'm supposed to be excited, he was going to be excited for me. He already was actually, when it wasn't his child. He planned on knowing us both for a long, long time, my child and me, and I planned on knowing him too, but now we're locked together, not because we want to share our lives, but because we have to.

I wanted a child who was better than me, so I chose a donor who was. I chose a the student I've never been. I chose someone rational, a musician, and a thinker. That donor is lost to me now, and the donor I got is someone who, while lovely, won't give this child the pieces missing in me.

I fear for our child, I fear it being the sum of our deficits.

He's a nice guy and I like him a lot, love him too, for who he is, not for who we are to each other. I don't love him in a 'I want to have your baby' kind of way. He doesn't love me, not at all, and especially not in a 'I want a child who's just like you' kind of way.

From his perspective though, and we discussed this (and I use the term loosely. What do you call a conversation that starts and finishes with 'if only it had happened differently'. Him, not me. Oh, I'm stuck on the if onlies too, but I'm a problem solver, an introverted rational problem solver, so use my angst as a platform for solutions. He's, well, he's just stuck) last night, he got someone who, if he could choose, had the attributes he'd want in the mother of his child.

I got someone who's good at soccer.

I didn't want to know my donor's face. I wanted to be able to see me in my child, not because I'm a narcissistic twat, but because I didn't want to know the father. This child is going to look just like him, I know it. It's going to be him all over, and very little of me.

Everything this time was meant to be, and everything I planned our life on being, is gone.

The grief is intolerable, and the guilt, even more so, for this isn't about me, it's about our child, and no one wants it.

2005-2007© aibee