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In all the delight of picking a donor, I overlooked the idea that a bodily fluid would be winging its way to us in some delivery person’s satchel.  Not bad, right?  Like bottling a few tears.  Or, that sweat you flick away at the gym.  Or, scraping the inside of your vagina, slipping it into a plastic pouch and saving it for later.  More like that really.

Not so pleasant when you think about it.  And I didn’t, not really.  I didn’t consider that some guy was scraping his vagina into a plastic pouch.  Well, you know what I mean.

It’s not the actual fluid that’s a problem I guess, just the idea of it.  We’re lesbians, aren’t we?  Isn’t this supposed to be the golden nectar?  The magic solution that results in another family member?  I think I’m supposed to be delighted that we suddenly are in possession of the holy grail.  Instead, I admit that I’m a little unsettled.  That’s my wife’s business you’re fiddling around with.  If anyone is going to fiddle here, it should be me right?

I’m beginning to see why men strut around crowing when they knock someone up.  They did something.  They put a little fluid inside a warm, wet place and it bloomed.  They’re practically master bloody gardeners.  Me, I’m just a bystander.  I haven’t rooted anything.  Sprayed any gorgeous juices.  Watered the seed.

God, that was terrible.  I’m sorry.

So I admit, every time she updates me on the whereabouts (here, in storage) of the donor’s sperm, I get a little queasy inside.  It’s less of something to get over and more of something to get accustomed to, I guess.  I assume we’ll be at this a few times and if I keep turning green every time she mentions the tracking number she’s might wonder if I’m having second thoughts.  And I’m not.

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