The Fat (in)Fertile Feminist

I am a feminist and I have spent my whole adult life embracing fat (quite literally, with several of my partners). I believe bodies are beautiful and that we should riot, not diet, and that body image is a patriarchal construct imposed on women to control them and which sustains a whole industry of diet pills and potions, sells a shitload of magazines, special elastic knickers and fitness classes, and which is the ultimate smoke and mirrors game that keeps us thoroughly distracted by our waistlines while larger injustices like systemic sexism rage on around us.

Oh, Daddy.

Call me old-fashioned, but no matter how close to equal rights queers and lezzies get, at some point we still need a man. There’s no way around it—we can’t do everything on our own. No matter which route to parenthood we decide to take, whether it’s fostering, adoption, surrogate, turkey baster or IVF, at some point at least one splodge of sperm is going to be needed in order to fertilise the egg to make that goddamn baby. So it’s how you get your sperm that’s the challenge for today’s post.

Fruity Leg-Spreader

Disappointment tastes like one of those old two-cent coins: small, cold, hard, and you have to be careful you don’t swallow in case it makes you choke. The first time I tasted it was during a phone call to my local hospital, to make my initial appointment at the fertility unit. It took three days and several hours to get through.

“Thank you for holding,” the voice finally said. “We can get you in for mid October.”

It was early February at the time, but hey, when you’re broke you take what you can get.

cat shit is kryptonite

This morning as usual I woke up, shot up, knocked back a handful of pills and then drank a Chinese magic potion. Then I sat down to write this blog and my cat sauntered up beside me and did a shit right next to my foot. With any luck, in another nine or ten days I will be fully justified in asking my neighbour to clean up the cat shit for me. Cat shit is kryptonite to babies…the perks of being pregnant.

Aching Ovaries and Itchy Tits

I shot up for the first time eight days ago. My sister made me do it. Get on with it, Holly, she said. The parking meter’s about to run out. There was also a formidable nurse standing over me, smiling encouragingly with one eye on her watch. Talk about peer pressure.