CD12 O minus 6 and Counting: There's a Man in my Closet

Well, not so much a man, as a man's, shall we say, essence. As a person who has always opened presents as soon as possible, and snooped, lifting flaps, shaking boxes and smelling packages, it is driving me crazy that I can't fidget with the tank until it is time to use it.

We now have a tank, about two feet tall and maybe 10 inches in diameter that holds liquid nitrogen and two small vials of "baby-juice." I spent most of the day driving up to get the goods, and have carefully read everything they gave us. (Not much, but I fantasize about getting to fill out the "pregnancy reporting form" but I want to make sure that I only do so when I get to tell them it resulted in a birth.) I also raced in the door and promptly peed in a cup to take an OPK, which did not show a positive.

The bank itself was in the basement of a rather unassuming office building off of the freeway in Suburbia. There was a small waiting room where I assume donors wait to make their deposits, and a pick up and delivery window where the tanks wait, either for Fed-Ex or hopeful women who drive to pick up a tankful of their frozen dreams.

The box says, "fragile, keep upright" and I honestly debated buckling it into the backseat, far away from the airbags, and centered safely away from the crumple zone. Then I realized that if I got in an accident, it didn't matter if the sperm survived if my uterus weren't there for it to be incubated in. Instead, the sperm drove home on the floor of the passenger side of my front seat, nestled amongst my cleats, some water bottles and last week's Saturday paper. Not the most glamorous seat for the tank that represents our deepest desire, but that way I could keep an eye on it while I drove.

I only did the soccer mom arm save twice when I put on the brakes, and my right arm shot out to protect the sperm from shifting too much.