The D List

Ah, sperm banks. Why are you doubling down on silliness? Last month I wrote about an odd new policy at the sperm bank we used. After years of transparency, they suddenly decided it was in their customers’ best interests to stop reporting the number of live births per donor. Apparently the revised policy was to protect us from our own foolhardy decision-making process. We might be unduly biased against donors who have only one or two reported births, when of course all their donors are of the utmost highest quality.

I wrote to the executive office to try and get a better explanation for how this policy in any way applies to families whose donor has been retired from the program. Unsurprisingly, I received radio silence.

Then, I corresponded with Donor Sibling Registry founder Wendy Kramer. As the ever-astute Wendy pointed out, the change in policy seems quite bizarre when you consider that sperm banks actually have no idea how many births result from their donors. Why? Because only 20-24% of women report their births to them, on average. So our sperm bank has stopped reporting births on their “best guess” estimates!

So, silliness continues to reign within the under-regulated sperm bank industry. The profits continue to roll in, and parents of donor-conceived children continue to be left in the dark.

Now here’s an interesting turn of events, brought to my attention by one of the Dibling moms. Two months ago, our sperm bank (one of the U.S. majors), made a sudden, unannounced, and dramatic change in policy. Prior to August 2012, anyone could call the bank and get information on the reported number of births from any donor on file. Not just the number, but also the breakdown of the number of girls versus boys. Earlier this year I spent several days instant messaging back and forth with a representative from our sperm bank. It was under the auspices of beginning the process of selecting a donor, but I was actually doing some background research for my book proposal. She provided reported birth counts for dozens of donors, which I promptly logged into a spreadsheet. I commented on the fact that all the firefighters had racked up substantial numbers. “It seems people love firefighters. ” replied the chirpy rep.

So last week I called our sperm bank and asked for some updated numbers. “We don’t give the birth counts any longer” confirmed the same rep, somewhat less chirpily. I got the feeling she was already tired of answering this question. When I pressed her on the change in policy, she of course provided the pat answer handed down from the executive office: birth numbers were being used to make a decision about which donor to use. No kidding, I thought. I’d be put off if my donor of choice already had 38 reported births, however profitable he might be for the sperm bank.

I asked to speak to a supervisor and the rep eagerly transferred me. The more detailed pat explanation I received left me almost speechless. A lot of families will not choose a donor, I was told, if the donor has only one or two reported pregnancies. It’s not that people are put off by too many births, but too few! Our benevolent sperm bank wanted to make sure people understand that all donors are carefully screened and provide high quality motile sperm. Numbers can be misleading.

I asked how the new policy could possibly pertain to families whose donor had already reached the family unit max and are simply looking for an updated count. “We want to make it fair for everyone”, she replied, and so they applied a strict blanket policy no matter who you are. Conveniently, I couldn’t be transferred to someone in the executive office because they were all at a conference. When I do get to speak with the policy-makers, my first question will be: Could the change in policy possibly have anything to do with the escalating media coverage of oversize half-sibling groups and the mounting criticism of the under-regulated U.S. sperm banks? I think we all know what their response will likely be, but I’d like to hear the answer anyway.

Oh happy day! I’m getting a bit carried away with my music references of late, and this one’s even religious! Actually I’ve taken to wearing a chunky metal cross that I’ve bestowed with amulet powers. Call me immature, but I find the contrast of an atheist minister’s daughter wearing a cross endlessly amusing. Yes I know Madonna was doing it a quarter century ago, but she’s no minister’s daughter. I selected the necklace from an alluring goodie box, my reward for agreeing to co-host a jewelry party on December 1^st (you’re all invited). My partner in bejeweled crime, Cecily, chose a ravishing ring which she has promised to let me wear on special occasions.

Anyway, complete and total digression. Today is a special occasion thanks to Lisa Belkin at The Huffington Post, who has published an essay that I sent her a few weeks back. Enjoy the read if you decide to check it out.

So Lisa, to quote from Stick Man, one of our favorite nighttime reads by the awesome Julia Donaldson, “thanks, thanks a million, thanks without end”.

This morning I made it to the pool later than usual. I shared the “lap swim only” lane with an elderly man with a fairly decent freestyle, followed by a couple who are probably around my age. At first I didn’t grasp that they knew one another. But then, instead of doing the circle swim, they offered to share one side of the lane. She buoyed past him and he touched both shoulders gently, a touch that was unmistakably intimate. I wondered how they would share one side of the lane. It was quite beautiful. He reached the end of the lane ahead of her, and then turned as she approached and he swam deep underneath her, then slowly back up. At the shallow end, he peacefully slid beside her for lack of depth. It was true teamwork tinged with a touch of eroticism.

I’m a lame-ass team player. It’s why I like to swim (but please no relay!) and write (no collaboration here!)  But for me, swimming is the ultimate metaphor for parenting. There’s the obvious – the feeling of aloneness or a sudden lapse in basic breathing that leaves you choking ever so slightly as you soldier on. But the more subtle moments give me some hope for my parenting abilities, particularly those of donor-conceived children with whom I’ll presumably have some difficult discussions.

This morning I started fast, but splashy and uncoordinated, probably because I was out last night celebrating my gorgeous friend Lauren’s birthday (a talent supreme). My kick was off and the first quarter mile felt inefficient. Sometime during the next quarter the couple entered the water for our unarranged threesome. Then something kicked in and I swam smoothly, every so often arriving at the deep end and watching him swim deep beneath her.

My parenting is a lot like my swimming. It’s painfully erratic at times. Sometimes it feels so much harder than it should, and I just can’t get my mum groove on, and I don’t know why. Then sometimes when I’m least expecting it, something clicks. My form is smooth and efficient. Instead of dispensing a knee-jerk time out, my daughter and I talk about why she clobbered her brother instead of using her words.

Sometimes I’m a competitive jerk and race people that have no idea they’re being raced. Like that moment when you put yourself above someone else’s parenting skills, even though you yelled at your kid last night. They don’t have the chance to explain themselves (not that they have to) before you judge and decide you’re better.

Sometimes the swim is simply long and hard, but with each lap I somehow get stronger. I complete my mile at my fastest and loosest. The first half-mile may have been dauntingly laborious, but the second half is astonishingly better. Everyone keeps telling me that when your kids are ages five and three it’s much easier than four and two, and of course three and one. The more time you put in, the easier it gets. The difficulties ease up, but undoubtedly you get stronger too and that’s part of the dynamic.

I’m adding the donor-conceived aspect into the mix, so I may have to start training for the middle-aged Olympics, or at least a triathlon. It’s interesting to think that despite all the abuse I got for the Motherlode piece, it’s the dibling moms that I know I’ll be looking to for support and guidance, as all our children get older. And I have a feeling they’ll swim beside me and underneath me, and I will endeavor to do the same for them. Even though we’ve never actually swum together, and possibly never will.

Someone recently reminded me that there are no guarantees in life. No guarantees in relationships, no guarantees that your children will turn out OK. Nothing is absolute when it comes to people. There’s really no telling if any relationship will withstand the tests of time, including that between two lovers, or a parent and child.

It’s like the longevity, or lack thereof, of music. It’s hard to predict what songs will still sound fantastic or seem relevant after 30 years, and what will make you cringe. Who imagined in 1984 that Madonna would still be cranking out dance music in the second decade of the 21^st century? I defy anyone to tell me that “Into the Groove” is not still totally danceable. A couple of weeks ago I wrote about playing cherished songs from my teenage years to my daughter. You can hear one of my all-time favorites on the video (or here on You Tube, very worth a listen). Some of it was embarrassingly unlistenable. But some other bands that I haven’t played in years have really held up. I was fanatically into a UK band called The Woodentops at age 17. And their music still sounds great. Anyone who likes the Canadian band Arcade Fire should listen to The Woodentops and you’ll see (or rather hear) a direct musical lineage from one to the other. The only time I saw them play live was at Glastonbury music festival in 1986. Unfortunately I passed out part way through the set from “sunstroke”, or possibly too much beer and pot too early in the day.

Another marvelous British legacy that has resurfaced in recent years is the World War Two-era “Keep Calm and Carry On” poster. Following decades of dusty oblivion, the poster has become a pop-culture phenomenon and spawned an ever-expanding menu of spoof posters and consumer items. “Keep Calm and Eat Cake” hangs in my sister’s kitchen. Social psychologists and media studies-types suggest that the slogan has particular resonance since the 2008 financial crisis and ongoing global economic mess. One of my favorite iterations is “Keep Calm and consolidate all of your debts into one easy monthly payment”. I also have a soft spot for “Keep Calm and Evade the Police”.

I’m thinking I should create a poster that says: “Keep Calm and Don’t Freak Out That Your Children are Donor-Conceived” and hang it in my kitchen. On and off, depending on the day, year, or moon, I fret about what our children will make of all this when they’re teenagers. At times, I feel gripped with terror that one or both of them will experience anger or sorrow or some other painful emotion about their conception. But it may all be OK, and I just don’t know because there are no guarantees. Things can turn out badly for families created the “normal” way too. Nobody really knows if a child is going to become suicidal, or a drug addict, or fall in with the wrong crowd, or simply reject them for a while. All you can do is keep calm and carry on, nurture the relationship and hope it can withstand the tests of time.

This was a week of firsts. I swam a mile in just under 40 minutes, had a maple and brown sugar back scrub, and wrote an article about midlife crisis. As far as I can tell the first two firsts have no bearing on the latter, but who knows. You’re actually supposed to call it a “midlife transition” because “crisis” is too derogatory and not exactly empowering. It’s reactive instead of perceptive. You’d think that selecting donor sperm and sticking giant needles oozing with powerful fertility drugs into your thigh for a year would send you into a midlife transition, but I guess I was too singularly focused on pregnancy to lose any sense of control. Now that the kids are almost four and two, I’m just like any other middle aged Mom, with a slight twist. I’m going to try and get the article published in the next few weeks. I think it’s good, but I may be too close to it to have a legitimate opinion. If Huffington Post and Salon aren’t interested, and I lose patience (as usual), I’ll post it here for my dear D List Blog readers.

I said I wouldn’t tell cute stories about the kids. But I never promised not to post videos. Actually I’ve been summertime slacking off and not focusing so much on writing. I am, spiritually, a proud torchbearer for Gen X slackers at heart. Not that I’m making excuses. As my dear friend Jill reminded me, I’m a few short weeks into not working after 20 straight years of employment, punctuated by double-time in graduate school and patching ceilings.

Back to the video. This was taken a couple of days ago on a rainy retro afternoon spent introducing music from my youth to the kids. Although in truth anything from before the kids were born I now classify as my youth, as they are catapulting me into middle age faster than our son can fill a diaper genie. Our daughter loves to replay the “silly daddy” video, and I’m struck by the abundance of family footage she’ll always have, compared to the three photos and one audio file we have of the donor. Twenty-first century technology has allowed us to capture moments that transport into the iCloud while we make a cup of tea, then share with family, Facebook or a blog in a couple more clicks of the phone. And if we put any effort into weeding, organizing and preserving footage (nerdy librarian reference) then our kids will have an unbelievably rich archive of family life and love.

Fantastic technological progress has also given us IVF, ICSI and embryo freezing, but for donor-conceived families the footage remains starkly lopsided. Most of my posts seem to end with a sentence beginning with “hopefully”, because I don’t know what the hell is going to happen, but, hopefully, the kids will see that we were, and are, just a normal family with a silly daddy who loves them.