Hi, world! But enough chit-chat! First things first: if you are a parent and you are reading this (which, I mean, if you’re not reading this then how are you reading it?), you should know that I know full well that I know nothing about parenting (gay or otherwise), so don’t go thinking I think I have all these really accurate ideas about what it will be like when/if my wife and I finally have our own family, or anything. My ignorance on this front is not one of my unknown unknowns, as Donald Rumsfeld would say. (Remember him? The old white dude who looks kind of like a reptile and is a huge asshole and isn’t Dick Cheney?)

Of course, if an unknown is unknown, I couldn’t possibly know about it anyway, so you might as well assume I’m full of crap on that point. And that’s basically the theme of this, my inaugural post: I have no idea what I’m talking about. But no one does when they’re thinking about starting a family, right? No. They don’t. I’m sure of it. Or do they?

Right. So that’s basically where I’m at. A future (gay) parent, a parent-hopeful, if you will, who has decided to spew her glacially advancing knowledge about getting a lady preggers onto glowing screens everywhere for to connect with her fellows. Kind of like a sperm donor. Only with feelings instead of sperm, and way more time to ruminate. I’m also a nervous, writerly sort and a brand-spanking-new editor here at It’s Conceivable. My wife, Sir Mixalot*, and I are gearing up to make us a baby some time in the next year. So far, this “gearing up” feels sort of like a cross between Space Camp and a Senate confirmation hearing. It’s inspiring and kind of weird and cool, but it’s also psychologically challenging, politically charged, and chock full of detailed instructions that seem both very important and entirely theoretical. The goal is abstract: we’ve got the love and the basic gist (love your kids, love each other, do your best, don’t be a jerk), but the rest is just shapes and placeholders.

(Actually, Sir Mixalot has just indicated that she disagrees with the part about the Senate confirmation hearing. She’s far more confident than I am about our ability to raise children without accidentally maiming them or ruining their lives, which I imagine I’ll delve into with gusto at some point along the way.)

I suppose it’s kind of like an old-school (or at least Catholic) marriage: the first time we try to get pregnant will also mark the loss, for both of us, of our artificial-insemination virginity, complete with attendant appliances, textbooks, headlamps, thousand-dollar doses of sperm and egg whites (more on that last one later). No dry runs, folks.

In the meantime, Sir Mix and I are planning and planning and saving and saving, stockpiling our pennies like determined little penny-stockpiling ants, photographing each other’s cervices (no, really), charting our bodily functions from soup to nuts (so to speak) and working on making ourselves as fit and healthy inside and out for raising a family that we already love to bits even though it exists only in theory. And I’m going to tell you all about it, roughly 300-500 words at a time.

Next week (or thereabouts): how the cervix is, a story in 6-inch flour tortillas.

*Totally her real name.

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