Pride Angel Journey | Russian Dolls

It was a Thursday in October, almost thirteen weeks into my pregnancy when I had the first scan. At last proper confirmation that this nausea wasn’t for nothing – there really was something inside me, something human. I was still being sick every evening but the misery was now tinged with hope and excitement: hope that the nausea might end fairly soon, and excitement at the knowledge of the life inside me. Meanwhile, a tiny being reclined comfortably in my womb as if relaxing on a sun lounger. It looked so laidback, so collected – so different from how I felt. And tiny, yes, but not a bit vulnerable or needy. Not like it might scream for hours, appalled at the shock of life itself. It was time to go public, although by this time it was only really a secret to people who lived far away and hadn’t witnessed the pathetic sight of me gnawing miserably at half a breadstick in between gulps of Gaviscon. We’d been nervous about telling our parents – I wasn’t sure how mine would take to our method of conception, involving a man from the Internet masturbating in our bathroom, but their desperation for a grandchild, the extent of which I hadn’t truly realised, apparently overrode any concerns they may have had. When I was little over seven weeks gone, my mum took the opportunity while the neighbours were on holiday (since it was still early days) to get my old baby clothes and Terry nappies out of the loft, through the wash and hanging on the line in the garden. This child was either going to look ridiculous, dressed in clothes over thirty years old, or like a supercool 70’s retro baby. Close friends either already knew our method of conception or, if they didn’t, were quick to ask. More distant friends and work colleagues tended not to ask and, while part of me wanted to correct their probable assumption that we’d been to a clinic and used anonymous donor sperm, I also felt that the quite intimate details of our child’s beginning were best kept as distant as possible from staffroom gossip. We left our parents to spread the news to the older family members still surviving, and I still experience a slight discomfort when I wonder exactly how much they were told and what their understanding is of how lesbians go about these things; it horrifies me to think that they may be under the impression that I had sex with a man – but perhaps I’m insulting the intelligence of a generation that we have actually found far more accepting of our relationship than the post-war baby boom generation that followed them. Meanwhile, my body was changing. It was around the fourteen-week mark that a sliver of tummy was starting to emerge between tops and trousers. Keen to avoid both a November crop-top look and the risk of catching a chill, I had to reassess my wardrobe. A similarly proportioned friend had very kindly leant me a mound of maternity clothes, and my forage into the bag heralded a revelation: the comfort of maternity jeans with a shrewdly practical elastic-and-button adjustable system on the waistband. There was really no hiding the emerging bump now and one break-time, a group of Year 11 girls cornered me; clearly aware of the delicacy of the issue, yet determined for answers, after a little skirting around the topic they ventured to ask whether the rumours were true. I hadn’t anticipated the screaming that my response inspired, and the anxious educator in me was a little perturbed at their complete lack of concern that their English teacher would be leaving a month before the GCSE exams. A couple of weeks later, one of the girls – interestingly a student who was rather too relaxed where her work was concerned – presented me with a hat she’d knitted for the baby. I was very touched by the effort she’d gone to, and felt a surge of guilt: my knitting needles hadn’t surfaced since the last charity blanket square I’d produced twenty years ago as a Girl Guide and now my baby was reliant on sixteen-year-olds for its wardrobe. I hastily consulted Amazon and ordered a copy of Vintage Knits for Modern Babies, some wool and needles, and hoped I’d be able to find a YouTube video on how to cast-on. Meanwhile, I was unaware that around the country a hum of clicking needles was already picking up tempo; the post-war generation may struggle a little at first with homosexuality, but news of a baby is well within their comfort zone and the automatic reaction of many of our mums’ friends and friends’ mums, it seemed, was to reach for a couple of balls of Baby DK and a pattern. By mid-November, I’d reached seventeen weeks and the misery of the nausea had been replaced by a renewed appetite for evening meals which I could now keep down. My weight started to increase – until now, despite the emerging bump, with two and a half months of minimal food and no exercise, both fat and muscle had been dropping off from the rest of my body. We started to socialise again; I was still rather prone to more severe travel-sickness than I was used to, but we managed to visit relatives in Wales and on the South Coast and for the first time in over twenty years in my family, talk was of babies. We went for an Indian meal with friends, one of whom was two months ahead of me, and we were able to share both the exasperation of being told for the fiftieth time that ginger could solve the sickness problem (it wasn’t even slightly effective for either of us) and the excitement of what we both had ahead. The fact was, that pregnancy was starting to become quite good fun. And all this time I was still only just beginning to get my head round the miracle inside me. I was reminded of the> colourful Russian Dolls I had as a child, especially when I learnt that if our child was a girl, she would already have a full complement of eggs ready to produce her own children: another two generations there, inside me. I was almost ready to don a bright yellow headscarf and paint my lips bright red. But if only birth was as easy as a brief twist and pull of two bits of painted wood… Article: by Lindsey, West Yorkshire 6th July 2013

The Myth of ‘Morning’ Sickness

It was a Friday, the day the pregnancy test was positive. Day 29 of my cycle, fifteen days after insemination. A drab August day. The rain drizzling down the window panes seemed incongruent with my mood, but I was struggling to identify my mood at all. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t wished for a positive test. It was exactly what we’d been hoping for, of course. And it had happened much sooner than expected. A huge success. But it was a strange feeling and I skulked around the house, not sure what to do with myself. I didn’t feel any different from the previous day, week, month. Yet somewhere deep inside me, a complex manufacturing process was taking place: cells were dividing and multiplying, and something microscopic yet undeniably human was starting to take shape. I was on holiday from work and normally I’d be getting on with something or other: odd jobs around the house, some lesson preparation ready for the new school term…but now I was four weeks pregnant and it didn’t seem right just to carry on as usual. But what do you do when you’re four weeks pregnant? What you don’t do when you’re four weeks pregnant is tell anyone. I knew that rule well enough, so after an excited text to my partner, Sally, I put my phone aside and (perhaps it was the effect of the miserable weather) found myself a ‘helpful’ chart on the Internet showing the percentage risk of miscarriage at each week of pregnancy. After a brief period of amazement that even to make it thus far, our little embryo had defied the odds of 3:1, in that same rain-inspired spirit, I focused on the 10% chance that I would still miscarry – a 10% chance that wouldn’t go down to 5% until we were to hear a heartbeat. And when would that opportunity arise? When placed on my lower abdomen, Sally’s stethoscope was sadly lacking in the ability to detect anything other than a rather embarrassing set of noises emanating from my intestines. The next couple of weeks were exciting, secretive and notably uneventful. Sally encouraged me to stock up on tasty snacks: eating regularly would prevent me from lacking in energy and feeling sick and I dutifully snacked away, attributing a vague trembling in the legs or a slight rumble of the stomach to dangerously low levels of blood sugar. The August Bank Holiday Weekend arrived, and Sally and I were at Manchester Pride. It was the Sunday, about 5pm and wandering the busy stalls I suddenly felt as though I might be sick. I’m not generally a very sickly person and I’d forgotten what nausea felt like. Confident that food was the answer, Sally led me to the row of burger vans while I shuffled along behind her, clocking alleyways and dingy corners where I might vomit unnoticed. A couple of hours later, after slowly picking at a baked potato and beans, the blandest food I could find, the nausea faded. We found some friends, gave the usual imaginative excuses for my glass of lemonade, and settled down to relive our early childhood, watching Toyah Willcox in Sackville Gardens. Over the next few days the nausea would turn up in time for afternoon tea and make itself at home for the evening. By the following weekend it had come to stay and save for, ironically, half an hour when I first woke up, ‘morning’ sickness became my main daily activity, the day punctuated by attempts to force down various food items and galloped trips to the toilet for retching – no actual vomiting at this stage. I eventually settled on a fairly consistent diet of breadsticks, boiled eggs, small pieces of very mild cheese and watermelon. September arrived and it was time to return to work for the new school term. The mere notion of teaching five classes of teenagers each day, followed by time spent planning lessons and marking their books seemed laughable in my current condition. Nevertheless, left with little choice, I armed myself with a roll of pedal bin liners and motion sickness wrist bands and, after guiltily confessing all to the school management, got on with it – albeit slipping out into the corridor now and again with a bin bag for a tactical retch, and surreptitiously shoving small cubes of cheese into my mouth as Year 11 exited, and Year 10 came in. The worst time was always the evenings, and while this meant I generally managed fairly well where work was concerned, poor Sally got me at my worst each day. Arriving home from work at 7.30pm, she would usually find me lying as still as I could on the bed, perhaps emitting a faint moaning sound. Little would change until I’d wake up in the middle of the night, feeling almost normal and wondering whether beginning a nocturnal life was the answer. Sally put aside her fears that she’d be stuck with this new miserable, retching girlfriend for life and focused her time on reading voraciously about pregnancy and obsessively sending off coupons for free stuff. It seems there are no trial-sachet lengths that companies will not go to in order to get the custom of mothers-to-be, and we were soon stockpiling sample packs of stretchmark lotions, nappy creams, fabric conditioner and even packs of nappies and the occasional towel. Meanwhile both my nausea and my fury that no one had given me any kind of realistic warning about what the nausea would be like were both coming to a peak. I was ready to do serious damage to the next person who suggested my problems might be solved by the consumption of ginger. I’d moved on to hot school dinners at lunchtime which were going down quite well, and at least providing me with some vegetable intake, but I was now vomiting every evening, and by nine weeks I stopped bothering to eat at all after 3pm; it was just a waste of good food. At school rumours of my pregnancy were already rife: much to my bafflement, it seems wearing motion sickness bands during the working day is an obvious sign of pregnancy to today’s Year 11 girls. I would hear whispers as I arrived at my classroom door, “you can see it, look!” and I’d hold my tummy in as well as I could, and make sure my top was covering the extender clip on my trousers. Despite having lost five kilogrammes and having had to remove my rings from my fingers before they slipped off, there was now a slight bump becoming noticeable, although only really obvious when I was naked. At twelve weeks the midwife came to visit. After a rather amusing moment where she asked for Sally’s genetic history, and we had to remind her of the use of donor sperm, she asked me to lie flat on my back while she prodded my tummy with some midwifery device. And there it was, a heartbeat, inside me, that wasn’t my heartbeat. Suddenly I felt an amazing sense of relief – until now, no one else had offered any confirmation that I was actually pregnant. I’d done the test myself and then felt sick. People just believe you, but what if it had all been in my head? Anyway, it wasn’t – there was something inside me that wasn’t me. Something alive, and in a week’s time at the scan, we’d get the further confirmation – that this creature was a baby. Article: 5th May 2013 by Lindsey, West Yorkshire

http://blogs.prideangel.com/post/2013/01/Fertile---Like-a-sack-of-fresh-compost.aspx

Our first insemination had taken place in mid-July. It had been a trial run. I was hoping to go on maternity leave around June, when my GCSE and A ‘level students’ exams would be over. So getting pregnant about September time would be ideal. We’d read a lot of books on the topic, some suggesting that it might take a year or more of inseminations before one was successful. Somewhere or other I’d read that each insemination has only a 6% chance of success. But then there were all the variables. I was thirty-four years old and was, like a supermarket on Shrove Tuesday, running rather low on eggs – well apparently, according to statistics. Nevertheless, I was healthy and not overweight; I had been taking pre-pregnancy vitamins for three months; my menstrual cycles were regular and I didn’t smoke. And, as a vet, my partner was both adept with a syringe and also very accustomed to poking around in various orifices. So we reckoned on ‘a few months’… maybe three? What when we got to five or six months? Get the sperm tested? Swap to the back-up uterus and egg supply? (The one obvious advantage a lesbian couple have in a quest for children.) We didn’t have a definite plan. I’d said there would be no point in taking a pregnancy test until my period was late: it seemed like a waste. That is until two days before my period was due, when I was overcome with an overwhelming desire to wee on a stick. Aged ten, I had awaited Father Christmas with more patience than this. Would our lives be permanently transformed by a tiny, screaming bundle of chaos, or would they not? I weed on the stick, and it seemed they would not. It had been a trial run and I whilst the statistics were confusing, I knew the chance of it working first time was unlikely. I hadn’t really wanted it to work this month. So the feeling of failure came as a surprise. The knowledge of a lonely, aging egg, taking its chance after thirty-four years of waiting, sighing at the devastating sight of carnage: a million sperm sprawled helplessly across my fallopian tube. Either my body had let me down, or I had let my body down, and we had both let everyone else down. Was I going to have to feel like this every month? My period came with the school holidays: the start of six weeks off work and two weeks off insemination. Time for a glass of wine… Two weeks later and we were returning from a short break in Paris for one day before setting off on a five-hour drive to the south coast to visit relatives. The one day back home was day fourteen, and another wee on a stick confirmed I had ovulated. So, between a hasty unpacking, washing, and repacking, we conveniently managed to fit in a visit from our donor (who was setting off the next day to northern France). We then spent two weeks visiting various relatives around the country, offering a range of imaginative responses as to why I was refusing both alcohol and caffeinated tea. We hadn’t told even close family of the baby project: I didn’t like the idea of their curiosity hanging over us every month like a dead cat, and we knew from coming out four years ago, that they generally coped quite well with surprises. Nevertheless, we were sure they were on to us. After all, the owners of the bed and breakfast at which we’d stayed in Southampton had guessed when I’d asked for my eggs well done. Ten days passed and it was weeing on stick time again. And again the feeling of failure. If I squinted a bit I could sort of see a hint of a blue line, but there was no doubt that it was negative. We hadn’t expected it to work first time, but now a pattern was emerging and the odds against me seemed to be rising. Next time we were to inseminate, I’d be almost thirty-five. Four days later and my breasts were feeling tender. “Pre-menstrual,” I told my partner. “You don’t get that do you?” “Yeah I do…I think I usually do.” But my period should have started today and it was now 11pm. “I think you should wee on a stick.” I hopped back into bed, with the stick, and we watched as a feint blue line began to form. It wasn’t as bold as the control line, but I didn’t have to squint to see it this time. “What do you think?” “I think it could be positive. You’d better do another test tomorrow.” For a good night’s sleep I’d recommend a warm, milky drink and a few pages of a good book. I would not recommend a semi-positive pregnancy test. I lay awake for most of the night and wondered what was happening to my body and why exactly we had decided to ambush the next twenty years of our lives. And, in case it wasn’t actually positive, I added in a chapter of wondering whether it would ever work. The next morning unsurprisingly found me skulking along the medical aisle of the supermarket, like a thirteen-year-old checking out the condoms. I selected a posh one. Digital. Actually flashes up with the word ‘Pregnant’ for those who find judging between shades of blue a little challenging. And, half an hour later back at home, that’s exactly what it did. Pregnant, it told me. And how odd it sounded to have that word describe me. Pregnant was mother, mummy, grown-up and prams. Not me at all. I took a photograph of the stick, for when the digital display had faded after 24 hours, and I didn’t believe it any more. We’d only tried twice. After thirty-four years of trying not to grow up, of confused sexuality and finding a lesbian identity, my body, apparently still as fertile as a sack of fresh compost, had just got straight on with what it had always been designed to do. I was pregnant. Winning article: by Lindsey, West Yorkshire, United Kingdom 27th January 2013

Mothercare voucher competition winner | Two mums personal journey

When I met Caitlin in January 2010 I couldn’t help but fall for her. She was originally from Scotland and her charm and the way she made me feel so special and the only girl in the world was immense! She already had 2 sons, Brett and Ashton whom she had via a clinic by artificial insemination. This cost her a fortune but she wanted to be a mother so much. We became inseparable and moved in together in March 2010. The boys became like my own, they didn’t get on with Caitlin’s ex and their father was an anonymous donor. They called me mum from months into us all living together. In August 2011 we had our civil ceremony with our closest family and friends...I felt the happiest girl alive! Thinking back I had an extreme urge to have a baby of my own from around October 2011. The feeling was so strong and I told Caitlin that it was time to look at the options available to us. We found the Pride Angel site in December 2011 and spent hours trawling the sperm donors on the site and looking at information about how to do 'home insemination'. Caitlin had always found the insemination at the clinic too 'clinical' so we decided to try ourselves. We found an ideal sperm donor and after a few messages back and forth decided that we really wanted him to help us. I felt uncertain about meeting our potential donor but Caitlin arranged to meet him to find out more. He was a kind, caring and genuine man. His sister had problems conceiving and therefore he wanted to help those people who can’t have children themselves. He told us to let him know as soon as we knew when I was ovulating and we could arrange to meet him for the sperm donation. I bought the deluxe home insemination kit, we did a few tests runs before the big day. I used ovulation sticks to monitor my most fertile days and it was whilst we were away at a family resort (on our last day there luckily!) that we got the smiley face and I was ovulating! We contacted our donor straight away and arranged to collect the sample. That evening we used the speculum, syringe and syringe extenders. We bought a special lubricant which helped the sperm live longer and move quicker. It was so tense at first, we couldn’t quite believe how far we had come since we first met. We managed to relax in the comfort of our own home, surrounded by candles and a few cheeky drinks :) After the insemination I lay with my bottom in the air against the wall for 20 minutes. I climaxed twice, legs still up the wall. (this is advised as gentle contractions in your uterus can help the sperm along into the cervix) The 2 week wait was horrendous. I went through a rollercoaster of emotions... sad, angry, excited, worried... On the day of my due period Caitlin was worried about me, we were both so stressed and just needed to know the outcome. So... we did a test. There was one dark line across the test instantly and we needed a vertical line for a positive. Caitlin wouldn’t let me see it until the full 3 minutes was up! As we uncovered the test after 3 minutes Caitlin had a massive grin across her face. She had snuck a peek just before. There was a line making a cross = positive. We could not believe it. After one attempt we were pregnant!! I screamed my head off and Brett and Ashton rushed in, we told them and tears streamed down their faces. I could barely breathe and couldn’t believe it. The day after we did further tests just to make sure...all positive. I am now 4 weeks pregnant and couldn’t be happier. We are already buying baby stuff and making plans for our new arrival! We would always recommend the Pride Angel insemination kits. We believe the syringe extenders were vital in getting the sperm in exactly the right place. Thank you Pride Angel!! We will keep you updated on the progress of our baby bean. Winning article: by Rachel and Caitlin 15th July 2012

Getting pregnant - Speculum, Supplements and Sperm!

Whilst defrosting the fridge-freezer yesterday, two things occurred to me. I firstly wondered whether my motivation to complete this magnanimous act was rooted hormones. To some extent, yes of course it was to do with the fact the freezer no longer really closed properly, due to the developing foetus of ice across the front of the top drawer. Nevertheless, was there a hint of the nesting mother there? My second reflection was that when I next defrosted the freezer, I might have a child. I remember the last time I set to with the scraper, two and a half years ago when we moved house, and that didn’t seem very long ago at all. But in two and a half years from now, my child could be walking and talking, and that’s a bewildering thought. In the meantime insemination is looming. The charts pile up but the patterns are elusive. A 5am visit to the loo throws leads to wild temperature changes. A friend, staying for six weeks happens to be what I believe is known as a ‘menstrual pace-setter’, and draws all three of us into synchronous menstruation; I have one unusually short cycle followed by an unusually long one. And then we do two Atlantic flights, affecting two cycles – how do you count days when you’re 8 hours out due to the time zone? Identifying an insemination date feels a bit like trying to make an accurate accusation in a game of Cluedo before you’ve fully investigated what Miss Scarlet was up to with the candlestick: how about Miss Inseminee, in the bedroom… with the speculum? On the subject of the speculum, one major advantage of all this charting is I did not recoil with horror on receiving an ‘invitation’ to go for a smear test. Whilst I would still generally prefer not to be naked from the waist down and prodded by a stranger (and I am aware that is something I am going to need to get used to in pregnancy), I’ve realised how these nurses have honed their technique: it’s far more painful when, daily, I insert the thing myself – mirror and torch in hand, as if I’m going on some kind of narcissistic pot-holing adventure. After speculum, the next ‘s’ is supplements. Three times a day I gulp down three capsules: Agnus Castus (to balance hormone levels), a pre-pregnancy multi-vitamin (because pre-pregnant is what I hopefully am) and flax seed oil (there was a reason, buried deep within the immense quantity of literature we’ve read on the subject – I no longer have any conceivable notion what it might have been). I feel like a strange combination of a fertile woman and a geriatric as I fumble to release my dose from the 7-day pill organiser box. I’ve no idea what good these things might be doing but there is definitely a placebo effect of taking 5455% of the Recommended Daily Allowance of Thiamin, one of the 35 ingredients that are crammed, incredibly into a tiny – well not exactly tiny – but swallowable capsule. I have no idea what Thiamin is or what it might do, but I already feel slightly dependent on it, and its companions in that little pill. And then there’s insemination itself. There’s a vague plan in my head and it’s all very straightforward. Donor arrives, bit of time alone, hands it over, donor leaves, inseminate. Too easy. Can it really be that simple? To put it rather dramatically, which tends to be my way, semen has wildly opposing properties: fertile, it gives life; infected, it takes it. And I’m going to put the stuff inside me. Probably repeatedly and frustratedly, over the next year or so. Which, I have to admit, makes me feel just a little apprehensive. But sperm and speculum issues aside, what I have realised is, that I’m ready for this. Prepared would be the wrong word. You can defrost the fridge-freezer, paint the nursery and read a parenting manual, but from watching friends who’ve done the baby thing, I don’t think you can ever really be prepared for the biggest change most people will ever experience in their lives. But you can be ready, and after thirty-four years in this world, I think for the first time, ready to get pregnant is what I am. Article: by Lindsey, West Yorkshire, United Kingdom 11th July 2012

Lesbian Fertility Journey - Annoying little BEEPS and Olympic Gold Swimmers

Like most people, I always look forward to the longer daylight hours of spring. This year though, I await it with a particular eagerness, because the lighter mornings will bring an end to frantic half-conscious scrabbling around in the dark for the thermometer, torch, pen and notepad. I’m not sure quite how she does it, but whilst I am still fumbling around on my bedside table sending the random paraphernalia of my nocturnal life in all directions, I invariably hear the smug BEEP of my partner’s thermometer: waking temperature taken, job done. Never mind the life transformation new parents undergo; we’re already experiencing a whole new world – and language – of BBT, ICI and FSH among others. Our collection of monthly charts is growing and a daily analysis of the ups and downs usually leads to me wondering whether typing “=OVULATION” into an Excel spread sheet might be worth a try. I’ve prodded and pondered on the texture of parts of my body I barely knew existed. And the Sarah Waters and Emma Donoghue novels have been shelved in favour of titles which usually include the words “lesbian” and then “insemination”, “conception” and/or "pregnancy”. The Americanisms – it seems most are from over the Atlantic – get a bit tedious, but we’re lucky such publications exist at all – I don’t suppose anyone looking for such material ten years ago would have had much success. One result of finding myself in a happy long-term lesbian relationship that I could not perhaps have predicted, was a serious interest in sperm. And I no longer find myself performing a dramatic squirm of disgust when the word is mentioned – spermatozoa (yes I’ve learnt the full name, and you need to trust me on this – that I just typed it with a serious and thoughtful expression on my face, no eeugh face or sperm squirm now). Try as I might though, I think I’ll always struggle a bit with looking at things from a scientific viewpoint; I need some frame of reference and sperm have become for me the athletes I’ll be following this year. It’s all about having a well-formed shape and getting up some speed as far as I can see. And if they do it in time for a gold medal in London this year, well, all the better – we’re ready for you. Because it’s amazing how your mind-set changes, and how in six months you can go from “we’d better start discussing the baby question before it’s too late to decide” to “right, where’s the sperm and when do we start?” It seems to happen so gradually, with each smug thermometer BEEP, you find yourself not only in the new world of BBT, ICI and FSH but wondering whether it’s too early to talk about which bedroom he or she would have, which high-chair seems like a good buy and will we get chance to go back to the gay book shop in London for that children’s book about the kids who have two mummies and/or two daddies or should we get it now? (We decided pre-definite sperm donor was a bit soon.) So the life transformation is already well underway – perhaps when we actually have a baby, this process will have made us so ready that we’ll barely notice it slip into our lives. Yes, parents reading this, I’m joking – I know – or rather, perhaps more to the point, I really have NO IDEA! So there you are: mittens and bootees might have a job to do sometime next winter, and as for my partner and I, we’ve got our eyes on the gold this summer, and next time the lighter mornings are on the way, perhaps we’ll be welcoming them with a new member of the family. And the nocturnal noise level might just have risen above that smug thermometer BEEP.

Lesbian couple give birth just five days apart using hairdresser sperm donor

TYING the knot in matching gowns, tiaras and hairstyles, lookalike lovers Anna Jones and Kirsty Cox were the picture of happiness But, a shadow of sadness marred the joy of the new Mrs and Mrs – they both dreamed of being a mum and feared it could never happen for them.
Anna, 28, and Kirsty, 23, loved caring for their little nieces and nephews but, unable to afford expensive fertility treatment, knew they would never be parents themselves. Until Anna’s sister Lorraine mentioned their plight to her hairdresser, Brian – and he agreed to help create their family.

With a sperm donor miraculously in place, the grateful couple decided to take it turns to try for a baby – expecting a long wait. But to their amazement Anna and Kirsty got pregnant within two weeks of each other, and gave birth just five days apart. Kirsty had daughter Scarlett-Marie, and then Anna produced son, Alfie. Now the pair are proud parents to two babies who are often mistaken for twins.

Beaming, Anna told the Mirror: “We are overjoyed. We’ve now got the perfect family although this time last year we thought we’d never have children of our own. “Brian has given us a wonderful gift and we are so grateful to him. It was a chance in a million that my sister’s hairdresser was thinking of becoming a sperm donor. “And the chances of Kirsty and I both getting pregnant at the first attempt must be pretty remote too!”

Anna and Kirsty, who live in Gloucester, had been together for six years but became civil partners in June 2010. Anna says: “It was the happiest day of our lives. But once we were married it brought home how much we wanted to be parents. “Every time my sisters’ children came to stay I’d tuck them into bed thinking, ‘I wish we could have a little one of our own’.

“We weren’t able to afford fertility clinics and knew we could be on the NHS waiting list for years. “We knew we’d make great parents, but told ourselves it probably wouldn’t happen and just had to accept it.” And that was that until sister Lorraine went to have her hair done and opened up to Brian.

Anna recalls: “Kirsty and I were watching TV when she got a text from Lorraine saying she’d found us a donor. “I thought Lorraine was just having us on and said, ‘Oh yeah?’ very sarcastically.” But moments later Anna’s phone rang. Anna says: “Lorraine told me her hairdresser was gay and understood how difficult it was for couples like us.” A week later Brian called round for tea.

Anna says: “He asked us loads of questions. Then he said we were lovely people and deserved the chance to be parents. “He didn’t want payment and he was happy to have no involvement in the child’s life if that’s what we wanted, so we knew there was no ulterior motive.” After a few more meetings and Brian proving he was in good health, the threesome agreed to start trying for a baby. But there was one problem.

Anna explains: “We both wanted to experience carrying a child and giving birth. So we decided it was fairest to take it in turns until one of us got pregnant.” The couple went online to learn how to artificially inseminate themselves using the donated sperm and a syringe, but when Brian arrived on the day were all nervous. Anna says: “We were giggling and kept chatting because we felt uncomfortable. But then I said, ‘Right, shall we get on with it?’ “I handed Brian a plastic beaker we’d bought especially for the job and Kirsty and I went into the bedroom and waited.”

Later, after they thanked Brian and he left, the couple agreed that Kirsty would go first and Anna did the insemination. Anna goes on: “Afterwards Kirsty lay on the floor with her feet up against the wall because we read that would increase the chances. I just thought this is never going to work.” A couple of weeks later Brian visited again for Anna. Then, a few days later Kirsty’s period was late. A first pregnancy test was negative, but the next day she did it again and was thrilled to find she was pregnant.

Anna recalls: “We were jumping around the kitchen with joy. We simply couldn’t believe this had happened on our first attempt.” Then two weeks later Anna started to get bad cramps. She says: “Kirsty kept joking that I was pregnant. But I thought ‘There’s no way.’ “But when my period didn’t arrive I did a test too. Positive. “We were in shock. I sent Brian a text telling him the news. He replied ‘Congratulations. I’m so happy for both of you’.

“When I went with Kirsty for her first scan the midwife thought we were sisters because we look so much alike.” And being pregnant together really strengthened their relationship. Anna says: “We got to feel each other’s bump when the babies started to kick. And it brought us even closer as a couple.” When Kirsty’s due date came and went they grew anxious. Anna says: “I kept telling her to hurry up because I was due soon.”

Anna and Kirsty wanted to be there for each other when the babies were born. But they became worried when the midwife told them they might go into labour at the same time. Anna recalls: “She said because we were two women living together our hormones were probably in sync.” At 16 days overdue, Kirsty went into hospital to be induced. Anna was by her side. Anna says: “She was squeezing my hand and I could feel my baby kicking. I was telling her to push but I felt scared because that was going to be me soon.” After 16 hours in labour, Kirsty gave birth to Scarlett-Marie. Anna says: “I held her and was laughing hard because she had little pursed lips just like Kirsty.”

Kirsty and Scarlett-Marie were kept in hospital for a couple of days before they could return to their home where Brian showed up at the front door with a huge bouquet of flowers in his hand. But later that day Anna started getting pains and the next day they were back at the hospital. Anna recalls: “This time around it was Kirsty holding my hand and telling me to breathe in and out.” After 48 hours in labour, Anna gave birth to her baby, Alfie. Anna says: “It was just absolutely amazing. Two babies born just five days apart.” Scarlett is now 11 weeks old and Alfie is just over 10 weeks.

Anna says: “We are loving every minute of being parents. We love watching them lying together and cooing to each other. It’s totally beautiful to see the bond between them. “And Brian visits the children almost every week. He is happy to be called Daddy, if that’s what we want. “When the children are older we will tell them that they were his amazing gift to us. We are just so grateful he helped us both become mums.” Brian’s name has been changed to preserve his anonymity.

Article: 23rd January 2012 www.mirror.co.uk

Pink Parenting Magazine to launch for the gay and lesbian community

Welcome to Europe’s first Premier Same Sex Parenting Magazine for the LGBT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual & Transgender) community.
In these modern times more gay people are becoming parents than ever before as many in the LGBT community seek to fulfil their dreams of having a family especially with so many countries around the globe now making same sex marriage available. Pink Parenting is here to do just that. Bringing you everything you need to start a family from surrogacy options, adoption and the legal aspects of being a modern family to what’s the best stroller out there on the market.

A SNEAK PEAK INTO THE AUDIENCE: While we are feverishly working on getting the statistics for the UK & Europe, our research has shown that:
According to the 2000 Census - SAME-SEX COUPLES IN THE UNITED STATES
• Census 2000 identified same-sex couples in every state and virtually every county in the United States.
• Individuals living in same-sex couples not only live throughout the country, but share all of the other attributes of the U.S.'s population.
• Individuals in same-sex couples contribute to the economy: 71% of them are employed compared with 65% of individuals in married couples.
• 65% of SS couples one partner is a homeowner. By comparison, one or both partners are homeowners in 43% of different-sex unmarried couples.
• More than 39% of same-sex couples in the United States aged 22-55 are raising children.


Unlike many other gay magazines, our demographic is LGBT couples between the age of 30 to 45 that are more interested in modern day life and having a family and growing out of the gay club scene. We are also working with many LGBT organizations to promote and distribute the magazine. The magazine is also available through the www.Pink-Parenting.com website and will soon be available via www.prideangel.com

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