My blood boils when I think about the pure white trash stock from whence I came, and how many babies have been born in my family out of wedlock and under the influence of alcohol and drugs. Those hooers are fucking fertile. Two cousins around my age had their first kid when they were each 16 (sibling rivalry much?). One of them appeared in an MTV documentary in the 1990's about polygamous lifestyles (allow me to join in your chorus of "what the shit?") and subsequently lost custody to the paternal grandparents. Because the baby daddy was in jail. The other cousin is a drug addict and thus had both of her kids (sired by different baby daddies, of course) removed from her custody by their paternal grandparents. Because their baby daddies are both drug dealers (guess that answers the "how did you meet?" question) and/or in jail. Ah, the beautiful South. Backwoods Mississippi. Where all the debutantes live. I didn't realize that most cotillions end in childbirth. My stepsister (also a veritable Southern Belle) had her kid out of wedlock when she was 18 and is primarily supported by my dad. He and my stepmother are basically raising her kid. She celebrated her kid's first birthday by throwing him a party at Hooters. Jesus.
As I contemplate how many cycles I have left in me with my own eggs, my genetic stock gives me pause. I am the zebra in this herd of retarded horses. Would I be doing my kid(s) a service by giving them a different gene pool? One that's a little cleaner? Can nurture conquer nature? I have so many options to sort through and my mind is racing as I wait for the RE second opinion/last chance consult. I am shuffling the deck with his-and-hers Clomid and IUI(s), IVF/ICSI with new protocol(s), minimal stimulation IVF/ICSI, donor egg IVF/ICSI, donor sperm IUI(s), and making an appointment with an adoption lawyer to discuss home studies. Head. Is. Spinning. Sometimes my analytic mind bites me in the ass.