Having a baby is an insanely huge undertaking, and I had a hard time reconciling that. You often have to reorganise your priorities, your life, even your sense of self to some degree, and I couldn’t silence the voices that told me that my fears were too "selfish" for motherhood. Not to mention, I was well aware of how society perceives gay parents. From the barrage of questions about who the "father" is, to stares and epithets from disapproving homophobes, to plain discomfort from those who are curious but afraid to ask how a child came to be from two women, I knew the path wasn’t an easy one.

The idea of pregnancy and childbirth didn’t sit well with me, either. I was nervous about being pregnant and the health concerns that could come as a result. Would I get sick of carrying around this parasitic creature inside my body and catering to its every need? And would giving up alcohol and caffeine mean that I’d also have to give up that glass-bottomed hut in Tahiti that had my next summer holiday written all over it? Clearly, I was not fully on board just yet.

There were conflicting emotions nosediving in my cerebrum when I took the plunge and went in for my first insemination. At this point, I realised that I wasn’t getting any younger, and that if this was something I wanted to do, I had better do it soon. And the more I thought about it, the more I realised I wanted a child for both my wife and me. So I put aside my doubts and navigated the invasive doctor’s visits, hot-flash-inducing fertility drugs, and hopeless efforts to track my cycle with thermometers and pee sticks and charts. But even when the doctor inserted specimen #9784, the potential half of my potential child’s genetic code, I still wasn’t sure exactly how to feel.

Walking around for two weeks not knowing if I was pregnant was an unsettling, oddly emotional experience. It’s weird to think you might be carrying the seedling of a little person in your gut. I started to feel like I could be pregnant; I found my hands magnetically drawn to my belly, where I’d hold the possible needlepoint-sized zygote. I noticed pregnant women around me and felt like I might be part of the club. I tried to watch my intake of caffeine, alcohol, and fish, just in case.

I vacillated between feeling intense excitement at the thought of being pregnant, experiencing waves of terror at the prospect, and then feeling totally relieved that I might not be. I kept these feelings to myself, which made me feel like I had swallowed a giant bowling ball. Perhaps I should have called my best buddy on the West Coast and shared my trepidation, or phoned my cousin who had just gone through the trials and tribulations of trying to get pregnant (and had a beautiful baby to show for it). Instead, I let the roller coaster of emotions run its course, which left me feeling completely exhausted and confused.

And then, I got the call from my doctor with my blood test results: I wasn’t pregnant, after all.