I get the forms through on Thursday, and I look at them. Legalese and a few spaces for signatures, or in other words, all our parental rights. I mean yes, we can withdraw our consent any time til the embryos thaw, but this is the part where we have to actively give them over.

So I look at the forms and I contact a couple of friends. "Can I ask you a favour?" I say. "Can you try to talk me out of it?"

I get various reactions. The first friend asks if I'm sure I'm being wise. "Does your husband want me to do this?" she says.

The second can see the sense in it and nods slowly. "That's a hard one, though," she admits. "Let me have a think and get back to you."

The third jumps on the suggestion with an enthusiasm bordering on glee, but immediately starts prefacing sentences with, "Now, I'm just trying to do the job you gave me here..." When he hits the first tough point he looks positively apprehensive.

But through the conversation with this third friend, I realise something: I'm not very worried about how I'll feel later. Will I experience grief watching this potential child reach milestones? Interact with my own children? Weather hardships? I don't know, but I don't care - I know why we've made this decision, and I'll get through the rest, either way.

The questions that still play on my mind come this weekend involve the feelings of other people: Will our children resent our choice? How will our parents feel? And to a certain extent they involve boundaries: How much should we give? In the best case/in the worst case? It could be a fine line, and there'll always be someone who disagrees with us on where to draw it.

I'm still waiting on my first two friends, and in the meantime, you know this merry-go-round better than either of them. And I'm ready, at this point, to hear the worst of whatever anyone has to say. So I wonder, if it's not too much trouble, can I ask you a favour? Can you try to talk me out of it?

Go.

After we announced our engagement, my mother said, "I'm de-mothering. I'm de-mothering." She repeated this mantra whenever she was overcome with the instinct to fuss and interfere. "It's up to you two to work things out together now," she said. "But you're sensible, and he's a nice boy."

The formal discussion process for our embryo donation started nearly two weeks ago, and so far we have progress and answers and new questions and outpourings - a healthy amount of each of those.

We all ask: How many people would we tell?

And we all say: The children, of course - yours and ours. They should know from fairly early on, and we should update their understanding of it as they mature. Then the bigness of the deal of it - that's up to them.

Then we all ask: What about the rest of the family?

And we all say: It wouldn't be a secret. Two sets of grandparents are already waiting to know what'll become of the extra embryos.

And she adds: If it were me, I'd be talking through it with my mum already. But could you tell her not to say anything to the people who should hear it from us, until after they've heard it from us? Not that it would be the end of the world, but ideally...

Then we all breathe our sighs of relief. It's good to be on the same page. It's one of the reasons we've chosen to go with known recipients, rather than leaving the choice to the clinic. Relinquishing responsibility is easier when you're ceding it to someone you have faith in.

Then the psychologist says: How would you feel if these two decided to terminate the baby?

And we pause a while because it's a difficult thing to imagine.

At last we answer: It would have to be their choice. From this standpoint, we all have similar ideas, but if push comes to shove it'll be their baby, and it won't be our place to say.

And the psychologist agrees that the "gift" needs to be complete and unconditional, right from the very beginning.

I'm de-mothering. I'm de-mothering.

I want you to see me standing, serene, on a cliff top. I'm upright, with my shoulders back and my chin out and my hands folded neatly in front of me. If you like, you can add long hair, flapping gently in a light breeze, or lips, loosely gathered in a soft smile. You can peer at my toes, planted barefoot in the mud, spaced wide and firm, with the earth oozing between them. My hips are square and strong. My chest expands with unhurried breaths. In all this, what you must see is my stillness, my confidence, my calm.

That is how I see myself most days. On the other days, I dance. I become whirling motion, moved by the music, thrown around by a rhythm I don't control. On those days, I choose to close my eyes, to feel the world tilt up in my living room as I surrender my powers of vision and give in to a cacophony I bring upon myself, swayed but not falling, bent but responding, leaping, and shuffling, and turning around.

Rarely, I weep. I curl into myself, squeezing up like a sponge to wring out the sadness. I do this not because I am uncertain, but because I am becoming certain, and I know (after all I've been through) that these tears will help me buy my passage home.

And I know (after all we've been through) that I want to tell you how to see me. I stand. I dance. I weep. All of these are who I am.

Donating our embryos
I found out this week

What can I tell you about a vision I can't quite yet see?