When I was in junior high, they never explained what to do if you wanted to have a baby and you didn’t have a man in your life. Or sperm. Or at least a man whose sperm you wanted to get in the regular way. I definitely have men in my life. I love men. But we’ll talk about that later. My point is that I didn’t have a man in my life whose sperm I could have by just asking nicely.
So, after we decided to have a baby, we needed to find a way to get some sperm. Most couples don’t have this problem. At least that’s what I thought until I found that almost 10% of couples experience infertility problems. But 100% of lesbians experience infertility problems, if you count both of them together as a couple, which most people do, but some people do not. But that’s up to the Supreme Court to decide right now. Do you see how confusing this is? Let’s move on.
We needed sperm. That was obvious. And we weren’t the only ones that had noticed. My uncle did, too. He called me one night around my birthday in 2007. This is a man, whom I love, who is so full of love that he can almost never contain himself. His love is especially hard to contain when he’s had a few adult beverages and he’s on the phone with you and it’s your birthday.
I picked up the phone.
“Happy birthday. Are you going to have kids?” he says.
Do I know you? Oh. It’s Uncle Bernie.
“We are thinking about it.”
I cringed. I had already said too much! I shouldn’t have said anything. I thought about slamming down the phone. Faking a bad connection. He had a cheap cell phone. I could blame it on him.
But the door was open, and he unabashedly walked through it.
You should. Best thing that ever happened to me, he said. He knew a woman who wanted to have a child so she just went to a bar one night when she was ovulating (we ladies, we know these things using our supreme powers of intuition) and picked up a guy, and boom had a baby. You could do that, my uncle offered. It was inexpensive. And there would be lots of men who would be up for the task, he assured me.
I tried to picture it. But I doubted that it would work. Allow me to list the reasons:
1. Denver doesn’t have any bars. OK, that is a lie. But I didn’t know where any of them were. Especially ones with slutty, fertile men.
2. I would have to learn how to pick up men at said bars. That would take practice, and I didn’t have much time. I might have to take a picking-up-men-at-bars class and that would cost money. Wasted, I might add because I probably would only use those skills one other time, when I wanted to have another baby.
3. It might be really hard to track down the same slutty, fertile guy using only his first name and a foggy, well-drink induced memories of our one-night stand, if I wanted to have a second baby.
4. (And this is probably the most important one.) Pam would not let me.
So, this option was out. Next?