It had been a long-standing joke since J and I became friends. He, the gay man, and I, the perpetual single gal in the city, would have a child together. Someday, as in decades away, and that kid would be fucking awesome. It didn’t matter who came in or out of our lives, relationship wise, we knew that eventually our kid would be born to this world, and he or should would be witty, sarcastic and have an affinity for striped socks. It’s just how it would be. End of story.
That was almost 10 years ago.
Then a couple years ago J meant someone. It wasn’t a fling, a casual dating situation, but instead, instant love. J had finally found the do or die type of love that you usually only find in the fairy tales. J was intensely happy, and when he and his partner decided to make it official by tying the knot, it all became so real. This was it; we were grown-ups now and J was moving on to the next chapter in life.
Now that J and his partner have settled into their marriage they’re thinking about having kids. Although they’ve yet to decide if they want to adopt or have children of their own, they have, however, created a very short list of women in their lives whom they think would make stellar egg donors. For reasons, I can’t possibly surmise, I have been placed on this list. No, no… totally laugh! I did. I blew Bloody Mary out my nose over brunch when they told me.
I then proceeded to bask in the glory of the compliments and reasons that came with the decision to put me on the list. And guess what, you guys, most of it had to do with my kind heart! And the fact that I cry over three-legged dogs, still sleep with stuffed animals, can’t live without strawberry milkshakes and say “fuck” more than any decent “lady” should. Oh, and they like my curly hair, the mop for which I’ve never owned a brush. Basically, my eggs are a fucking catch despite them being rejected my NYU when I tried to sell them when I first moved to New York City. People don’t want to pay for eggs that are hopped up on anti-depressants. J, on the other hand, feels otherwise.
I thanked him profusely for the compliments, then thanked him for the amazing brunch, the several cocktails and then for letting me sleep on his couch with his dog because I was too intoxicated to go home – and I like to pretend I live in the West Village anyway.
When I woke up the next morning after the boys had left for work, I helped myself to their fancy coffeemaker, before watching some cable then going back to my neck of the city. I looked at their perfect apartment, the immaculate detail in everything they own and how they have it arranged, and knew it would be a beautiful place to raise a child. Not only that, but they’re two amazing men who any child would be more than lucky to have as fathers. And while I thought in that moment I could let them keep my name on the list, as I walked home less than 20 minutes later; I knew I couldn’t do it.
I love J. I love him to death. I’ve known him longer than I’ve known most people, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to insure his complete happiness. But I also know myself. I know, although I try to fight it, I do get attached too easily. I know that it would not be an easy task to go through all the necessary steps to make my eggs ready to be procured, then hand them over to a surrogate (he knew better than to ask me to pop out a damn kid for him.)
I knew that every time I looked at that child, knowing full well that it was part of me, I wouldn’t be able to handle it. It would likely ruin my relationship with J, devastate me if I never had a child of my own, and probably emotionally destroy me to a degree. And that right there would be so unfair to everyone who signed up for the situation, that it would cruel to even consider it any further.
Since that day, J and I have discussed it and he understands. He understands that it is a lot to ask of someone, so he doesn’t hold a grudge. He said that in holding it against me would be just as unfair than if I agreed to something that I feared might be detrimental to us all at some point.
It’s only been a couple months, but now J and his partner are looking into adoption. They’ve realized that there are so many children in the world who need a home, and they’d like to provide a home for one or, knowing J and his heart, a dozen of them.
So, here I am, sitting here with all my eggs in tact; well, except the ones that are dying thanks to my rapid aging process because the fucking devil refused to answer my phone calls about the whole selling of the soul thing.
They are a wonky lot, these eggs of mine, but I’m not really great with parting with pieces that belong to me. So, for now they’re staying put. And considering the amount of chocolate I’ve consumed in the past hour, every inch of my insides is really happy to be there.