Sperm, not hamburgers

My wife and I are trying to have a baby. Well, she is–I’m old, she’s young. I essentially live in an age-gap romance trope. But I digress. Nothing in life prepares you for the roller coaster that is two lesbians trying to make a baby.

There’s the process of finding a doctor who won't beat you over the head with the cross. There’s an insane number of tests involved before you can even proceed to a full consultation. There’s finding a donor.

Let’s begin with finding a donor. Literal on-line shopping for half the genetic material of your future child. I did not anticipate the feelings I would have while scrolling and scrolling and scrolling. We discovered we wanted different things in a donor. She wanted personality and someone who loves his momma. I wanted innate intelligence and confidence. According to my wife, I was plotting our child’s villain origin story. I mean, that’s what we’re doing though, right? Choosing and purchasing an origin story?

Moving on. Someone needs to make a damn flow chart for fertility. First day of her cycle, call the doc. Some number of days later, ultrasound. At some point, she starts taking one med and then eventually switches to another. Then, there’s the “trigger shot,” which has to be administered within a very specific time frame. Then, insemination. Sound like I don’t know what’s going on? I don’t. I show up when and where I’m told to show up. I’ve never felt more like a dude in my life.

Speaking of trigger shots, let’s discuss needles. Particularly, my fear of them and my wife’s need for me to administer said trigger shot 72 hours before insemination. Maybe it's 48 hours? Neither here nor there. Y’all, I couldn’t do it the first time. I was terrified. My wife had to drop drawers in the basement of someone else’s house so our friend (and lesbian fertility mentor) could put a needle in her left butt cheek. I was determined to overcome my fears after this humiliation. So she dropped drawers in our bedroom. “Oh shit” was all I could muster as I tried and failed and then tried again. I’m surprised she hasn’t left me.

Lesbian fertility mentors should be a thing, by the way.

You might be wondering how many times have I seen my wife in stir-ups with another woman’s head between her legs. I’ve lost count. Sometimes I play Wordle now.

You know what I do remember? That first insemination. I remember that. I held her hand and I thought to myself, “that woman is inseminating my wife as I sit here.” Yeah, no one prepares you for that. Thank god we have a woman doc.

The moment I truly realized the hilarious absurdity of this roller coaster ride happened on a day I was working from home. My wife was going into work late and informed me that she would pick up hamburgers to take to the office for lunch. As lunch approached, I called out from the back of the house, “Babe, don’t you need to go pick up your burgers?”

“No, I haven’t ordered them yet,” she called back.

“Didn’t I hear you on the phone ordering hamburgers?”

“No.” She responded, in a tone I don’t recognize. “You heard me order sperm, not hamburgers.”

Sperm, y’all, not hamburgers. What a fucking trip this is.