I’m sad when I think about the window closing on having another baby. I could put my twelve years of parenting knowledge to good use. I’d probably be pretty good at it; the third time is a charm.
I thought of three ways of going about doing this. The first would be to go out to a bar and find an attractive and charismatic man. This was a real suggestion my grandma gave to my sister after her divorce. My grandma was worried my thirty-year-old sister was going to be childless and she told her, “You could always go out and get pregnant from a guy at the bar… we’ll raise your baby as a family.”
I thought the last part was really sweet. My grandma had all her four children by the time she was twenty, it was a different time, now thirty is the new twenty. It was also a time when there was no ancestory.com blowing up everyone’s genius plans to get a baby by heading to the bar while ovulating.
The other issue with this is not knowing family history. What if you left their house and saw some evidence they were a complete whack-job? Then you got to go home and pull some Revolutionary Road shit, sitting on a garden sprinkler trying to power wash your uterus.
The second way I considered was writing letters to all the male brilliant minds of our time, asking them if they’d generously spare some sperm. It could come off as psycho, but given the size of their egos, I’d assume they’d be flattered and would even consider it after performing some type of background check. They might deem me as too stupid though, which could hurt. However, I would promise to give the baby a daily cold plunge.
If you get that genius sperm, and then raise the kid to be loving and kind, who knows what they would do… they could really change the world for the better. I remember a few weeks before I got married, I was at the Bigfoot Lodge in West LA, with my sister and cousin. We were standing outside talking to some guys, and the one I was talking to gave me a memorable lecture on the importance of mating with someone smart. Maybe he was recently dumped for a Rhodes Scholar, but he had a passionate argument. I was ready to get that ring on my finger so I could meet my future kids, so I nodded along, and thought, “Well good looks also get people far in life… some could argue farther.”
I was talking to my brother about the artificial insemination route, and he thought it was super scientific. He said, “It’s really expensive. Maybe your work will pay for it.”
I told him, it’s not what you think. I looked up the company online. It’s in Seattle and you basically inject yourself with this de-thawed turkey baster of sperm. He didn’t believe me, but it’s true. Google it.
The third method would be asking my ex-husband for sperm so the baby would be a full-blooded sibling to my two kids. I thought about this more, and how we are barely able to utter a few sentences to each other without a rage outburst, and I decided it would never happen. Not even if I was Daniel Day-Lewis with the longest sperm-sucking milkshake straw.
When talking on the phone with my sister I decided to fill out a dating profile on EHarmony. I answered the 400 questions about myself, and then started shopping for men. I realized I looked for the wrong kind of man when left to my own devices because I matched well with libertarians who are super into fitness. I didn’t at one time say I liked camping or hiking, and every guy I had off-the-chart compatibility with was in a kayak in their profile picture.
I figured, don’t fuck with the algorithm, and just click the heart buttons. So I matched with people. Then I sent someone a message, and they wrote me back, but I couldn’t read it without buying the subscription. Eharmony wants you to find a partner, for 400 smack-a-roos.
So I deleted my account. To be honest, I was a bit freaked out reading the profiles and people saying they’re looking for someone to grow old with or for a deeply fulfilling relationship. I have a pretty full schedule, and I’ve recently been assigned the kids’ Dungeon Master on Wednesday nights.
I read an interview with Angelina Jolie, and I thought it was so lovely how she talked about her kids. She said, “… we’re close friends.”
Maybe this made me eager to bring another friend into the fold. I think about how my kids will be off to college in six to seven years, and then what am I going to do? Go kayaking? No thanks. A baby will stretch out this fun time for another 10 years.
Last week the kids had spring break; they had a staycation while I went to work. This is the first time I’ve been able to leave them for long stretches and know they’ll be fine. With a baby, were setting back the clock on our freedom. I’m happy with how our lives are right now. I won’t be impulsive about a new addition, but whenever I hear a fifty-something woman being interviewed on Armchair Expert and she talks about her preteen kid, I quickly google her age. Plenty of women have kids at 43. I still have a year to commit to this plan.
We have so much fun together. I know my first time was a charm, and my second time was a charm. I guess I just want to keep the good times rolling. And for some reason, now I really want to take the kids camping.
