On Today's To Do List
You rush out from school as they are dismissing the first bus, hoping that no other staff members will see you and think, “Short timer! Blowing off work already. What a loser!” Hightailing it down to Georgetown, you pray to Asphalta, the goddess of parking for a space.
Scraping yet another chunk of your rainbow flag sticker off the rear bumper, you wedge the car in between a Lexus and a Ford F350 truck with construction equipment and debris all over it and rush into the RE’s office. You briefly consider a disguise, as your next insemination is strictly against doctor’s orders, but remain secure in the white lie you have carefully crafted in case anyone asks why you want your sperm if you’re prohibited from getting pregnant until September: “Cait wants to try this time.” (You just aren’t saying WHAT Cait wants to try.)
Luckily, the andrology lab tech has not left early, and greets you with two vials of ICI sperm, paperwork, and an enigmatic smile. You sign off, carefully place the vials in their ziplock bag and nestle the precious cargo amongst the dry ice.
Your wife arrives home and you immediately commence the highly romantic act of lesbian baby making. You both remain in bed for half an hour. Every so often, the love of your life whispers tenderly in your ear, “Turn over so the sperm can fully coat your retroflexed cervix.” After the appropriate amount of time has passed, you remain supine, and your gorgeous lover brings you Thai food in bed. [Ed: it’s my novel, I can write what I want!]
At the truly ungodly hour of 4:30 am, you wake up, repeat the thermometer drill, and remind yourself that A) all this is worth it if you get a baby, and B) 5 hours of sleep will seem like an impossible luxury once you have a kid, so get over your whiny self and get to sperminatin’! With deft hands, Cait skillfully and tenderly fills the syringe with the world’s most expensive liquid and performs the act. You impersonate a rotisserie chicken for the next half hour. When you wake again to begin the day, you sigh with relief. After debating whether or not to cancel the fertility acupuncture appointment scheduled for the afternoon, you realize you’re done with sperm, dry ice, syringes, and OPKs for this month (and gods willing, a long time to come). Now you just have to worry about spending a weekend with your wife, mother, stepfather, sister, her 33-year-old paramour, and a few otherT assorted characters in a rental house in New Hampshire for a snooty prep school graduation. (Paramour not staying in house, thank god.) Oh, and then a high-society Jewish wedding Sunday evening when you get home, just to round things out. And you won’t be able to drink at any of it!
BUT NONE OF THAT MATTERS, ‘CAUSE YOU’VE GOT SPERMS IN YOU!