Friday, July 8, 2011


Chances rule men, and not men chances.

Chance is perhaps God’s pseudonym when he does not want to sign.

There’s no such thing as chances; and what to us seems merest accident springs from the deepest source of destiny.

We flipped a coin for our new donor.  There were two solid candidates and we got caught in the politics of the blond kid vs. the brown one, so we took our unconscious prejudices out of the game and let George Washington and the U.S. Mint decide.

A trick my dad taught me is to toss a coin, then see if you’re disappointed with the results; that’s how you know what you really wanted.  Turns out that Heather, George Washington and I all wanted the brown baby.  Maybe it’s because we miss the Persian one, although I think deep down it’s because they have a picture of the brown donor when he was still a baby, and the blond one is maybe four or five years old in his.  I mean, jesus, if you put a baby in front of us, we're gonna bite.  As my dad would tell you, nobody who wants to have a baby is thinking about the long-term realities of a child-- but, more to the point, everything about this process is about having a baby.  The infant, for us, is the long-term; right now, there's so much in the way of vials and phone calls and timing that true parenthood is hazy at best.

Last night, we remembered that, oh, if Friday is day 11 of Heather's cycle, we should perhaps have sperm on hand this weekend.  Out came the computer and up came the site, while Heather held her credit card at the ready.  Then we remembered that the Fairfax Cryobank does this stupid whore selfish dickhead bullshit thing wherein they offer no weekend shipping option, even though we all motherfucking know that FedEx delivers on Saturdays.  I promptly freaked out, because it was after 7pm Central, and Fairfax's offices close at 5pm Eastern, placing us firmly in the SOL time zone.  So it was 8am Central when I talked to a lady there who said that she'd have to confirm that FedEx delivered to our clinic's zip code.  

"No, that's cool, they delivered it on a Saturday last time," I said.

"Um, yeah, well,  we have to confirm.  Do you mind holding?"

She was nice enough, but jeez.  I would've felt bad for her-- it was early in the morning, and she was just doing what she had to-- but Heather is going to visit family next month, likely during ovulation, and time's a-wasting.  I sat here, vibrating with anxiety, and, when I pecked Heather on the cheek and told her I had taken care of all of it, she said, "Of course you did, baby," and rolled over.  I should have ordered different sperm just to screw with her, but it's too late now.

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