Enter Gaby

She’s here. The child I could have been a mother of. Kinda. Sorta.

When James and Kris approached me jokingly (but really not) about giving them an extra egg, I laughed it off–I was too old to be in the business of donating eggs. But of course I dwelled on it for weeks on end reading extensively about the bioethics of fertility medicine. As close as I was to them, and as alluring it was to pass on my genes without financial or legal responsibility, ultimately, I decided it wasn’t the right decision for me.

When I saw my bestie last year, I sensed something was off. Three months later she would disclose she was in New York (Connecticut) not for a business meeting, but to have fertilized eggs of James and Kris (surrogate egg donor) implanted. Intellectually I knew she was telling me as early as she could, but I still had to work through the feeling of not being privy to the intimate arrangement of my very good friends.

Thankfully, I came around quickly enough and was part of the support network of the unconventional pregnancy. When the bestie needed to vent because a gay man was still not a woman and didn’t quite appreciate the physical sacrifice she was undertaking, I was there. (Not that I really know what it’s like to be pregnant, but I pretended.)

Well, she’s here now, this child of James and Kris. Gone are the days of hitting gay clubs in Chelsea and Fire Island, watching RuPaul’s Drag Race, or James chastising me about what a hot mess I was. My gay male friends, the couple that I sat with at wedding tables, the ones who were up for a late night drink on a school night, the ones I would make stupid jokes about tea-bagging with…

“We welcomed this lady earlier today and our lives will never be the same,” James posted on Facebook. That’s right. It certainly won’t be the same for me either. I love you Gaby. I am one of your aunties and will always be here to support and guide you. And I knew your parents in the days before they were parents (sigh). And perhaps I could have been your biological mother. But no matter, I am here for you.

 

 

Blues Hill Stone Barns

A weekend getaway to the famed farm-to-table Blue Hills Stone Barns with the gay husband Shawn and his colleague Justine, a fellow single gal with no kids. We were chatting and strolling through the farm premises when a tour guide called out to us.

“Hey, do you want to collect chicken eggs?”

Blue Hill Stone BarnsSure, why not. We stood next to a family with two little girls, roughly nine and six years old. We needed to be apprised of safety rules before walking into the fenced area.

“How many eggs do you think a hen lays in one week?” The tour guide asked.

The younger girl takes a guess.

“Forty!”

Correct answer: about six, or one a day or so. (Woah! Prolific. I have newfound respect for chickens.)

“The chickens in here are all hens. It means they lay eggs but since they are never fertilized, these eggs will never become chicks.”

“Wow, like mine,” I say a little too loudly, inviting a laugh from Justine, a pause from the tour guide, and dropped jaws  from the parents of the little girls.

“Their eggs are never fertilized.”

We make our way to the chicken coop, where the tour guide shows us how to reach under the chicken to collect the egg. But she’s sitting on it! Like an expecting mother! I’m overcome with guilt and pity for the hen whose potential baby I’m going to steal. The tour guide observes my reluctance.

“It’s okay. She might try to peck you, but you can just reach your hand and she’ll get up,” demonstrating, “like this.”

Justine, who told me she froze hers about a year ago, went for it. I squirmed and fought to rationalize that the hens’ eggs, unlike mine, were abundant in supply. Still, I chose to avoid a direct confrontation with the ova owners, scavenging two coops to pilfer unattended eggs.

And there they were, in my basket. Two good eggs.

Two good eggs.
Two good eggs.

Frozen, When Liquids Turn Into Solids, and the Sans Draw a Blank

Apparently while I spent my Sunday afternoon being a NYC single gal cliche–packing up the last of my belongings at the ex-boyfriend’s apartment–a mom friend had to rush her two-year-old daughter to the emergency room to stitch up a gash on her forehead. Desperate to keep her daughter still, she sang the Let It Go song from Frozen while an attractive plastic surgeon worked his craft. 

Frozen. Isn’t that the demarcation of the Great Divide, the haves and the have-nots? It’s a reference point the entire population of haves know, and one the have-nots do not (unless unlike me, you’re an excellent auntie and spend ample time with nephews and nieces.) The world bursts into song and when they catch my blank stare, they all say, “It’s the theme song from Frozen.”

The only thing I can think of is whether I need to get my eggs frozen.