Fertility Garden

October 4, 2009 fertilitygarden

As a single woman, turning 40 in the gloomy dead of Northern California winter, I had only one thing on my mind.  Sperm banks.  The affair with the Antarctic pilot had not worked out.  He was 8 years younger and too perverse for me, though I loved parts of his mind and his vast education and of course, his time on the ice.  And prior to the pilot, the affair, however briefly, had not worked out with ‘Adonis,’ my neighbor with two canoes in his garage, skiis, backpacks and a handsome truck.  I think I fell in love with his garage.

I had once off-handedly said to my soon-to-be Norwegian sister in-law that if ‘it’ did not happen by age 38, I was heading to the sperm bank.  ‘It’ was, of course, the fairy tale.  Meet the prince, marry the prince, mate with the prince and have adorable babies on a mutual, colorful, loving adventure together as a family.

So instead, there I sat in the parking lot of my ob/gyn’s office under cold, grey skies waiting for my appointment and thinking I would make myself a baby on the first try.


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