I, for one, hate it when food goes bad in the refrigerator. It says to me that I (we) have too much. We have it too good. Now, wifesy and I have always enjoyed our designer foodie tastes since we’ve been together. By this I mean, we may not vacation in Bali, but we’re damn well going to have the expensive beer or the $7-a-pouch designer ravioli if we want it.
Still, there’s a part of me that loses it when food goes to waste. It doesn’t happen all that often, but when it does, my insides cringe. Perhaps, wifesy and I went out to dinner too frequently this week and now all the produce is turning. I mean, right now, there are artichokes in the crisper that I am worried about. So, last night I said, “that’s it” and I rounded up most of the good, fresh, veggies and made some kind of ramen-y, chinese-tasting thing with everything that still looked viable tossed all together.
As wifesy and I ate dinner, I struck up a light conversation. “You know,” I began. “I read on this website that clinics won’t even take your eggs…they won’t even touch them, to freeze them, nor to swish ‘em around with some sperm, and make a baby omelette if you are a day past 45 years old.”
Wifesy is 43.
Wifesy said, “Come on. There’s got to be a clinic that takes eggs after someone is 45 years old! How did Annie Leibovitz have a baby?”
Now, I think Annie did have a baby past 45 years of age, but she has more money than God. And when you have more money than God, you can do crazy things like name your baby Apple or give your son Maddox his own private Vietnamese language teacher or buy your son an entire movie production in China where he can have a movie-making experience with a Mr. Miyagi of his very own. We don’t have that kind of money. We have enough to live on and a little extra leftover for designer beer and a fully stocked bar.
I said to wifesy, “I really don’t think they’ll take them after you’re 45. And the in-vitro success rates go like this: 30-35% for women under 35. 25% for women 35-37. 15-20% for women 38-40…” I stopped there and said, “I have one year left in the 20%-ish range,” and then I added, “And your award winning group is the 6-10% range for women ages 40+.”**
These are not good odds. I’ve always felt that I would have kids somewhere buried in the deepest recesses of my mind. I suppose I’ve always thought I’d have them somewhere – in that well meaning, starring her tonight! marquee-place of my brain – because I fancy myself a non-a**hole. And I’ve always felt that non-a**holes have an absolute duty to make children in order to balance out all the full-on a**holes having kids. And we all know, the full-on a**holes have the kids at a much faster, non-thinking, rate than the non-a**holes. That’s my – based on a playground mentality – reason-for-making-a-baby theory. I think it’s beautiful.
Then wifesy said, “Well, how in the hell did Katie Segal have a baby? She had a baby in her 40’s.”
It is easy to see, we are both in denial.
Now, the oldest woman on record to have a baby WITH HER OWN EGG was a 57 year old woman in Portland, Oregon in the 1950’s. (This lends weight to my theory that you can grow just about anything with this much sunlight available on the west coast.)
As I see it, wifesy and I need another approximately 5 years. We’ve JUST settled in Southern California and if our plan works out, we’ll be moving AGAIN in another 2 months or so. Then, finally, we’ll start looking for a place to buy. MAYBE.
Truth be told, if either one of us could fall over a sofa with her chocolate bar slipping into my peanut butter – like the straights do – we would’ve had a baby by now. Lord knows, it’s not for lack of trying. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. But, that ain’t the way it works. So, we are forced to OVER-think it. And while we do, our artichokes start to turn in our respective crispers.
You know, it’s funny. I used to do a bit in my act where I talked about having a baby in my 80’s. Man, I was doing this bit back in my 20’s when the life before me seemed like it was endless. You see, with technology – now – women can have babies at almost any age – you just have to use younger donor eggs. (From your own eggs, that’s a whole other story.)
I used to joke about how this arrangement was kind of perfect. “I’d be in a wheelchair, my baby in a stroller. I’d get some kind of clip where I could attach the stroller to my wheelchair. The conjoined contraption would become like this geriatric motorcycle with a baby in the sidecar. And we’d whisk around town like that…both of us bald, both of us eating baby food, both of us taking a poo where ever we damn well pleased.” Perfection. And just when I’d become tiresome enough to my kid, when he or she entered young adulthood, I’d croak. Hopefully, leaving them enough money to get their ya-yas out before building a family of their own.
Quickly, this joke is all becoming the truth. For my life has felt like it’s gone by with the speed that it takes to blink my own eyes. Every minute of it, I’ve been grateful for. I just hope I get to enjoy those artichokes before it’s too late.
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