“If we get pregnant this month, we’ll name the baby “Logan,”” I joke. The time: 7 years ago. The place: Boston, Ma. The dialogue: my husband and I try to figure out schedules. He has to fly out at 8:30 AM. I have a doctor appointment at 9:00 AM. The complication: we have to get a semen sample to the doctor so, in a loving and romantic way, she can try to get me pregnant. Since the sample only lives for about an hour, my husband can’t “donate” before he leaves the house. Being the creative, problem solving people that we are, and being completely desperate, we decide on an ingenious solution. I’ll drop my husband off at the airport. He’ll run inside, do his bidnus in the men’s room (hopefully without getting caught by a camera, security guard or amorous man), run the sample back out to me, and I’ll break every speed limit to get back across town to the doctor’s office before the expiration time.
This is not how I imagined things would happen as a teenager. At 16, I thought every event would be roses and mountaintops. I had not anticipated, even for a minute, turkey basters and stirrups and “keep your hips elevated for the next 5 minutes and we’ll see what sticks.”
So, I’m thinking about 17 year old girls who get pregnant and friends who can’t and how worked up people get over other people’s sex lives. And I’m glad the doctor decided to open her doors early that day, because the last thing my husband needed was an “indecent exposure” annotation on his legal record. Fun story, lousy introduction to future employers.