Mommy Man

by Jerry Mahoney

  Oh, poor Paco. He didn’t know the effect Drew and I had on people. Maybe Kristen’s previous gays had bought into his baller act, but we were going to scoop out the teddy bear that was surely lurking below the surface and make him love us. In a few months, every visit with us would be a hug-a-palooza. By the time our baby was born, we’d be the guests of honor at his familia fiestas, where his relatives fly up from Mexico just for a taste of his famous homemade hot sauce. “Viva Drew y Jerry!” they’d all shout as they raised their glasses of Tecate and spiked horchata.

  Sure, sit on your hands now, Paco. I know where this is headed.

  Our caseworker Maxwell glanced down at a clipboard, which contained detailed instructions on how he was supposed to conduct this meeting. “Kristen,” he said, resting his finger on item number 1. “Tell us why you decided to become a surrogate.”

  Kristen shrugged. “I like havin’ babies. I’m good at it.” There was a slight pause and then, “I know how happy it’ll make ’em.” She motioned toward us to indicate who she meant by “’em.”

  Then it was our turn. “Drew and Jerry, why do you want to be parents?”

  That was the question, at least. All Drew heard was, “You can talk now.”

  “First of all, thank you for driving up here from San Diego to meet us,” he began. “I know the 405 is hell at this hour. I’m just blown away thinking about what’s brought us together today. I mean, did you ever think you’d be driving up to Los Angeles to have a baby for a couple of gays? Paco, are you the husband of the year or what?”

  Maxwell cut him off. “Guys, we have a lot to cover in this meeting.”

  Drew just kept yapping. “By the way, your kids are gorgeous. Okay, what grades are they in, starting with Joshua?”

  Maxwell glanced at the clock. “We usually suggest that everyone go out afterward to get to know each other better. This meeting is primarily intended to discuss the implications of . . .”

  Kristen cut him off, assuring Drew, “We’ll talk at lunch.”

  I realized Drew never addressed Maxwell’s original question, about why we wanted to be parents. “I’m terrified of kids,” I confessed. I immediately realized that was probably not the best way to start, but it got everyone’s attention. “What I mean is, the way people get tongue-tied when they meet a celebrity, I sometimes get that way with kids, because everything we take for granted is something new and amazing for them. I’m so impressed by the things kids do. I think, ‘Wow! He knows all the Pokemons!’ or ‘She can count to ten in Spanish!’ You know how a kid at the playground will say, ‘Mommy, watch this!’ and then they hang upside down from the monkey bars or something? And the mom doesn’t even look up from talking to her friend or sending a text? I’m sitting there thinking, ‘That’s awesome! Do it again!’ I told myself when I have a kid, I’m always going to watch them on the monkey bars.

  “But Drew—you should see him with kids. I’ve never met anyone as good with kids as him. He gets them. It doesn’t matter how old they are, whether they’re shy or outgoing, geeks or jocks, he knows just what to say, just how to make them laugh. Put him in a room with a kid, and he’ll be their best friend within thirty seconds. I don’t know how he does it. But any little boy or girl who has Drew as a dad is going to be the luckiest kid in the world. He needs to be a dad, and I need to be a dad with him because I wouldn’t want to do it with anyone else.”

  Drew clutched my hand tightly. Kristen smiled. Maxwell made a check mark on his clipboard. “Okay, next question.”

  I soon realized we’d just been asked the only two icebreakers on Maxwell’s list. The meeting then took an immediate and very dark turn. The real purpose of this introductory session was to make sure the surrogate and the intended parents were all on the same page regarding any issues that may arise during the pregnancy. What if the fetus tests positive for a genetic disease? What if there are birth defects? Down syndrome? What tests would we be willing to perform, and what actions would we be willing to take?

  They were just hypotheticals, but we needed to provide definitive answers. The only thing worse than learning your fetus had health issues would be to find out your surrogate had different views on how to handle them. Every decision parents face in only the worst-case scenario we had to make up front.

  It was terrifying—to us, at least. Kristen had been through a meeting just like this the last time she’d been a surrogate, so she was quick with her answers.

  “No, no, oh yeah, yeah, I don’t care, fine, whatever, you bet, it’s the IPs’ decision.”

  “IPs?” I asked.

  “Intended parents,” she muttered. “That’s you.” She laughed. “Forgot you’re first-timers.” Nothing phased her—until we got to the subject of multiples.

  “I’m not havin’ triplets!” she barked. “Twins, okay, because it’s not mandatory bed rest. But triplets is mandatory bed rest, and I’m not goin’ on bed rest, so I’m not havin’ triplets.”

  It was the most we’d heard come out of her mouth since we met her, and we soon learned why.

  Kristen’s last surrogacy had begun with three embryos successfully attaching to the wall of her uterus. Out of a mutual agreement with the intended parents, she underwent a process called “selective reduction,” in which one of the implanted embryos was unimplanted. So it came to pass that she gave birth to twins.

  The procedure was painful physically and emotionally, but as much as she wanted to avoid going through it again, it was preferable to the alternative. “I’m not havin’ triplets!”

  Kristen’s aversion wasn’t just a matter of comfort. We’d been warned about the risks of higher-order multiples ever since signing with Rainbow Extensions. Having three fetuses greatly increases the chance of extremely premature delivery, cerebral palsy, breathing problems, low birth weight, and a host of other complications. The Rainbow Extensions insurance company refused to cover pregnancies involving more than two fetuses. If you took the risk of triplets, you were on your own.

  It was hard not to think about parents who chose to have even more than three kids at one time. Didn’t anyone warn them they were playing Russian roulette with their uterus? We had to agree with Kristen. Two fetuses, tops.

  On the other questions, we deferred to what we came to consider the Golden Rule of IPs: our fetus, our choice; her body, her choice. If a doctor recommended an amnio, that was about the health of the fetus, so we’d want Kristen to comply. But when Maxwell asked us how we felt about epidurals, we didn’t hesitate. “She can have all the drugs she wants.”

  We were well aware of the controversy surrounding epidurals and how the neonatal Nazis come out and judge you if you dare to get one. But we were men. We could only imagine what the pain of delivering a baby was like, and if sitcoms were any indication, it was hilariously extreme. Who were we to force a woman to undergo the maximum agony of childbirth because we’d read a few articles in Newsweek? Allowing our surrogate an epidural if she so desired seemed like the feminist thing to do.

  Unfortunately, the Golden Rule didn’t always apply so neatly. There was one topic in particular that rested directly at the awkward intersection between Kristen’s body and our fetus, and it was a biggie. Abortion. No one actually said the A-word, of course, but we recognized its euphemisms, like “termination” and “selective reduction.”

  Drew and I are both pro-choice, but that’s easy to say when you know you’ll never have to make the choice yourself. We were gay men. What were the odds we’d ever be faced with an unwanted pregnancy? Surrogacy would allow us into a woman’s body and give us a say in how she handled it. The thought of telling her to terminate a pregnancy made me queasy.

  Maxwell ran down his list of nightmare scenarios, asking us over and over to make the choice that’s fueled a thousand court decisions. When is a life no longer worth living? What risks are we willing to take with our child’s well-being? When would we dec
ide what this woman should do with her body?

  I don’t know! I just want a healthy baby!

  We’d gone in expecting a friendly meet-and-greet, but it turned out to be the most emotionally draining hour of my life. Drew and I were practically shaking. In just under sixty minutes, we’d mourned our hypothetical fetus dozens of times. But through it all, Kristen never cracked. She was so professional about everything, so straightforward and confident in her choices. As we left the room, we thanked her for helping us stay calm. She just shrugged. “It’s all the same questions from last time.”

  Our next stop was lunch. The place we picked was exactly the place the last guys had taken her the first time they’d met. Kristen remembered it well and didn’t even need a menu. “I’m stickin’ with the tuna salad,” she bellowed. “It’s pretty good.”

  As her iced tea arrived, Kristen noticed we were still reeling from the barrage of nightmare scenarios, so she shook her head and laughed. “None of that shit’s gonna happen, guys,” she said. “Can ya pass the Splenda?”

  Pretty soon, we’d managed to lock the meeting away in our memory dungeons. There was important business at hand, namely, getting to know the woman who would change our lives.

  Drew barraged Kristen and Paco with questions. “What are your kids like?” “What do you do for fun?” “Have you been to Legoland?”

  Kristen handled it just like she had the meeting. Calmly, methodically, using the bare minimum of words required to answer. There were a few things she loved in life. She loved Paco, who she described as warm, sensitive, and so much nicer than her previous husband. She loved to hit the clubs. “I’m a dancer!” she declared and waved her hands over her head.

  But most of all, she loved her kids. Being a surrogate allowed her to stay home and raise them, which made it the best job in the world. She loved her surro-kids, too. They lived up here in L.A., so while she was here, she planned to swing by and see them. She pulled a picture up on her phone. “The one dad’s Japanese,” she said, as if their ethnicity needed explaining. “They used a Japanese egg donor so the kids’d be half Asian.”

  Drew nodded. “Half Asian babies are gorgeous, aren’t they?”

  Kristen was very active in the surrogate community. She was a fixture on message boards, frequently offering advice to “the other girls.” That morning, she’d logged on, and all her surrogate friends had sent her encouraging messages for this meeting. She stressed to us how she couldn’t wait to be pregnant again. She was hoping to get started right away.

  “That’s so sweet,” we told her.

  It turned out there was a special reason for her rush. “Only got two more years ’fore I’m too old, and I wanna have two more babies.” We hadn’t realized it until then, but Rainbow Extensions had an upper age limit for surrogates. Once you turned thirty-eight, you were forced into retirement. Kristen’s surrological clock was ticking.

  We tried to include Paco in the conversation, but for the most part, Kristen answered his questions for him. Drew would say something like, “How do you like your job, Paco?” Paco would shrug and grunt, then nod his head toward Kristen. She’d swallow whatever was in her mouth and say, “Pays the bills.” It became clear that this wasn’t some act Paco was putting on to intimidate us. He was extremely shy and awkward, and he believed fully in Kristen’s ability to handle the conversation for both of them. Paco was like the me of their relationship.

  I could picture us taking a kind of secondary family portrait that included them so that our kid would always know how he or she came into the world. We’d do it every year on their birthday, when Kristen’s kids would mingle with ours in a bounce house in our backyard. By year three, Paco might even put his arm around us.

  We were getting ready to pay the bill, when Kristen asked the only question she had for us. “What’s your egg donor like?”

  Drew and I glanced at each other nervously.

  “We’re still finalizing our decision,” I said, diplomatically.

  Kristen seemed concerned. “Ya don’t have a donor?”

  “It’s the agency’s fault,” I assured her. “They told us we didn’t need one until after we found a surrogate.”

  “They only gave us access to their database a week ago,” Drew added.

  Kristen leaned in and lowered her voice. “Don’t tell anyone I said this,” she whispered, gazing over her shoulder as if someone might be listening in. “But you gotta watch ’em.”

  “Who?”

  “Rainbow. Watch ’em close. Watch ’em real close.”

  It was serious and a little chilling, like we were in a bad spy movie. What was she talking about?

  “Let’s say they got a habit of double billin’ ya for stuff.”

  “Did they do that?”

  “I’m just sayin’, check yer invoices. I don’t think they do it on purpose. They’re just kinda . . .”

  Drew nodded. “Total fucking morons?”

  “HA, HA, HA!” We all glanced over at Paco, who was actually laughing. Loudly. Oh, Paco. I knew we’d break through.

  Drew turned back to Kristen. “I feel like I can really trust you,” he said. “So I’m going to tell you something we haven’t told the agency yet. We’re thinking about asking my sister to be the egg donor.”

  I didn’t know if Drew was serious or just stalling. I thought we had taken Susie off the table.

  “We just need a week or two,” I assured Kristen. “We’ll have it all sorted out.”

  Kristen nodded and slurped the last of her iced tea.

  9

  More Than an Aunt, Less Than a Mom

  “Fuck Kristin Lander! Fuck her and fuck her husband and fuck her fucking womb!”

  Drew was on the phone with his mom.

  “You know what she is?” he shouted. “A piece of trash!”

  Kristen dumped us.

  It was Monday morning, and Maxwell had just dropped the bomb. The Womb of Steel had spent the weekend on the surrogate message boards, and all her cyber friends told us that Drew and I were IP poison. Their concern was the same as hers: our lack of an egg donor. They warned Kristen that we could keep her uterus locked in limbo for six months or more while we flailed about for our personal vision of perfection. If she moved forward with us, she could forget about her goal of getting pregnant two more times before she turned thirty-eight.

  All of that we could understand. But what really upset Drew was that Kristen had betrayed our confidence.

  “She said something about one of your sisters possibly being an egg donor?” Maxwell asked.

  Drew snarled. “I told her that was private information!”

  “Well, if you could lock her in fast, you might get Kristen to reconsider.”

  When we got off the phone, I delicately raised the topic. “Should we think about asking Susie? We don’t want to lose Kristen.”

  Drew was furious. “I wouldn’t let her have a baby for us if she paid us a hundred million dollars!”

  It was an odd choice of words, given that Kristen had just turned us down on terms that were considerably more favorable to her. But I got it. Drew had already moved on from denial to rage. It was time for me to join in the fun of the Kristen Pile-On.

  Drew: “I’m going to tell Rainbow Extensions she’s been trash talking them.”

  Me: “Yeah, and tell them to stop double billing!”

  Drew: “Can you imagine having to break it to our kid someday that he came out of that wench? She’s disgusting.”

  Me: “What does Paco see in her?”

  Drew: “Did you notice they didn’t even offer to chip in for lunch? I mean, of course, we were going to pay, but they could’ve offered.”

  Me: “They didn’t even say thank you.”

  Drew: “They’re assholes.”

  Me: “They’re rude!”

  Drew:
“I’m sending her a bill! I want that $40 back!”

  “I want those chocolates back!” I shouted. “Those were an anniversary gift from Mindy!”

  Drew’s mom took the news pretty hard. Well, not as hard as Drew.

  “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!” he screamed into the phone. “I love you, Mom.” And he hung up.

  Less than a minute later, his phone rang again.

  “Hello?”

  “You know you can have my eggs if you want them, right?”

  “What?”

  It was Susie. “I said you can have my eggs if you want them.”

  It was that swift, that casual. Something we’d quietly debated for months she blurted out in an instant. “You can have my eggs if you want them,” as if she were offering to loan us her hair dryer or Ani DiFranco CDs rather than a part of her womanhood.

  “I have to go. I’ll call you later.” Drew hung up, stunned.

  Only a few minutes later, an email arrived. “I was serious about supplying eggs,” Susie wrote. “And it would be a matter of me handing the eggs over and washing my hands of the situation. And if for some reason the kid turns out unattractive, we could blame that cunty egg donor that nobody knows.”

  Among the many things Susie shared with her older brother was a tremendously foul mouth.

  Her offer changed everything. Our fear was that if we asked her, she would have felt pressured to say “Yes.” Now she was kicking off the conversation with “Yes.”

  We were equal parts excited and terrified. Was this really in Susie’s best interest? Thankfully, we knew one person who could help us sort this out, someone who had counseled egg donors before, who knew all the issues that might arise and could help talk Susie and us through this enormous decision. We made an appointment with Mindy, and within minutes, Susie had booked her plane ticket.

  “You’re fuckin’ with me!”

  This was yet another Tappon, Drew’s brother Peter. We had him on speakerphone so we could share the good news.

  “No, seriously, Susie’s going to donate her eggs,” Drew explained. “Jerry would obviously donate his sperm, so the kid will be a bit Tappon and a bit Mahoney. It’s kind of exciting.”