Designer Baby

by Aaron Elias Brunsdon

  Jayson tells me how he struggled with the phone ringing constantly during the hours I was out. He was trying to feed a hungry Roman.

  I become angry, and ring reception to place a block on every incoming call into the apartment. There are no exceptions. I send the journalist a text, a stern one, telling her how unprofessional this request is. How thoughtless to be hassling someone who has just had a baby.

  “As a mother yourself, you should know better.” Throwing her words back at her.

  I receive one back a few hours later. She apologises profusely, ending the text with her hope that it hadn’t ruined the chance of getting us to do the story. Such boldness to think she ever even had a chance. It was enough excitement for the day.

  But the press don’t go away. A few days later, when Jayson checks his Facebook messages, there is news about the hard-nosed journalist Miranda Devine. She wrote an article that morning in the Telegraph not only insinuating our actions were “narcissistic”, but describing our newborn as the “latest accoutrement for the fashionable gay blade”.

  It is heartbreaking, insulting and most of all unnecessary. Miranda’s article comes across to us as just her opinion that two homosexuals like us, along with Elton and David, are fashionable couples who can afford to indulge in “the ultimate purchase”. This is our kid she is talking about.

  “Turning a baby into a commodity to be bought and owned like a pair of Jimmy Choos is a form of benign slavery,” she callously writes. In the end, she wishes us the best, for being together for 16 years, “a sound basis for parenthood”. But she can’t help thinking, she writes, that “it’s all about the adults”.

  I curse the woman so loud Satan can hear me. Her article elicits hundreds of angry responses, swearing at her for such shallowness. Angry readers tell her in open messages that there is no place in society for such opinions.

  “There’s nothing divine about Miranda,” one writes, but one of the most passionate comes from Jarrad Clarke, Jayson’s best friend and one of our son’s godfathers. This prompts Jayson to retaliate and he writes an open email to her. By that stage I can’t care less, personally choosing not to give her any reaction.

  “So why give her the benefit of retaliation?” I ask Jayson, hoping he will change his mind. But he doesn’t, he responds because he doesn’t want people like her to think it is cool to say such harsh things and hurt other people’s feelings for no rhyme or reason. His response is sharp, and constructive in the way he tells her that she needs to take a good, hard look at herself, and then read the hundreds of emails from the public this morning on Facebook in response to her article, which he feels is a personal attack on us.

  Interestingly, not one person sides with her. This just shows how much the public were happy for us and that was that.

  The surrogacy process is difficult enough and though she is entitled to her opinions, she has no right to compare my son to a pair of Jimmy Choos. At this point, it doesn’t matter because nothing else seems important. Miranda does not faze us one bit. If she could see the gifts, cards and messages we received from the public, she would understand how trivial and disregarded by us she is. We are rejoicing, happy to have become fathers.

  35

  Mothers

  It is 19 January, and baby Gammy has been granted Australian citizenship by the Department of Immigration and Borders Protection. He is on 60 Minutes again. They cover his progress, improving health condition and his new mother’s love for him. Gammy and his family look well, and I can’t help thinking how genuine this woman is – her selfless love for the boy, a son she never planned to have.

  I guess Gammy’s mother does not even want Australian citizenship for Gammy, she is happy the way things are. With adequate financial aid for his medical fees, she is able to concentrate on his wellbeing. The mother probably has no intention of ever migrating to Australia.

  My parents are arriving today to meet their new grandson. I am looking forward to seeing them; some maternal love does wonders for me. My mother is a very warm woman, who wants nothing in life but the happiness of her children. I am touched by their decision to come. It’s a show of support and recognition of their love for my family and me. I have arranged accommodation for them at the Ascott. It was their fiftieth wedding anniversary a couple of weeks ago so I want to spoil them a bit and arrange a luxurious suite, a limousine to pick them up from the airport and book them massages for later in the afternoon.

  When the limousine pulls up at noon, Jayson, Roman and I go downstairs to greet them. They are much older than when I last saw them a year ago. When they see Roman, their eyes light up. My mother enters baby mode and immediately dives into being Grandma. She fusses, telling us what to do and how to do it properly. It’s amusing, considering we have managed well enough in the last two weeks.

  “You must put a blanket over him, his skin colour is a little blue, it means he is cold,” she exclaims.

  “Yes, Mum, we only came downstairs to see you for a few minutes,” I reply.

  “Few minutes or few seconds, put a blanket on him, a baby’s body temperature is different to us, they get cold easily.”

  The four-day visit is one of the happiest times of my life. Family have a way of making you feel secure and with Mum here to help, teach and show me the ropes, I am slightly more relaxed. She helps with feeding Roman and mostly cleans the apartment, despite my repeatedly telling her the apartment provides a daily room-cleaning service that comes at no extra cost. But she won’t have any of it, trying to convince us that she does a better job.

  “No one cleans better like your mother,” she says.

  “I know, Mum, but why don’t you just relax and let someone else take charge for a while?”

  She literally flies from one end of the room to the other when she hears the slightest noise from Roman, holding and rocking him whenever she can. He lies on her bosom, indulging in the comfort of her sumo breasts. Mum is no longer as robust as she likes to think she is. She suffers from asthma and sudden attacks of the disease have landed her in hospital several times in the year.

  We spend an afternoon having a manicure, pedicure and facial at the Three Sisters beautician in Siam Paragon. We gossip in Malay so staff can’t understand us, while they chuckle and laugh away trying to figure out our country of origin. Afterwards, we go shopping to buy everything baby. She has a list of all the things we don’t have and her friend told her about the huge baby store on the fifth floor of Paragon. Like me, she loves shopping, my mother, and nothing can stop her when she is doing it.

  “Right, look at this, we will get everything here for Roman.” She is happy for the discovery and the minute she gets there, she disappears.

  I scan the entire floor looking for her. I am looking for organic or vegan baby skincare, which I am unable to find anywhere in Bangkok.

  Here’s an idea when we get home, Jayson Brunsdon Baby Skincare, I think, the entrepreneur that I am.

  Oh, no, she can’t be disturbed when shopping.

  I find her an hour later. She is at the counter, a mountain of clothes, towels and baby products in hand, having found everything on her list – including the skincare for her grandson.

  “I got you some proper baby towels; these one have the insert to cover his head. I don’t like you using the hotel’s, it’s no good to share towels with babies that strangers have used many times.”

  “Yes, Mum, I know.” I never like to argue because you never win with a Jewish mother. They are always right about everything and if that doesn’t work, the Jewish guilt will come out to play.

  With bags full of shopping, we rush home to spend the afternoon with Jayson and Roman. She teaches us to bathe him, showing us where to begin.

  “First, you must wrap him in the towel so he stays warm, then wash his hair gently. After you finish with the hair, you immerse him in warm water, like this. You see? I am holding him from underneath his right arm,” she says.

  I don’t pass the standard at the first attemp
t and before I am allowed a second chance, she dives in to take control once again.

  “I have had three kids myself and have looked after all my nieces and nephews when they were young. I never pursued my further education because of them,” she tells me.

  It is hysterical watching her nitpick and cluck at my slightest flaw bathing him, usually taking over from me. I never thought I would one day be with my mother and child, doing this. They are priceless moments of us together, embedded in my psyche forever.

  Mothers are special and my son will need to know his. He must call Rebecca “Mum”. I have just had this revelation. It comes to me while I watch my mother with me.

  Why is it fair that Roman won’t have this opportunity to have a mum, I suddenly think. Like on Mother’s Day, when all the kids in school but he make cards for their mum. This shouldn’t happen because I will suggest to her when I get home that Roman call her Mummy.

  My father lies on the couch, watching soccer on television, for the eighty-year-old man is a soccer addict. He once played the national sport for his country. He is a more reserved person, choosing to opt out of the family gossips my mum and I partake in. I know he is proud of me and my accomplishments.

  “I am at ease to see you have your own family now. Both Jayson and you are doing a great job. I am proud of you, son,” he says.

  We talk about our roles, and Rebecca’s, and our plans when we return to Sydney. On the last day of their visit, my father suddenly enters Roman’s bedroom, telling us he had one last thing to do before he goes.

  “I am going to give my grandson a blessing.” He is talking about a traditional Hebrew blessing, one he gave us all frequently as kids before an exam or on the day of Yom Kippur. He places his hands on my child’s head and murmurs. We watch from outside as my father blesses his new grandson.

  I can’t really express how grateful I am for it, or how touching and emotional the times in Bangkok are with my parents. Having my parents with me, teaching me and accepting my family, makes me feel how very fortunate I am, for they are pillars of my character that are part of my son’s genealogy.

  I am anxious to go to the embassy again, this time for Porn’s interview with Immigration. In the twenty-minute interview, she will relinquish her parental rights to our child. We arrive at 10am and find Kay already waiting outside for Porn. A frazzled-looking Kevin, the Australian dad with triplets, is also waiting for his two surrogates.

  “It’s pretty busy coping with three babies alone. I didn’t know how difficult it would be,” Kevin says. “We have a full-time nanny, but my partner returned to Perth for work and I haven’t slept much for over a week.”

  I feel sorry for him, especially when he asks my opinion on ways to get around Nick having to return to Thailand to complete the paperwork for their children. I don’t have the heart to tell him Nick has to return since he is the biological father of two of the three children.

  It must have been a hard decision to make to leave your partner and newborns alone in a foreign country. I feel sorry for them but someone has to bring home the bacon.

  Porn arrives looking great and ready for the interview, her baby bump almost gone. We exchange hugs and she asks about Roman.

  “He is a dream baby, not much crying, eats well,” I tell her.

  Inside, an Immigration officer calls for Porn. We are not allowed to attend the interview with her, in case she intends to change or alter her decision not to surrender her role as Roman’s mother. I shudder at the thought.

  Kay later tells us what transpires. This interview is one of the most important parts of the process.

  Porn is first greeted by a Thai woman in her forties; an Australian Embassy official who specialises in surrogacy. She conducts the interview in Thai.

  “Are you Ittiporn X?” she asks.

  “Yes, I am,” Porn replies.

  “Can you tell me your home address?”

  “Yes, I come from Chiangmai and my address in Bangkok is X.”

  “Did you recently have a baby?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Is this baby yours?”

  “No, it’s not. I carried the baby for an Australian couple.”

  “Are you the surrogate mother of this child, Roman Elias Brunsdon?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Is this document signed by you?” She shows her the surrogacy document.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Do you confirm this child will not be in your custody and that you relinquish all rights to his care and upkeep?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Do you consent to this child leaving Thailand with his biological parent?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “How do you feel about this?”

  “I feel good. I have done the right thing and for the right couple. They need this child more than me. I have two of my own.”

  “Do you want this child or is there anything that will deter you from giving your consent?”

  “No, this isn’t my child. I have only given them the chance to be parents and I am very happy for the chance.”

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “Yes, I am very sure.”

  “Do you release your consent now and into the future?”

  “Yes, I sincerely do.”

  “Do you know that you will never see this child again? Are you OK with this?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Do you have anything further to add or is there anything you want to bring to light before we end this interview?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  While the interview is taking place, Jayson and I meet with Trudy in her office, this time planning our exit strategy. Since the Sunday Telegraph article, Trudy has been bombarded with enquiries from the media, most of them wanting to quote her on surrogacy. Several ask for our whereabouts. Maybe it is the crazy woman from the current affairs show, I think. But Trudy is professional and won’t divulge anything.

  She wants to ensure we get out of Thailand as quickly as possible. That is her main agenda. I guess it is probably because we have already stirred things up a bit.

  “I spoke to Qantas and to Australian Customs to organise an usher programme in Bangkok and Sydney for you three. You guys will be escorted to relevant exit and entry points to save you having to deal with any problems – your own personal chaperone. You will need the help, trust me. Don’t tell anyone about your departure date except a few close family members and friends. I don’t want the paparazzi and press to meet you at Sydney Airport,” she jokes.

  We laugh over the idea anyone would go to the trouble in the airport to take pictures of us.

  “You guys must be extremely cautious,” she warns. “There is way too much attention on you and you are not on home soil yet.”

  “Don’t scare me, Trudy! Are you suggesting we will have complications?” I ask.

  “Not scaring you, I am afraid they work on different sets of rules here.”

  Trudy spoke confidentially to the Qantas duty manager at the airport, requesting that we be picked up and ushered discreetly through the VIP exit.

  “You are pretty close to going home. If all goes well, you will leave on the twenty-eighth of January, two days after the Australia Day public holiday. Once we approve Roman’s citizenship, you can use his ‘emergency passport’, which I can have ready for you within forty-eight hours.”

  Once we have this passport in our hands, we can organise flights to return home. Trudy will organise the relevant exit papers.

  When we finish, I invite Kay and Porn back to our hotel. This is going to be a final goodbye for Porn, who will probably never see Roman again – or not for a very long time, once he is a young man.

  When we get home, Mum is consoling the wailing Roman. He cries louder, even after I hold him. I give him to Porn, who is waiting to touch him, having never held him since birth. Mysteriously, he becomes silent, eyes fixed on her, and a peaceful calmness presents itself. He stares at her, working out the
once-familiar scent.

  I know this woman, this smell, he must be thinking.

  She marvels at him, completely immersed while cuddling him and whispering in Thai. He knows this voice, this familiar feeling. He is wondering at her.

  “He knows, he can smell her, the smell of her body and skin when he was inside her for nine months,” Mum whispers in Malay to me, not wanting them to understand what she says.

  I am transfixed, watching them – this silent bond they have – the way she holds him so tenderly, the way Roman looks at her. It hits our emotions hard, and it is so surreal to watch them together that I feel tearful.

  “She says if you give her the baby, she will accept it,” Kay tells me candidly while snapping pictures of them. “But she knows it is not hers and she understands this,” she adds. “But she feels close to him, like her child, even though she shares no blood with him.”

  She hums softly to Roman as he lies in her arms, close to her breasts. She senses he knows her, and is overwhelmed knowing she has done the right thing by us. Meeting my parents and seeing the close-knit family we are with such support, Porn is happy, happy she became the surrogate mother of our child. She has worked hard to separate herself from the idea that she is the mother of this child. Although she carried him for nine months, nurturing him inside, giving him life and birthing him, she is not Roman’s mother and never will be. Her role was transitional and required a lot of deliberate planning on her part. It takes a special person to have the strength to bring a child into the world and hand it over to another; I have said this many times. Maybe one day, when Roman grows up, he will come looking for her and, when he finds her, she will see in the young man a reflection of her goodness to us.

  After an hour of watching Porn, I admire her more and more. If the situation had been reversed and I was in her shoes, I don’t know if I could do what she did. I would feel too emotionally attached to the child to give it away. It does take a special woman to do this.

  We hand her a red (auspicious colour in Asia) envelope containing a card with a baby photo of Roman and the following note, handwritten in Thai by the hotel’s guest service staff.