Josh and Gemma Make a Baby(3)

A future where I didn’t depend on horrible hookups, pity dates, or the questionable roll of the dating dice.

Besides, I already rode the marriage boat, it tipped over, capsized, and I nearly drowned. No. In the future I’m imagining, I see me fulfilled, happy, loved, with…a family.

A baby.

She’s there in my heart, she’s been there so long, like a song that I started singing but was never allowed to finish. I’ve been waiting for her, and in this imagined future, I see her in my arms. I’m singing her our lullaby.

Ever since the surgeon told me I’d never have children I’ve been mourning that future I couldn’t have. I was still married to Jeremy when I found out. He said he didn’t care, didn’t need or want kids. Two weeks later he was mating like a monkey on the dining room table. So, it was a moot point. I never followed up or went to a doctor to see what could be done.

But it’s been ten years. And unlike when I was sixteen and I dreaded what might come after Josh Lewenthal took my virginity…now at thirty-two, I want a family, a baby. Someone to cuddle, to go on bike rides with, to kiss bruised knees, to lie in the grass and look at clouds with, someone to love. I’ve been wanting it for years now.

I’d been waiting to find the right man. But unlike the carefree, I’ve-got-all-the-time-in-the-world dating scenes of my early twenties, or even the post-divorce dating app-fueled manic weekend hookups of my mid-twenties, my thirties have brought…Morts. I’ve seen it all. Men who are married and hiding it, men on their third divorce, men who live in their mom’s basement, men in their fifties having a midlife crisis who want to date a younger woman. All Morts.

I’ve been waiting for a good man to help make my dreams come true.

But, at that moment, I realized my dream doesn’t have to include marriage. Or a man.

Single women have babies all the time. I don’t need a fifty-year-old toupee-wearing man to have a future of happiness. I can make a future of happiness for myself.

Maybe, I can have a family. Maybe I can finish singing that lullaby.

I just need an egg, some sperm, and a doctor to help make the magic happen.

I can control my own destiny.

My mom wasn’t finished talking. “Josh Lewenthal will be at the party,” she said. “Did you know he has his own business? He draws web comics. Isn’t that strange? He’s moved back in with his dad. He’s living in the basement. The poor dear. Coming from a broken home. Be nice to him. You weren’t nice to him last year.”

“Okay, of course, Mr. Berners-Lee. Thanks for calling, I’ll talk to you soon,” I said, attempting to cut my mom short.

My mom sighed. “Bye, sweetie. See you in a few days. Wear something nice.”

I swiveled around and hung up the phone. Lavinia watched me from her desk. Her glasses were perched at the bottom of her nose. “Who was that?”

“Mr. Berners-Lee. About our SEO.” I grabbed my mouse and clicked it haphazardly.

“Mr. Berners-Lee?” she asked, sounding incredulous.

I looked around the office. No one else was paying any attention.

“That’s right,” I said. “He had some pointers.”

“Tim Berners-Lee had some pointers for you?”

“Yup.” I said. “Nice guy.”

“Tim Berners-Lee? The creator of the internet called to give you some pointers?”

Ugh. That’s why his name sounded familiar, I’d just been reading a motivational article about him. “Yup. If you can imagine it, you can do it.”

Lavinia rolled her eyes and turned away. Over her shoulder she said, “I never realized he would sound so much like a middle-aged woman.”

Across the office, one of the database techies snorted into his hand.

Oh well.

Nothing to say to that.

Besides, I had a goal now.

I clicked on my computer, searched the web and found a reproductive endocrinologist, an infertility doctor, only a few blocks from the office. I booked an appointment online for the next day.





The walls of the doctor’s office were plastered with thousands of baby photos and a sign that said ten thousand babies and counting. In case anyone was confused, this is a place where they make babies. It was a sleek, loft-style brick walled office with a large Georgia O’Keefe reproduction that either depicted a flower, an apricot or the female anatomy. Since I was in a baby making office, I’d go with the third guess.

The nurse on the phone told me to drink lots of water and not go pee before I arrived. Apparently, they needed a sample. So, I took her advice and on the way to my appointment I bought a large latte and a bottle of water and proceeded to chug both in five minutes flat.

Dr. Ingraham, the doctor I had my consult with, was not at all what I expected. After the modern loft décor of the lobby, I expected a trendy nerd kind of guy. Instead, Dr. Ingraham was five foot two, as round as he was wide, and bald. His office looked like an episode of one of those exposé hoarder shows. He sat at his desk barely visible behind stacks of papers, journals, cardboard boxes, and piles of plastic anatomy models—penises, uteruses, eggs, sperm, and more were all tossed about on his crowded desktop.

“How are you? How are you?” he asked. He pumped my hand from across the desk. Then, “What a stupid question. You’re infertile, that’s how you are. Well don’t worry, we’ll get you pregnant in no time. Would you like some water?”