Our Surrogacy Story

Well, here's our surrogacy story, because I haven't really read anything like this, and it seems like it might be helpful to have something like this on paper.

In TV shows, the pregnancy always reaches its climax when the couple is at dinner or at work or in the middle of a big unrelated argument (usually in the finale of any given season). The surprise ups the drama quotient, and then there is a frantic car ride, and if we're talking about "SVU," the car will surely crash.

Marc and I had thought Susie would come on July 7, and then on June 23. I received the call about June 23 while wheeling my son around some giraffes at the Turtle Back Zoo, and I'll always recall the surreal feeling of staring at exotic wildlife while attempting to memorize the terms "hypertension," "protein readings," "preeclampsia."

Many additional phone calls followed. One required the presence of a jovial Wisconsin doctor, who made jokes about the baby's due date and (bizarrely) gave us her projected weight in grams. This was a stark reminder that doctors are not God; doctors are maybe not even adults; we are all eighth graders running around in grown-up clothing.

Around June 1, I was working with my son and a speech therapist when Marc received a text that Leah, our surrogate, was "going to labor." We didn't really know what that meant, and it was so strange to usher the therapist out of the house (she kept saying, "Congratulations!" .....which also felt odd, though understandable) ....Marc and I spent the evening debating whether Josh would be permanently scarred to remain behind in New Jersey -- and we decided we were being silly, and Josh did avoid flights and did remain back here on the Eastern Seaboard with his aunt and, later, his grandparents. (This is in the running for Best Decision Ever.)

At this point, Marc and I believed we would be at the hospital before the delivery. LOL. While in flight, I stood up to use the little bathroom. When I returned to my seat, Marc had a photo of Susannah, newly arrived, up on his computer screen. She was--more or less--fine. We were able to be present for Hour Four of her life (or thereabouts) -- and onward from there.

Here is what I would say to you, if you're having a child, and the birth is not happening in the state you live in. There may come a point at which the doctor says: "Your baby had some respiratory issues, and she may struggle on the plane. The oxygen situation is different up there. You can't notify the flight attendants, because they won't let you board. So maybe just keep an eye on your child's lips. If they happen to turn blue, feign surprise and summon a flight attendant, and he or she will have a special oxygen tank on-hand. That's all you need to do."

At this point, you should really, really stop listening, and make some arrangements that involve a train.

Susannah is back home in NJ as of last night, and all's well so far. We feel lucky and happy to have her.

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Joshie

When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...

Liars and Saints

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