“We chose her because she was a good person,” I’d explain. “Just like you.”
When Drew got home, I dragged him to my laptop. “I’ve found her!” I squealed.
Drew took a deep breath and waited for me to pull up Kellykins88’s profile.
“This is so weird,” he said. “It’s like I’m getting my first look at our kid!” He was right. It was one of those truly special, totally twenty-first-century moments I’d cherish forever.
“Ewwwwwwwww!” Drew snarled. “Her?!”
His capsule review was not what I’d hoped for.
“What? She’s hot! Isn’t she?”
“She’s Shrek-ish!”
“Just wait till you see her video. She’s so sweet and charming and . . .”
“It talks?!”
“Oh, come on. She’s not that bad.”
Drew waved his hand. “Next!”
There was no point trying to convince him. If I sold him on someone he didn’t like, then I’d always be the one who picked the crummy egg donor. Kid got a D in social studies? Drew could shrug and say, “Well, you picked the egg donor.” No date for the prom? “Blame Daddy Jerry, sweetie. I preferred the cheerleader’s eggs.”
Drew wasn’t any kinder to my list of alternates. “Buck teeth, twelve chins, walrus whiskers!” he moaned as he went through the options.
I fought for a few. “But Missy spends her school breaks distributing mosquito nets in Senegal!”
“Pfft! You sure that’s a woman?”
I realized we were approaching this process completely differently. As a writer, I’m drawn to characters with intriguing quirks and heart-tugging back stories. But for Drew, who spent twelve years overseeing reality programming for MTV, this was just another casting session. If she wasn’t good enough for Date My Mom , she wasn’t good enough for us.
I’d never felt so shallow before, but then again, a certain amount of shallowness seemed necessary for the task at hand. If some physically flawed donor gave our son or daughter Spock ears or a cauliflower chin, the poor kid might never forgive us. It’s not like I’m under the illusion that Drew and I have such pristine genes. All the more reason we needed someone above average to balance things out.
There had to be other options out there. I pleaded with Google for help: “egg donor tall smart pretty” . . . I’m feeling lucky!
0.11 seconds later, Google answered my prayers.
A company called Grade A Fertility promised eggs of a higher pedigree. Each listing boasted of the woman’s SAT scores and alma mater. Almost every girl was an Ivy Leaguer, but if she went to a safety school like Tufts and she looked like a cast member from Gossip Girl , they let her squeak through.
Each head shot looked like a Neutrogena ad, a medium close-up of some fresh-from-the-salon stunner lounging on a jetty and staring wistfully into the sunset. The essays read like excerpts from New Yorker profiles of particularly fascinating individuals. Their credentials were impeccable. You got the feeling that the first through fifth female presidents were all listed on this Web page.
There was just one big catch: the cost.
The federal government recommends an $8,000 fee for egg donors. It seems like a fair amount of compensation for the time and discomfort required to donate eggs, and most companies, Rainbow Extensions included, charge exactly that. But it’s merely a suggested retail price. It’s not legally binding, and individual agencies are free to mark up as much as they choose. Only a few are ballsy enough to do so. Grade A was the ballsiest of all. Along with each woman’s remarkable resume came an eye-popping price tag.
Heather graduated summa cum laude from Dartmouth. She was a Rhodes scholar and a second-year student at Harvard Business School. She was also blonde and blue-eyed and had an absolutely perfect figure. Price: $25,000.
Monica was a Junior at Princeton and a violin prodigy who’d played with the Pittsburgh Philharmonic at age ten. She got a perfect score on her SATs, spoke four
When Drew got home, I dragged him to my laptop. “I’ve found her!” I squealed.
Drew took a deep breath and waited for me to pull up Kellykins88’s profile.
“This is so weird,” he said. “It’s like I’m getting my first look at our kid!” He was right. It was one of those truly special, totally twenty-first-century moments I’d cherish forever.
“Ewwwwwwwww!” Drew snarled. “Her?!”
His capsule review was not what I’d hoped for.
“What? She’s hot! Isn’t she?”
“She’s Shrek-ish!”
“Just wait till you see her video. She’s so sweet and charming and . . .”
“It talks?!”
“Oh, come on. She’s not that bad.”
Drew waved his hand. “Next!”
There was no point trying to convince him. If I sold him on someone he didn’t like, then I’d always be the one who picked the crummy egg donor. Kid got a D in social studies? Drew could shrug and say, “Well, you picked the egg donor.” No date for the prom? “Blame Daddy Jerry, sweetie. I preferred the cheerleader’s eggs.”
Drew wasn’t any kinder to my list of alternates. “Buck teeth, twelve chins, walrus whiskers!” he moaned as he went through the options.
I fought for a few. “But Missy spends her school breaks distributing mosquito nets in Senegal!”
“Pfft! You sure that’s a woman?”
I realized we were approaching this process completely differently. As a writer, I’m drawn to characters with intriguing quirks and heart-tugging back stories. But for Drew, who spent twelve years overseeing reality programming for MTV, this was just another casting session. If she wasn’t good enough for Date My Mom , she wasn’t good enough for us.
I’d never felt so shallow before, but then again, a certain amount of shallowness seemed necessary for the task at hand. If some physically flawed donor gave our son or daughter Spock ears or a cauliflower chin, the poor kid might never forgive us. It’s not like I’m under the illusion that Drew and I have such pristine genes. All the more reason we needed someone above average to balance things out.
There had to be other options out there. I pleaded with Google for help: “egg donor tall smart pretty” . . . I’m feeling lucky!
0.11 seconds later, Google answered my prayers.
A company called Grade A Fertility promised eggs of a higher pedigree. Each listing boasted of the woman’s SAT scores and alma mater. Almost every girl was an Ivy Leaguer, but if she went to a safety school like Tufts and she looked like a cast member from Gossip Girl , they let her squeak through.
Each head shot looked like a Neutrogena ad, a medium close-up of some fresh-from-the-salon stunner lounging on a jetty and staring wistfully into the sunset. The essays read like excerpts from New Yorker profiles of particularly fascinating individuals. Their credentials were impeccable. You got the feeling that the first through fifth female presidents were all listed on this Web page.
There was just one big catch: the cost.
The federal government recommends an $8,000 fee for egg donors. It seems like a fair amount of compensation for the time and discomfort required to donate eggs, and most companies, Rainbow Extensions included, charge exactly that. But it’s merely a suggested retail price. It’s not legally binding, and individual agencies are free to mark up as much as they choose. Only a few are ballsy enough to do so. Grade A was the ballsiest of all. Along with each woman’s remarkable resume came an eye-popping price tag.
Heather graduated summa cum laude from Dartmouth. She was a Rhodes scholar and a second-year student at Harvard Business School. She was also blonde and blue-eyed and had an absolutely perfect figure. Price: $25,000.
Monica was a Junior at Princeton and a violin prodigy who’d played with the Pittsburgh Philharmonic at age ten. She got a perfect score on her SATs, spoke four
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