After endless hours pouring over profiles, ten guys made the final cut. Two of them were Jewish, just to make my parents happy but they weren’t great prospects in my opinion. Seven were some variation of Catholic and one was a mutt; half Jewish on his Dad’s side and Christian on his mother’s (in other words – ‘not a Jew’.)
My mother looked over the profiles pretending to be open minded. After an hour or so she went through the profiles one by one with me, finding some fault in every single one . . . except the two Jews. “Both of these sound wonderful; especially this one.” So I looked at them again. One was balding prematurely and the other was 5’5” weighing in at 200 pounds. “Mom, really?” She started to lecture me on shallowness and directed me to their positive features, “look, he likes animals,” and “pre-med.”
Most people don’t get to choose who they mate with; they fall in love, do the deed and have a kid. But I was in the lucky position of having more of a choice, and since I had the choice, why not pick a guy with a full head of hair? Why not pick the guy who was fit and trim? Why not pick a guy who might counteract any of my faults? So I did. I chose every characteristic that I am lacking: thin and athletic? Check. Olive skinned? Check. Tall? Check. Medium boned? (We have to think about the stretch after all.) Check. Full head of hair? Check. Fluency in several languages? Check. High grades? Check. No corrective lenses? Check. And in the end, the mutt won. At least he was half Jewish, and I reminded my mother than since I was Jewish, the baby would be as well.
Several months later we are at the doctors office. I am on my back with my feet are up in the stirrups, the paper towel they call a cover is falling off of me and I try to relax as I gaze up into the fluorescent lighting on the ceiling. The doctor says some pleasantries, “how ‘bout them Niners?” and inserts the cold speculum. He takes a look around and says everything looks good.
With those words, I am swooning and am in the mood for making babies. He hands the syringe to my partner and asks if she wants the honors. I give her the come hither look and she inserts the syringe, slowly squeezing the mutt sperm.
There are no fireworks; she is done and we start chanting “swim girls, swim girls, swim girls.” And we wait.
Three weeks later there is a pink plus on the pee stick; the empty vessel has become the mothership.
Writings and whinings 