When I turned 30, I started writing a memoir—inspired by
blogging, I thought I could weave together many of the stories I’ve told here
and add others toward an end goal that I envisioned as The Pieces and Parts that Make the Whole. Each chapter title would reflect one of what I view as the fundamental
elements of my being, many of which would be repeated over the course of the
book to show their long-standing influence on my life and development. I started
by drafting a table of contents, including chapter titles like My Kind of Scripture (about poetry), Momentum, and The Book of Friendship. The latter, I think sometimes, could be its
own volume. I have always cherished my friendships—been awed by the quality of
so many of them.
Once, when I mentioned the memoir to an acquaintance, she
asked me what made my life of interest to anyone else. It was a fair question.
I had, until that point, thought of the memoir mostly as a way to exercise my craft—to
take material over which I have no creative control and make it read
enticingly, interplay intriguingly, sum up to unveil newly perceived meaning
and thereby inspire others to reflect on the influence of their life’s
experiences on themselves. The aspiring writer in me felt inclined to consider
her challenge. Could the book be about something bigger than my individual
life?
Some weeks of rumination landed me on an answer. So many of
the stories I tell about my childhood and adulthood relate to my development of
independence and self-reliance. Those themes have long been important to me
because they help me understand why I have ended up on an atypical life
path—the one of the perpetually single person. Last year, they acquired new
meaning when I realized that they make me capable of undertaking an even less common life trajectory: that of the intentionally single mother. The memoir, I
thought, could detail all the experiences that have shaped me into someone
willing to embrace that bold and terrifying journey.
But in March I faltered on the kick-off to that adventure.
Looking at just two online sperm donor profiles caused an immediate shutdown of
my web browser and my commitment to trying to have a baby on my own. It was
just too strange to picture having a child with traits and tendencies the
origins of which I couldn’t recognize. I felt frozen, physically and
emotionally. I would be happy to adopt a child, but I really wanted to try having
one biologically first. After all, it was biology that had pushed me to having
to decide to do this on my own. It was biology that had laid a ticking time
bomb inside me. There would be something poignant about going head to head with
it—and such a reward for me if doing so worked out: a squirming, snuggly,
beautiful baby followed by decades of unfolding discoveries as the child and I
grew together as a family.
Every inch of my being had wanted to try having the baby
biologically. Until I read the donor profiles and felt suddenly like a
robot—like a piece of technology being fitted to perform an operation.
The hesitation I felt was overwhelming. The sadness was
consuming.
But both were short-lived, thanks to a blessed friend who told
me while we discussed it on the phone to hold on a minute while she drove over.
It didn’t take her long to get there; she only lived a mile
away. Soon she was sitting at the table with me, holding my hand as the sun began
to set through the blinds behind her, and she was telling me something
heartfelt, and nurturing, and wise. “Friend,” she started her
sentence, as she often does, “this isn’t something for you to take on alone.” In
my head I was jumping up and down in agreement (I know! That’s exactly what I’m feeling!!) but still moping
because there was no way to make it not so. “Why don’t we get a bunch of girlfriends
together with some wine and do it together?” she suggested, her eyes tender,
her voice loving and kind. And then I was grinning, right through my tears. “We
can call it the baby daddy selection committee,” I suggested, unburdening my
heart a little. “We can have a baby daddy selection committee meeting!” And
with that it was settled; with that the baby project was back on.
That particular friend and the others I invited couldn’t all
make it on the same day, so she came back over and helped me select 15
possibilities. Then the other three arrived one beautiful weekend morning, sat
around me as I read donor biographies and medical histories aloud, then helped
me narrow down the list to two people—one artistic and one outdoorsy—before we
headed out together for an afternoon hike.
My baby might have no daddy but suddenly s/he had five
mommies. Five people who came together out of love and made a baby possible.
Four friends who came to my side and elevated the Book of Friendship to the
sanctity of scripture.
