Making a Fucking Baby

December 9, 2009

We have found a very nice house in a very nice neighborhood in the fair to middlin’ city nearest us. It is two bedrooms and one bathroom big. It has a fenced yard and a washer/dryer — our two big extras.

It has a basement and an attic, but no place for the cars.

The landlord is a very rich woman, or should I say her husband is rich. I have a number of cues pointing me in the direction of her socio-economics, but I will highlight the fact that she reports having had four children in private school in New Orleans as my illustration for you readers. She has chin length hair that is brown and frizzy. Her glasses are leopard print. She says she is an artist.

When I asked if she would be available to meet the next day, she said yes. Because I was “lovely” and she wants “lovely tenants”. But that if I were not “lovely” she wouldve said no.

(Racist, classist bitch, basically.)

She also told me that her mother has been diagnosed with both bipolar disorder and borderline personality disorder. This, and the fact that Wifebian and I would have to come up with 1900 dollars by January 1st, are reason enough to say no to the place and I called her to say as much. But she didnt pick up, so I left a message. And she replied.

With a message saying that she was willing to drop the rent by 25 bucks per month, and I called her back. But she didnt pick up, so I left a message  saying could we spread the security deposit and the pet deposit out over three months? And she called back saying, bring your partner out to see the place and let’s talk. So I called her back. But she didnt pick up, so I left a message, saying could we meet at 7:30 on Thursday?

And she hasn’t called back yet.

I picture painting the office in bold stripes for the baby’s eyes and I picture a foster child drawing on the walls, and I picture the dog scratching the hardwood floors, I picture tying the Wifebian up in the unfinished basement (I turned out to be a top), I hear the whistle from the train riding the tracks that run parallel to the fence, I picture planting basil, I picture cooking dinner and I picture hanging a wind chime fashioned with forks from the nearest sturdy thing.

In other news, I tested again this morning and the answer is no. My period came four hours later. When I said this was a sign that the baby didnt want to be conceived in this environment, Wifebian said, why do you blame everything on my mother? And we laughed. Then I said that my uterus did not want to end her wild ride, her 19 year relationship, with the phases of the luscious moon and proceeded to drink two glasses of white wine.

So, I’m left with wanting.

I decided that I should want to be pregnant more than I want to be a mother, because it will be easier to give up the dream of being pregnant than it will be to give up the dream of being a mother to my very own half-way flesh and blood child. Then, I decided I should want a pregnancy and a foster child at the same time. That I should, as I did in paragraph 6, hold each hope in my heart as a tandem bicycle holds its riders. Then I decided that surely it wouldnt be too much to put 4,000 dollars on a credit card for just one cycle of IVF.

Then I decided that I should not squander the high of a good day at work by coming home and worrying about making a fucking baby.

(Finally, the smaller of the two bedrooms is in the back of the house.)

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: