We talked for about an hour about how to finance the baby-making project. We've signed the papers to unload our horrible shack in Sacramento, where we met and lived for five years before moving down to L.A. For three years we've been hemorrhaging money on the first of the month as we pay the mortgage on a house we no longer live in nor want. Because we bought at the top of the market when I was swept up in the buy-a-house epidemic ("honey, we HAVE to buy a house or we'll be permanently priced out!"), we could never rent it out for anything that even approached what we paid each month. But now... just maybe (and the documents ARE all signed and faxed)... the bank has agreed to sell the hateful structure for much less than what we paid. YAY! (I hope.)
So surrogacy is something we can consider, once we undo some of the past five years of financial damage the dreaded blood-sucking house has been in our lives. Our financing options:
- We save (yeah, in a perfect world, but that takes time and we're OLD, if I had a biological clock it'd be clanging, and the price of surrogacy in India keeps climbing)
- We take out a loan on my mom's house (hey, she WANTS a grandchild, right? Besides, the house needs landscaping)
- Hey! I know! We'll put it on a credit card! (Uh... no.)
And then there's our genetic material -- are our sperm past their expiration date? That's what a friend of mine said when I told him we were considering surrogacy. "Oh, don't do that," he said. "They keep the women in tents... and fathers over the age of 40 are more likely to have autistic kids." Sure enough, I found the report online... older dads have been linked to autism and all sorts of other nasty congenital conditions (hee hee... I said genital). My friend went on to suggest that we don't make enough money to have children, since it costs $20,000 a year to send children to school in Los Angeles.
I told him that middle-class people are entitled to have children too. I still want to do this.
I finally drifted off to sleep, after 20 minutes of playing mahjongg solitaire. At four a.m., Argos, our 120-pound doberman, decided that he was a little chilly and our bed looked SO much warmer. He wedged his way between us, pulling the blankets off me.
I gave up on sleep and staggered to the kitchen to make coffee.