Babymaking

Jane and I spent 10 years discussing whether to have a child. Like many straight couples, we finally decided to leave it to the fates. But in our case the fates held a speculum, a catheter and a vial of sperm.

By Amie Klempnauer

Aug 11, 2004 | I am about to buy sperm.

I've spent the past four hours sitting in front of the computer in our spare bedroom, poring over an online catalog of sperm donors. There are several sperm catalogs on the Internet -- a virtual mall of reproduction for the discerning shopper. In one, I click on donor No. 4356 and read that he is outgoing, friendly and athletic, but his family has a history of cancer. Donor No. T98, from another catalog, was raised Lutheran and is now agnostic. His mother has high blood pressure; his uncle had a stroke. Donor No. 574 is a 6-foot college student with blond hair and hay fever who likes to work on cars, enjoys jazz, and wants to travel to Nepal. Which one of these could be the father of my child?

I stare at the screen, wondering what the donors might look like, whether or not I would like them. Red flags wave wildly: Don't take anyone who says he likes to laugh at his own jokes. Avoid donors described by the intake worker as "unique." Are these the rules straight women use when deciding whether to accept a blind date?

I am trying to imagine what is essentially unimaginable: what a baby will be like before it is even conceived. I try to forecast which of my own traits I'd choose to contribute to the genetic roulette. Ideally, I'd like to give a child a sense of fun, a love of words and a fast metabolism. I want to find a donor who can be a genetic proxy for my partner, Jane. I want this anonymous man to transmit the qualities she would give if we could make a baby together. I look for intelligence: She is a university administrator with a Ph.D. who enjoys reading biographies of Cicero. I look for someone nurturing, to match Jane's strong maternal bent and fondness for small animals. Jane's a singer; I look for someone musical. At last, I find a donor who has a doctorate, sings in a choir, and -- the clincher -- is a cat lover. That's my boy, my lesbian stand-in.

I have already pre-registered with the sperm bank, signing on the dotted line to confirm my understanding that the donor is now and shall remain anonymous, that I cannot sue if any resulting offspring turn out to have genetically transmitted diseases, and that the bank cannot promise that I will get pregnant. I have heard of women who buy 12 or 15 vials of their chosen donor's sperm, hoarding as much of it as they can get. But at $195 each -- which, according to the online catalogs, seems to be the going rate for sperm -- I decide to buy two and hope that I get pregnant quickly.

I call the sperm bank, Visa in hand.

"He's gone," the woman on the other end of the line says. Gone? My guy is out of stock. I feel as if I've been stood up. I am sent back to the catalog to pick another.

Next Page: "Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?" the nurse asks. I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out

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