We started seriously looking into surrogacy right around the time that we were married. We had been dating for seven years and we were approaching thirty. A year earlier I had inherited a piece of saleable property from my Grandfather. The time seemed right.

At that point, there were two major, national organizations that catered to gay men who wanted to have children through surrogacy (there are now more than this, although the agencies vary in size and scope). We’ll call them Company A and Company B. We requested information from both of them.

Both of the organizations had glossy brochures. Company A included a DVD that we never watched. Both places included paperwork we needed to fill out if we wanted to have a customized presentation. Neither of the agencies worked exclusively with gay couples, but one of them had a questionnaire that was clearly not designed for this program and was more tailored to their work with infertile heterosexuals. It included questions like, “Is the semen usually deposited in the vagina?” 

Um, no. There isn’t a vagina within 100 feet of the semen.

Although we returned questionnaires to both organizations, we only set up a consultation with the agency that had no interest in whether or not I have regular menstrual cycles. It helped that they had a representative in Wellesley, just down the street from what would become the Pinkberry where I now spend way too much time.

We met with a nice, quiet man, probably in his early forties, who had used Company A to have a child with his husband four years earlier. He made it a point to say that although he was paid for these consultations he was not an employee of Company A (I guess that means that at the end of the year they give him a 1099 instead of a W-2; other than that I can’t really see a distinction). We had a lovely conversation about our desire to become parents and his experience with surrogacy. We were impressed by the level of screening Company A put both potential surrogates and egg donors through. He walked us through the timeline and the medical procedures and the cost. Because the brochures had come with cost estimates, we did not fall out of our chairs when he announced the price.

We left feeling excited. We thought that we would be fathers in 18 to 24 months, possibly before our thirtieth birthdays. We talked about Company A in the car on the way home and were in complete agreement that we would sign a contract with them as soon as possible.

Company A (as well as the organization we are currently in contract with, which is not Company A) requires that all of the costs be deposited in a trust account before the process can begin. That is to ensure that if the intended parents suffer financial hardships during the pregnancy, everyone will still get paid. You can’t repossess a child like you can a beach house. So we couldn’t sign a contract right away, but we decided that we would as soon as we could sell that piece of property that I inherited from my Grandfather.

Well, it’s five years later and that damn piece of property still sits on the market unpurchased. Company A got my hopes up a few years ago by offering a financing program. I excitedly emailed our contact there to find out the details. They said that they would finance 80% of the price at a rate of 12%. That seemed steep, but we were willing to go with it. Then I read the term of the loan: 1 year. As a financial professional I cannot think of a single person to whom that loan would appeal. Perhaps someone with a lot of money in short-term bonds. 

I fired back a terse reply: “Please let me know if a longer term becomes available.”  I don’t think I even included a “Regards” or “Sincerely” in closing. 

 And so, we waited. During this time we reconsidered adoption, but decided to keep waiting for a few more years. I re-evaluated what I consider to be a good age to have one’s first child. Alberto would want me to point out that we also continued to live our lives. We took trips and went dancing and spent a lot of time with friends. We extended our youth. 

But I don’t think it’s overdoing it to say that mostly we waited.

And finally, a different piece of property sold. My father also inherited property from my Grandfather and suddenly he was flush with cash. He intended to reinvest that money, but he agreed to let Alberto and I borrow enough to create a grandchild. Finally we were ready to move forward.

I have always wanted children. As a child, I wanted my parents to have some more, because I didn’t like being an only child. I remember telling them that I planned to have four or five children. “Just wait until you have the first one,” my father said. “You’ll want to put that one back in.”

I have never thought of being gay as an obstacle to parenthood. Well, obviously it’s an obstacle. I guess I should say I never thought it represented the end of my parental ambition. I have heard a lot of gay men say that they wish they weren’t gay because they want to have a family. I’ve never thought of the two as mutually exclusive. From the moment I started looking for a nice, young man to settle down with, I knew that one of my most important criteria for choosing a mate was what he would be like as a father (and I wouldn’t even consider anyone who didn’t want to have children).

I think the first time I heard Alberto say, “I thought I would be a father by now,” we were 23 and had been dating two years. I know he has ached over how long it has taken for us to reach this part of our lives as much as I have, but I won’t presume to enter his head and write about what the experience has been like for him. Over the course of our twelve years together we have constantly discussed how we are going to have children.

I have been an advocate for surrogacy since these conversations started. I won’t get into the Nature vs. Nurture debate (although I reserve the right to bring it up later). In any case, as much as I’d like to believe that I have biological reasons for wanting to have a child that is biologically my own, I should probably admit to myself that the decision is at least equally emotional. I want a child that looks like me and sounds like me. I want him or her to have at least a 50/50 shot of having my inborn talents, and if he or she has my innate deficiencies, at least I already know how to deal with those problems. I also want a child that looks like a tiny Alberto. I want him to have Alberto’s smile and thick hair and big head. Unfortunately, technology has not progressed to the point that we can combine our DNA into one little Philberto. (But don’t think for a second that if science came up with a method to do so tomorrow that I’d give weight to any of the Faustian arguments against it.) So, we’ll just have to have two kids.

Alberto has wavered back and forth between adoption and surrogacy. He believes (correctly) that adoption is a noble pursuit, a way to give children in need of a home the support and love they need. As a teacher he has seen the effects of bad parenting on children and believes that offering a more supportive environment to a child is a great way to improve the world. But he can also understand the desire to pass on your DNA to a new generation. I think he is even more concerned than I am that if I don’t have biological children, my family line will stop (I’m not only an only child but an only grandchild on both sides).

But again, I don’t want to dig too deep into his reasons. He can write a blog himself if he wants to share those. So I’ll tell you another reason why I want to have a biological child, even though it’s not quite as dignified. I don’t want to have to give anything up to be gay. Well, you know, except women.

That’s one of the reasons why I believe so strongly in the right to marry. Alberto is my husband (thank-you-very-much Supreme Judicial Court of Massachusetts). We have a nice house and good careers and a mischievous, affectionate cat. We have the acceptance of our peers. We can hold hands in public if we so choose.

And we can have children. They can look and sound like us. They can be good at basketball (if they take after Alberto) or suck at basketball (if they take after me) and dammit that’s because of our genes.

I know that’s not a good enough reason to choose surrogacy so please refer back a few paragraphs to where I was being more sympathetic.

I’m looking at a small, round, plastic container. In about ten minutes I’m going to be holding this container in one hand, and doing something with the other hand that’s none of your business. My thoughts in those moments will be equally private, so I want to tell you a little bit about my thoughts right now.

Less than a month ago, my husband Alberto and I signed a contract with a surrogacy agency and dropped it in the mail with a huge check. I mean a massive, giant check. A check that could have been the down payment on a charming three-bedroom house in a nice, leafy suburb.

Since then, things have moved quickly. We expected to be “matched” with a surrogate in two-to-six months. By that time, we would have chosen a fertility clinic to perform the embryo transfer, signed wills to ensure that if we die during this process someone will care for the child (or children, but more on that later), and had a lawyer examine our health insurance to see if our medical plan will cover any of this. But either the agency or God worked faster than we expected. Now we have to have all of those things done immediately.

And, I have to have my semen analyzed, hence the container.

Over the next couple of days, I’ll recount how we got here. Not just from the moment we signed the contract, but from the time we decided to pursue surrogacy, more than five years ago. We still have a long way to go and I’m trying not to get so excited about how close we are to having a child that I spend the next year of my life praying for the time to fly by, like a kid waiting for Christmas. I’m going to record this journey so that I don’t forget it in the future, and also to slow myself down in the present.

I will not, however, say any more about the container and its contents.