“He’s a donor. Not a Dad.” Sarah was emphatic. “It’s genetic material. Now, if you get married, and there’s adoption, then your partner may become your child’s father. That would be his or her dad. But a donor is a donor. You want to use clear language with your child.”
I’m nodding.
“And when you’re looking for a donor, you want to look for someone who fits in with your own family.”
“Like height…my Dad’s tall….”
“Race.”
“Ah.”
I’m in my second counselling session with Sarah, the therapist I’ve been assigned to visit to discuss the implications for attempting to be a single mom through a sperm donation procedure. Really you only have to go once, but my first visit to her had been consumed with so much angst about my situation that we hadn’t even gotten to the implications of getting pregnant.
But now I was back.
I had been considering having a mixed race baby, but Sarah’s advice seems to be that I should keep it simple. And by simple, I mean white. My parents live in Texas (a great state, to be sure), but maybe a baby who looked like everyone else would have an easier time. It’s something to think about.
“There are books that you can use that help explain your choice. To your child.”
I’m nodding.
“They will likely come home with questions. And you can say, ‘I wanted you so much that I chose to have you!’ What a wonderful story! Are you doing an open donor?”
An open donor leaves open a possibility that the child can contact him after the kid reaches 18. “I’d like to,” I say.
“Great,” she say, “But if you find the perfect donor and he’s not an open donor, then that’s great too. Don’t let that stop you if you find the one you like.”
The session flies by. It feel surreal to talk about how I’m going to speak to my kid in six years. That is, if I even manage to get pregnant.
“Donor, not Dad. Got it.”
Sarah beams at me, “You’re going to be a great mom.”
Next step: finding the donor.
