L made it to the doctor's today and is on her way to Boston. She did report that there is now a sign in the waiting room that reads:
"Due to the sensitive nature of our practice, please make child care arrangements prior to your appointments."
I guess I can be grateful for small things.
To anyone who says, "It'll happen for you guys," fuck you. Look us in the eyes if -- dare I say when -- it doesn't.
To anyone who says, "I can't live in a world where you two aren't parents," fuck you. Let me know when you plan to kill yourself.
To anyone who says, "I'm praying for you," fuck you and your god. If you believe in a magical, imaginary sky-man who answered your prayers and favored you with your own children, fuck you. Seriously. Fuck you. Your religion isn't worth the spit that your god-favored child pukes onto your shoulder.
To anyone who says privately or to a partner, "There but for the grace of god go I," fuck you. And your god? I repeat: fuck him. Is that offensive? How's this? Fuck Him. We are not an example put before you by god to make you appreciate what you have.
To anyone who says, "You deserve to be parents," fuck you. Ride the subway for ten minutes and ask yourself if the people who hit their kids or who tell a four-year-old to "shut the fuck up" deserve to be be parents. Deserve's got nothing to do with it. Please tell me what you did to deserve your kid so I can start doing it. And if you have two kids, don't forget to give me your name and address so I can contact the Vatican to let them know what a fucking saint you must be to have deserved such exalted status.
To anyone who asks, "Have you thought about adoption?" fuck you. Especially if you have your own kid. Knowing what you know now would adoption be your first choice? And to anyone who reminds us of all the needy kids out there, seriously, go fuck yourself. I don't see you hanging out with Mia Farrow, asshole.
To anyone who complains about their children crying too much, not sleeping enough, using too many diapers, spitting up too much, stop your fucking complaining. It's called being a parent.
To the people who bring their children to the fertility doctor's office, fuck you. Big time. You're spending tens of thousands of dollars on a medical procedure and you don't have $20 and soda in the fridge for a baby sitter? Fuck you. Be thankful that you got at least one, and leave that one at home if you don't mind. Oh, and to a fucking infertility clinic that doesn't politely suggest that, maybe, just maybe, its patients not bring their existing children to the waiting room, fuck you, too. And lest I forget: to the guy who left the doctor's office beaming about his child-to-be, fuck you. How about this for an idea? Why don't you go to the oncology ward and yell, "I'm cancer-free!" Asshole.
To anyone who complains about how expensive it is to raise a child, fuck you. We'll spend ten times the cost of your stupid Bugaboo for a minute chance of success. The next time you complain about the cost of diapers, daycare, or doctor's visits, why don't you take twenty thousand dollars in cash and light it on fire? Because that's where we'll be if we keep going and we won't even necessarily have a kid to buy diapers for when it's over. (IVF doesn't come with a money-back guarantee.) You two fucked one night and got a kid for free. My wife injects her ass with horse steroids every fucking night, and gets poked and prodded by doctors and nurses twice a week all for the great privilege of possibly having a miscarriage again. Our remaining frozen embryos might not even survive being thawed, or so one of fifteen legal documents I had to sign told me. Sexy, no? Seriously, fuck you.
But, to anyone who knows that they don't know what to say and says exactly that, thank you.