…the man goes into a small room with a jar and a magazine…
Any realistic future talk about where babies come from in our house would have to be a little different than the one I was given.
It’s needles and machines and pushing back afternoon meetings because the sperm wash is taking forever. It’s making masturbating jokes with your broken-armed husband. It’s asking your husband to come back there with you, because if you’re going to get pregnant, it seems like he should at least be in the room. It’s him making the obligatory “threesome” joke – thankfully before the nurse arrives. It’s taking selfies together in the exam room while waiting for the nurse. It’s him prodding your side (in warning rather than support) because you’ve asked the nurse a question which requires her to answer using the words “egg” and “uterus”, and that might make him puke. It’s you asking another egg-related question on purpose because he’s not the one having his uterus probed and you are.
It’s laughing about it all as a means of reclaiming your dignity. It’s realizing that you’re pretty lucky to have somebody to laugh with about this. Realizing that if you’re in this, you’re glad it’s with him. And I guess in some kind of way, that’s romantic. And hopefully someday we’ll be able to completely horrify our teenage child by whipping out those selfies and telling him or her that they were taken moments before s/he was conceived.