Prologue_Dolphin_Nois

My boyfriend and I are trying to have a baby.

Let me clarify.

Wyatt and I are cozied up at opposite ends of the sofa with our feet—both in thick, fuzzy socks—meeting in the middle, occasionally playing a game of footsie as we scan through online databases of egg donors.

Our virtual baby-making is accompanied by the ample fire roaring next to us as an early December snowfall outside lightly dusts our Brooklyn street.

“Do we like Penelope?” Wyatt asks, his head excitedly popping up from his laptop to see what I think of another possible candidate who will share one-half of our future baby’s DNA.

After eight months of scouring and debating every egg donor agency in the country—and several in Canada, Mexico and Europe—each woman’s photo, bio, family history, SAT scores and all their other very personal information is starting to look the same.

“Is she the one whose dad is a commercial fisherman?” I ask.

“No, that was Anastasia,” Wyatt says.

“Not to be confused with Evangeline.”

“Or Dominque.”

“Or Crystal H,” I say. We both let out a laugh. “How are these names real?” I ask.

“Wait—are you kidding?”

“What do you mean?” I look up at Wyatt.

“Their real names are kept confidential unless the intended parents agree to meet.”

“So we can know someone’s grandmother had cataract surgery in early September twelve years ago, but they can’t tell us their real name?” I ask.

“I thought you knew that,” Wyatt says with a laugh. “You’re cute.”

“I’m kidding,” I say, trying to save face. “Of course I knew that.”

“You did not!” Wyatt teases. He stands, pulls me from the couch and squeezes me into him, only for the two of us to plunge back down into our sofa together in a love tangle.

“No wonder they all sound like soap opera characters from the eighties.”

Our dog, Matilda, playfully runs over, tail wagging, curious about the commotion and wanting in on the fun.

“How’s our baby girl?” We each pet Matilda, who yawns and stretches.

“I do like Penelope. Is she on the board?” I ask.

Wyatt stands to retrieve her printed headshot and tacks it on his highly organized corkboard full of profile photos and bios of possible egg donors. “She is now,” he says.

If the words “Project Baby!” weren’t written on a piece of paper above the dozen photos of women, someone walking into our living room right now would think we’re either casting a movie or solving a murder.

Wyatt sighs. “We’ve left no available egg donor unturned.”

I stand next to him. “Every day feels like we’re scrolling through a dating app,” I say as we both survey our baby board.

Wyatt chuckles. “How would you know?”

“True,” I say. Wyatt and I met fresh out of college on a ski trip in Colorado and fell in love immediately, so we never spent time online trying to find each other.

“I keep coming back to Mackenzie,” I say, pointing to her smiling photo.

“Me too,” Wyatt agrees. “She’s my number one.”

“She’s my number one too. I thought you weren’t sure.”

“I’m going back and forth. I still think it’s slightly weird she said her special skill is making dolphin noises.”

“You really have to get over the dolphin noises,” I say.

“If I’m putting my best foot forward in a bio to potential parents, I’d tell them I’m really good at hockey or a pretty decent chess player. Not imitating an aquatic mammal.”

“She’s quirky and unique,” I point out. “And smart, funny, beautiful, creative, athletic, nurturing and heartfelt. And she loves animals.”

“You’re right,” Wyatt says, rethinking his overthinking. “She is all of that. Her personal statement was the best one we read. And her video felt like she was talking directly to us. Okay, she’s definitely my number one.”

We both turn back and stare at Mackenzie’s photo, full of hope.

“So should we do it? Should we finally pull the trigger on...” I make exaggerated air quotes. “Mackenzie?”

“I’ll email the agency right now and make sure she’s still available,” Wyatt says as he turns to me with a giddy smile. “How about a little toast? I feel like finally deciding on an egg donor should be a mini-celebration.”

“I’ll break out some champagne,” I say, walking into the kitchen and grabbing two glasses. Wyatt dances around with Matilda as our excitement builds.

I’ve always wanted to have a baby. Coming from a big, Italian family of five older sisters, I’ve wanted to recreate what I had growing up.

Starting a family is one of the first things Wyatt and I bonded over when we met. Both of us want to have a kid or three before we enter the wrong side of thirty.

We want family dinners and backyard barbecues and smiley face pancakes and pepperoni pizza parties. We want waterslide parks and camping and games and museums and bowling and trekking through canyons. We want graduations and birthday parties and sleepovers. We want laughter and music and dancing and funny impressions. We want watching a movie when it rains and falling into a pile of leaves and baking a chocolate cake for no reason.

Wyatt and I have endless conversations about all the things we want to do and how we can’t wait to share our love with our future kids.

So why, all of a sudden, as Wyatt and I toast to this momentous occasion, as we slowly move another inch closer to actually having a baby, am I completely and totally freaking out?