For most people, making babies is one thing in this world that is actually free but as an infertile ‘free’ went out the window years ago. I guess I can only complain so much. After all, I’ve had a relatively easy and lucky thirty years so it was about time the big guy upstairs send me my ration of crap. It’s our reality that in addition to the physical and emotional stress of artificial baby-making, we had to fork over every penny we’d ever saved plus…well, lets just leave it at plus.
Whatever. Some people get drunk, do the tango, and wake up with a baby in their arms. Others spend years throwing money at drug companies, have a really impersonal threesome with a doctor, a petri dish, and some embryo’s, and spend the next nine months praying that everything goes as planned. At least I can say I had a threesome with a doctor, a petri dish, and some embryo’s and got two babies, right?
Onward to the part about the landlord.
Last week we got a call from the lab we did our IVF treatments through. In order for them to continue cooling our nine remaining embryo’s at a brisk 139 degrees below zero we have to start paying rent. If we fall behind on said rent our little popsicles will be evicted.
Having to pay rent stinks but isn’t a shocker for us. The thing I’m most confused about is how I’m supposed to label this line item on our budget spreadsheet. Popsicle Storage?