It’s my party & I’ll wear a sperm crown if I want to

This past Saturday was my sperm party. Yup, you heard that right. I said sperm party.

Since I’ve already selected and ordered my donor’s goods, I put together a PowerPoint document of the 8 finalists that had been in the running to lend their genetic material to my baby making venture.

Some of my closest girlfriends came over, and they each had to guess which donor I chose to be the sperm to my egg.

That in itself was fun, watching them all bury their heads in bio and photo filled handouts, raising their eyes up to discuss among themselves.

This guy was born in 1995! One of my friends exclaimed, turned off.

I shrugged. That means he’s got fresh, young swimmers.

Honestly, I don’t even think I paid much attention to the year of birth of each donor. I knew I wasn’t getting grandpa or tween sperm; that was good enough for me. I suppose I didn’t much care if he was 12 years my junior.

We had a blast. We laughed, we played Pin the Sperm on the Egg (I lost). We drank, we ate deviled eggs and sperm shaped sugar cookies (among other non-reproductive themed snacks). We learned everything we never knew we never wanted to know about ball juice in a game my friend and party host extraordinaire created called Sperm Wars.

Fun fact: the tail of a sperm is called the flagellum.

Hand-cut sparkly sperm decorated the walls, and a made-with-love happy sperm sat atop my head, perched on a headband festooned with white curly ribbons. My very own sperm crown.

Just call me the Sperm Queen.

Or, maybe don’t.

It was a great night. What was the first sperm party for all in attendance was surely a memorable one!

Turns out my people know me well. Seven of them guessed the correct donor. Three of them picked the runner-up donor.

All were happy and excited about my choice of daddy-gene donator.

My choice. He’s solid.

Irish maternal nationality and Irish & German on the paternal side.

6’0″, 195 lbs.

Blonde hair. Zero hair loss. Hazel/green eyes.

His celebrity look-alike is Heath Ledger (may he rest in peace).

Right handed.

Size 12 shoe – which, as one friend pointed out when faced with a donor with a size 14 shoe, requires no custom shoes, an extra future expense. Thanks for looking out for me and my bank balance, J.

He’s very healthy with a stellar family medical history.

No vision correction (unlike me); no braces (again, unlike me).

He’s currently a finance professional working towards his accounting degree – which, fingers crossed, means my kid won’t need my help with math homework – and also an officer in the Army National Guard as a diesel mechanic. Good with his hands and his brain.

No sperm second guessing over here. I’d take this guy’s donation the old fashioned way, if you know what I mean.

Now, the countdown is on. Just over 2 weeks until my initial appointment.

Until then, I leave you with this cute story: one of my closest friends has 3 kids, the youngest of whom is a girl, and one of my little loves. We’re tight. Buds, pals. She loves me almost as much as she loves my dog. As my friend prepared to leave for the party, her daughter grabbed her Frozen sleeping bag, which she’d placed by the door, and proceeded to announce that she was surely coming to the party for me as well. When my friend told her almost four-year-old daughter that she couldn’t come to the party, poor W began to sob. My friend had to drive away with her screaming and crying in the window.

Okay, so that’s not quite as cute as it is heartbreaking. The cute part really happened the following morning. My friend stayed overnight (wine, you know), and called her husband on her way home. He inquired how the party went, and then my littlest, cutest girlfriend asked “Does Courtney have her baby?”

Not yet, sweet girl, not yet. 🤞

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