We arrived in Wausau (population: 40,000) on December 26th, 2018. Sara’s OB-GYN, Dr. Stevens, was going to be away on our original due date, so we scheduled an induction the week before, on January 4th.
Paolo and I got there extra early to assuage Sara’s fear that we’d miss the birth. Fabio had been clear that he didn’t want to witness it, an attitude we found odd and slightly insensitive but not surprising. From our first meeting in L.A., he’d been frank about this being his wife’s thing. She once texted, I asked Fabio if he wants to feel her moving inside me yesterday and he said ‘no it was weird,’ with a sad face emoji.
Sara felt alone, and this made us more critical to her well-being. She managed a full-time job while looking after two toddlers, and Fabio worked nights, so they only overlapped briefly during the week. Meanwhile, Paolo and I were available any hour of the day; for Leila-related stuff, ostensibly, but really for anything: to gush over photos of her boys; to listen as she vented about work; to laugh at memes she shared. Unwittingly, we’d become surrogate husbands.
As the due date approached, she frequently conveyed the message, You have to be here. One day, this took the form of an anxious dream. She texted, Some guy named Vinny came to be with me while I was in labor cuz you couldn’t get here in time. I don’t even know anyone named Vinny haha.
As usual, a haha softened the tone, but she was palpably fretful.
We all took a sigh of relief, then, when our plane touched down. Paolo and I would be in the delivery room. Fabio and Vinny would not be.
For 40 bucks a night, our Airbnb had all we needed, and so did we apart from baby supplies. We drove 15 minutes to Target every day, both to stave off cabin fever and to grab “one more thing” that inevitably became a full shopping cart of diapers, wipes, sterilizing tablets, Vitamin D drops, and the many other things that gullible parents-to-be fall for. On each trip, we offered to get Sara anything she needed. After a few days, she finally took us up on it and texted back, How do you feel about buying nipple cream?
I feel GREAT about it, I wrote. And might get myself some.
I also offered to treat her to a mani-pedi as a fun way to pass the time. I’d done a pedicure before but never one with colored polish.
“Bright pink please,” I told the lady soaking my feet.
“Are you sure?” she asked, uneasy, as if it were an irreversible medical procedure.
“Very sure. I’m about to have a baby girl.”
While the polish dried, I took a final glance at Circle’s Packing Suggestions for Delivery sheet on my phone.
Car seat—check.
Pacifiers—check.
Onesies—check.
It was check, check, check until I came to: Chocolates for nurses. The lovely idea hadn’t crossed my mind, so I walked my pink toes over to the local candy shop. I’d seen the owner with a newborn and sought her opinion.
“We’d like to buy gifts for the nurses but don’t know how many there normally are. If you don’t mind me asking, how many people helped with your delivery?”
“I gave birth in the backyard.”
“Oh wow! How convenient,” I stuttered. “Right. Well, um, six boxes should do it, I think.”
She could tell I wasn’t from Wausau and asked what brought me there. As the words “Our surrogate lives here” left my mouth, I realized she might then ask who it was or deduce it using small town arithmetic: It can’t be Peggy. Marge wouldn’t do that. Must be Sara! Since I wasn’t sure if Sara wanted her decision widely known, I felt guilty. I resolved to lie if it happened again.
Later that day, Paolo and I went to a yoga class. As we entered the studio, the instructor said, “Welcome, guys! I haven’t seen you two before. I take it you’re visiting?”
“Yeah,” I replied, tersely.
“You have family here?”
“A friend.”
“How long y’all staying?”
“Two weeks.”
“TWO WEEKS? During winter in Wausau? Must be a really good friend. What are you doing here for two whole weeks?”
I caved.
“Aha!” she exclaimed with far too much satisfaction. “I knew there was some extenuating circumstance. Two weeks in Wausau…”
After yoga, which was more like Zumba, we met up with Sara and Fabio. In court. Accompanied by our respective attorneys, we had to formally request that the county accept their “refutation of the presumption of parenthood” and recognize Paolo and me as Leila’s legal parents. Fabio had to be there too or he could later claim paternity regardless of what Sara signed.
Our attorney Theresa assured us that most judges loved seeing a case like ours on their desk. It was a nice change from custody battles, traffic violations, foreclosures, and the like. She’d represented surrogacy clients long enough to know most judges, and only one guy had a reputation for being hostile towards same-sex parents. Had we been assigned to him, Theresa would have requested a substitution.
“The hearing is a formality,” she said. “A rubber stamp.”
But then…knock knock.
Someone popped into our holding pen to inform us that our scheduled judge could no longer make it. A Commissioner would take his place.
My first thought entering the courtroom was, Fuck! What happens now?!
My second thought was, Ooh, this is just like the movies.
I’d never been in court before and was surprised to sit on opposing sides of the aisle: Paolo and me to the right, Sara and Fabio to the left. I clearly wasn’t the first person to have this reaction because Theresa remarked, “They position you like adversaries. No one has invented a friendly court circle yet.”
While we waited, Theresa explained the behind-the-scenes work she’d done in preparation, including an affidavit from Dr. Sahakian in which he confirmed that Sara and Fabio did not contribute genetic material and that he transferred one embryo belonging to me.
“The surrogate is always the first witness,” Theresa said, “so it doesn’t look like she was forced to agree with the IPs.”
Paolo responded in jest, “It’s also good Sara goes first in case she needs to rush to the hospital.”
Sara added, “It’s also good in case I change my mind!”
Theresa was aghast. She looked to us for direction and saw that we were laughing, so she tried to match the mood. “Oh, we’re telling jokes,” she said awkwardly. Then, turning to us, “She’s a joker, huh?”
Translation: Sara better not blow this.
As the middle-aged Commissioner walked in, I scanned his body for any telltale signs of homophobia like a swastika tattoo or, more plausibly, a cross necklace. What I saw instead was a smiley man in nerdy glasses whose billowing black robe dangled over white sneakers—more like a judge Halloween costume than a uniform.
He opened with, “I was deciding where to have lunch when they asked me to take this one. I see that both parties support the petition, so tell me what you need from me.”
He would have signed it then and there, but the attorneys wanted their hard work to show, so Sara’s lawyer offered to conduct testimony. He questioned her and Fabio for several minutes, jumping from legal matters (“Are you testifying freely and voluntarily?”) to factual matters (“What was the name of the doctor?”) to personal matters (“Who do you think will be the best parents for this child?”).
It was very moving to hear them both say our names.
