In September 2019, when Leila was nine months old, we received a second match email and knew she was a winner. Based in San Francisco, Jen and her husband Dave seemed like wonderful parents to their four children. The mere fact that she’d had four children—four smooth vaginal deliveries—was a great sign. Let me rewrite that: four vaginal deliveries that all went smoothly. Seeing “smooth vaginal” made me uncomfortable, but I’m leaving it in.

On top of that, Jen wrote a touching note to her future IPs:

My husband and I have completed our family and wish to share the joy and honor of parenthood with your family. I understand the incredible control you are giving me and will do everything in my power to respect your wishes and your judgment.

Like a cover letter to a job application, this gesture was a big plus in our books. We trusted her before even meeting her. 

Despite our recent experience, Circle took nothing for granted. They still emailed us their Surrogacy For Dummies reading list, including a one-pager entitled Building a Relationship with Your Surrogate that had instructions like “Refrain from talking about money” and sample icebreakers like: 

• How do you spend your weekends?
• What are your favorite TV shows?
• Do you have pets? Tell me about them!

Paolo and I rolled our eyes but appreciated the tacit reminder to not be arrogant jerks.

Our Zoom intro went as hoped, and we both confirmed the match. It all felt very relaxed, partly due to Jen’s calm demeanor and partly since we were in no hurry. If anything, we wanted to slow things down to create the two-year gap we desired, so we were pleased to hear that Dr. Sahakian had a busy Q4. We scheduled Jen’s medical screening for early 2020. 

On a call to select the embryo, Dr. Sahakian pulled up our spreadsheet and wasted no time. 

“Do you have a pen?” he asked. “Write this down and email it to me: ‘Paolo’s male embryo. Straw 19.’ And send me some pics for the clinic’s Instagram, will ya? Thanks guys. You look great.” 

The contract stage was equally efficient. Paolo and I scanned the suggested edits from Jen’s attorney and accepted each one with little thought, apart from two points that sparked discussion. 

The first related to a $1,000 payment in the event of an abortion. Jen asked to remove this. The comment in the margin read, “Jen understands that the figure is to account for her pain and undergoing the process in general, but she doesn’t want to be compensated for it.” This small tweak was further testament to her character. Most carriers probably overlooked that fine print or went along with the default provision. Not Jen. Out of principle, she refused to profit from
something tragic. 

The other edit was less sentimental. Her attorney wrote, “Jen has asked that condom use only be required until she reaches the second trimester. I understand that the requirement to use condoms varies by agency and clinic. Do you have a preference?” 

“Yes,” I said to Paolo. “My preference is to not think about our carrier having sex during the pregnancy.” 

(We approved the request.)

On March 13, 2020, we flew to L.A. for the embryo transfer. There were murmurs about a highly contagious “China virus”—Jen drove from S.F. to avoid flying, and we air hugged to avoid close contact—but L.A. was relatively normal when we arrived. Schools were still open. Supermarkets still had toilet paper. Had the transfer been scheduled for later that month, it wouldn’t have gone forward, failing to qualify as a medical emergency. We had no idea how lucky we were. 

Like Sara, Jen stayed at my parents’ house.

Also like Sara, she received Nefertiti’s acupuncture treatments and nutritional guidelines, including the famous pineapple cores. Nefertiti’s specific recommendation was: “Consume one-fifth of a pineapple with its core for five days beginning on the day of the transfer. Allow the pineapple to warm to room temperature before eating it.” 

I got the impression that Jen didn’t love pineapple, to say nothing of its dense core that no one eats. But she was too polite to tell us, and I was too impolite to ask, so she ate it while my whole family watched intently, as if she were a baby trying solids for the first time. That’s it. Good girl. One more bite of tepid yellow gristle.

Nefertiti also emailed us nightly meditations and fertility music for Jen, as well as things to avoid such as nonstick cookware and paper receipts. Who knows if the science check outs, but with her flawless track record and badass Egyptian name, we would have done anything Nefertiti said. 

Unlike  Sara,  Jen did not wear  the lucky transfer socks I bought her.  She must not have seen them or simply forgot, but I’m not gonna lie, my heart sank when I spotted them unopened in her room. (That room, may I remind you, was my childhood bedroom, so I had reason to enter beyond sock snooping.) I didn’t say anything to Jen. Or to my mom, who drove her to the clinic that morning before Paolo and I had landed. In a rare act of self-restraint, I realized how ridiculous this would have sounded: “Ughh Mommm, you didn’t make Jen wear the lucky socks!” 

Thankfully, Jen’s regular socks sufficed. 

The embryo took.

You know the joke that’s not a joke about parents neglecting their second child? With the first one, everything’s a big deal—every milestone a celebration, every anomaly a concern. With the second one, parents know where to focus their energy. 

He fell down? He’ll survive. 

He ate dirt? It’s good for him. 

He has diaper rash? It happens. 

The same thing applies to second surrogates. (At least in our case.)

You have a scan today? Call us after.

You’re not sleeping well? I’m so sorry.

You have gestational diabetes? It happens. 

We cared about Jen just as much, of course, but our caring took a different form. It had to during Covid. There was no question that we’d be there for the birth, but it wasn’t worth the anxiety to visit her ahead
of time. 

Instead, we sent lots of gifts and Zoomed every Friday. They were eight hours behind us with four children stuck at home, so we kept it brief. 

“All good?” we asked Jen and Dave each week. 

“All good,” they’d respond, unfazed by the demands of being pregnant a fifth time. 

It was a stark and deliberate contrast to our round-the-clock texting with Sara. The two women had very different personalities, so it likely wouldn’t have mattered anyway, but with Jen we established a better boundary between the surrogacy scope of work and our personal lives. We developed a relationship but not a friendship. We didn’t interact on social media, and we only texted about time-sensitive news or Friday’s call. Everything else we discussed live. 

It also helped that Dave was by her side. Halfway through the pregnancy, after one of our weekly check-ins, Paolo and I realized that Fabio had never joined Sara on those calls. Not one. There was no expectation that he should have, necessarily, and it didn’t seem unusual at the time, but seeing Dave next to Jen made it clear it was a team effort. 

This was especially true when filling out the Birth Plan. “Making in-the-moment decisions is tough,” Circle warned in bold at the top, so they assigned this worksheet as homework. The four of us went through it together. We covered pain management, taking photos, continuous versus intermittent fetal monitoring, vaginal delivery versus C-section,  inducing, who would do the first skin-to-skin, who would cut the cord, and my personal favorite: lighting and music.

As hoped, Jen was fine with us both being in the room for the birth. However, if the hospital’s Covid policy limited the number of people that could enter, Dave would be her +1. 

We only left one question blank: “If the baby is a boy, would the IPs like to have him circumcised?” 

For one thing, this didn’t require Jen’s input and would have made her very uncomfortable. (Sara, on the other hand, would have loved to cast a vote.)

But the real reason we didn’t answer it was that Paolo and I hadn’t decided yet. As an American Jew, I was/am circumcised and had always heard it was more hygienic. As an Italian, Paolo was not/is not snipped and had strong views on the ethics of making a decision for our son that would change both the appearance and sensitivity of a vital organ. In a hetero relationship, one could argue that father and son should match, but we both had skin in the game. (Paolo a bit more, technically.) 

We were at a standstill. 

To get past it, Paolo wanted me to watch some graphic documentary he was sure would change my opinion of the barbaric practice. Being both squeamish and stubborn, I staunchly refused. 

My path forward was to ask doctor friends. I presented our quandary and thought they’d validate the “more hygienic” claim. 

They did not. They dismissed it as irrelevant in any developed country. 

That left me with the religious card, but I don’t eat kosher or observe Shabbat, so I struggled to assert that I take the Bible’s stance on penises seriously.

I surrendered.

With the Birth Plan complete, the last question was: would the birth go to plan?