Tomorrow my husband and I go in to have a consultation with our FOURTH fertility clinic. That’s right folks, I’m interviewing doctors at $350 a pop. It may sound impractical. It may be impractical. My husband thinks I’m looking for something that doesn’t exist. I think that if I’m going to spend two months of my life and $30k of my money, I want to at least LIKE the doctor. The first clinic we saw made our son a reality. I’m forever grateful to them. But that can’t compensate for the fact that their donor coordinator is a serious Grumpass who makes my every question feel like an intrusion. The second clinic we went to was great. I thought we had a winner. Wait, what’s that you say? Clinic number two works with clinic number one for all their embryology work? I would STILL have to interact with Grumpass? Moving on. Clinic number three is a four hour drive, but totally worth it if the staff is welcoming and hospitable. Turns out they are, but only if you go home to a swimming pool filled with gold coins and a backyard full of magical money trees.

Maybe I’m being a bit high maintenance in this regard. But I have the right to have complete confidence in my clinic and my doctor, dammit. This is the facility that I am trusting with creating my future offspring. I won’t take that lightly. I can’t take that lightly. So if I choose to play Goldilocks in the game of fertility clinic selection, eventually I’m going to land on the one that’s just right. I deserve nothing less and neither does any other woman in this position. Especially when the position involves stirrups and far too many intrusive explorations of the greater hoo-hah area.