introduction

I wanted a kid.

It was a relentless ache and it took hold just as my 40s were gaining momentum. I couldn’t quite make sense of it.

I’d been living a carefree—or at least carelite—life since stumbling into a Silicon Valley job at a lucky time. Travels through India, Cambodia, Uganda with a few clothes in a carry-on bag. Late night jam sessions. Weekends spent sipping martinis with potential mates (or revising my online dating profile).

I lived in a very, very child-unsafe dwelling. Exposed nails and rain soaked carpets—but, hey, under-market rent, and it was on a hilltop just north of San Francisco with stunning views of undeveloped parkland and wild turkeys grazing by the driveway. The moment the sun cut through the fog, I could jump on my mountain bike and ride from my front door to the beach.

So why screw up a perfectly good life? What was this urge to fill a nest while my friends were emptying theirs? Was it the allure of the Nurture Game’s next level, having raised twin puppies to adolescence? Was it a perverse middle age crisis—the kind where you yearn for more responsibility and fewer trips to Thai beaches? Or had some strand of my DNA simply freaked out that I’d be the end of the line, that millions of years of evolution would culminate in, uh, me?

Whatever the case, this seemed clear: the daddy instinct had taken my id hostage and I needed to do something about it.

But, well, there were challenges. Primarily, I didn’t have what you might call a partner—one of those girlfriend types who falls in love with you and becomes your wife and provides womb and egg so together you can make babies happen.

I began exploring adoption but quickly discovered that single middle-aged guys aren’t high on the preferred parent list. A friend suggested a Plan B: Surrogacy. My sperm. A donor’s egg. A surrogate’s womb. A baby.

I investigated. It was scary and expensive. And my Prius was showing signs of age. I had enough money for a Tesla… or a baby. A Tesla doesn’t require fuel or ass wiping. Its drive unit has an eight-year warranty.

I went with the baby.

Baby G was born with blue eyes, velvety skin, long toes. He finds something to cry about every day. I’m keeping him. I love him.

Now, um, does anyone know how to work these things?