With the publicity surrounding the battle between the surrogate mother of Baby M and its parents over the custody of the child, the morality of our reproductive technology is coming into question. One recently voiced fear is that lower income women will be carrying children for upper income families, the only ones able to afford the process.
Thus, some time in the future, the following scene might occur:
Throckmorton P. Gundersludge VI was picking at his breakfast, an unread copy of the Financial Times on the floor next to his chair, when the phone rang. It was his wife, Hildegarde. "Oh, it's you," Throckmorton said. "Haven't I told you never to call me when I'm eating?"
"Oh, Throcky," Hildegarde wistfully responded, "I've been thinking how nice it would be to have another child. Don't you think it would be nice to have another child?"
Throckmorton picked up his opera glasses and peered at his wife, convinced that she had started nipping at the sherry a little early. He could just make out Hildegarde at the other end of the long table. He couldn't be certain whether the expression on her face indicated mild excitement of an upset stomach. "We can't have another child," Throckmorton, at his most decisive, said into the receiver.
"Why not?" Hildegarde pouted.
"We would have to have...physically intimate relations." Throckmorton pronounced the phrase with a certain horrified disgust, as if a snail were slithering down his arm. "No, I'm sorry, dear. It's out of the question."
"But, why, Throckie?"
"When in heaven's name would we find the time?"
Hildegarde thought for a moment. "Okay," she conceded, "But, that's not the only way to have a child. My egg could be fertilized by your sperm in a petri dish. Why, you could get the sperm the next time you went to the doctor for a check-up. It would hardly take any time at all!"
Throckmorton, who had developed a wide range of vocal nuances to deal with his business associates, adopted his "you're being difficult, but I don't want to hurt your feelings, so let me explain this to you as if you were a three year-old child" tone of voice to reply: "Hildie, you don't really want to become pregnant. Think of all the things you would have to give up. There's your volunteer work in the terminal ward of the Soap opera Addiction Research Centre. Then, you've got your commitment as Honourary Chairperson of the Save the Brewster Memorial Bagpipe Hall Committee. And, that doesn't include the trouble you go to to hold parties here at the house..."
Hildegarde thought for another moment. "I suppose you're right," she reluctantly agreed. "They do so appreciate my visits at the Research Centre. Still, I want a child. Couldn't we...pay a woman to have the fertilized egg implanted into her? Yes - a surrogate mother could carry our child!"
"A surrogate mother!" Throckmorton blurted. "Who would you suggest? Doris Day?"
"Oh, I don't know. One of the servants, perhaps..."
"They're already paid too much as it is."
Hildegarde grew stern. "Now, Throckmorton P. Gundersludge VI, we're talking about the future of one of our children. This is no time to worry about money!"
"We wouldn't be having this argument if we weren't filthy rich," Throckmorton muttered.
"We wouldn't have this problem if we weren't filthy rich," Hildegarde pointed out. "We probably would already have had a dozen children - naturally."
Throckmorton, feeling he was losing control of the discussion, adopted his "you're severely trying my patience, but I can afford to be indulgent because I have superior logic and a terrific right hook on my side" tone, saying "But, Hildegarde, somebody would have to raise the child. You would still have to end your commitments."
Ignoring the carefully crafted subtelty in her husband's tone, Hildegarde responded, "We could get a nanny to look after the child. Then, when it was three or four years old, it would be sent to a private school."
"So, when would you actually raise the child?"
Hildegarde thought further. "I could fit the visits to the nursery in Thursdays from noon to two and...I believe I could manage every other Monday morning...yes, I could do that..."
Throckmorton flirted with the idea of using a "you've just made a statement every intelligent life form on the face of the earth can see is ridiculous, so why can't you?" tone of voice in his response, but opted for honest astonishment, instead. "What's the point of having a child if you don't intend to be a parent?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"You don't intent to conceive the child, you won't carry it and you don't have time to raise it. What's the point?"
"Darling! Children are all the rage this season!"
Throckmorton snorted and left for work.
