Before you get your knickers in a knot, I’m not here to advocate incest. Nup. Nope. Nada. I’m not even here to justify that weird Donald Trump borderline-inappropriate familial convention pat-down he offered to his daughter at the recent Republican National Convention.
You see, funnily enough, there’s actually nothing remotely incestuous about my sister and I planning to have a baby together. Sure, my mother still gets a little confused when she tries to explain the process to concerned friends and family. She still grimaces kindly. She still tilts her head disconcertingly to the side as she clarifies, with caution, how her only two children plan on one day making her only grandchild – erm, together.
Surely every mother dreams of their children being best friends, but most would draw the line somewhere between holding hands in public and intertwining the branches of their family tree.
The thing is, without delving into the looming scientific black-hole that is conceiving a three-parent child (that's a can of worms for another day), the only possible chance my partner and I have of waving our respective biological flags in our future kid's DNA is if my sister donates an egg for my partner's sperm. No, she won't be carrying the baby – just offering up the bun for another yet-to-be-determined woman's oven.
As would be expected when broaching such potentially uncomfortable subjects, I first ran the idea past my sister while we were both a little drunk at a family function. To my surprise, she squealed in delight at the prospect. “Let's do it!” She said, before I was forced to explain that I'm currently a little busy tap-dancing along the poverty line to actually take formulated steps in making another dependent human being. This was all theoretical, this was laying the groundwork – this was planning for the future.
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