People are fascinated by celebrities for their talents, their beauty, their uniqueness. But does having a celebrity’s baby remove some of that awe?
about how technology and science will change our lives—publishes a story on a theme. The theme for April–June 2020: parenthood.
I was out of breath. It was pitch-dark outside. In an hour, the sun would come up and I could go to sleep. I wiped my neck with my hand and then wiped that hand on my sweatpants. I scrolled through Daffodil’s content page looking for new photos or videos or articles, but I’d seen every confessional, every meal, every song and dance. I was going to have to wait a few hours for something new when a graphic popped up: “ENTER TO WIN.” My name and phone number were already autofilled.
At my old job I greeted customers at a simulation national park for minimum wage. There were beaches with soft sand and red canyons and green forests. You could feel the sun and the spit of the waves. At the exit, you could pick up a postcard with your stricken expression in the photo. When people asked if I wanted a child beforehand, I didn’t know how to answer. Some women have dreams of nursing babies. I was not one of them. I never asked to hold one. When a co-worker or a fidgety woman in line for coffee began to extol the wonders of a baby’s smell, I thought there must be something wrong with me. People couldn’t really like the smell of sour milk, could they?
Once she posted a joke about giving away her eggs to fans so they could each grow a little Valerie at home—a take-me-home, water, and feed @ValerieSucks. Five hundred people responded with serious interest. She respected her fans’ request and harvested the eggs and put them up for sale. They were dirt-cheap—$20,000. She sold all three.Can you quantify the value of human life? Trashy trashy trashy. Exploitation.
The market exploded. Gametes of scientists, politicians, actors, directors, pop stars, and models flowed into the growing industry, now costing more than beachfront property. More than half of the buyers paid on credit and signed up for a payment plan. Parents got two or three jobs to ensure their kids would have the opportunity for a better life. Still, the top echelon of elite public figures held out—no one like the president had sold their genetics.
They both said encouraging words, but I didn’t feel the exaltation I would have imagined. I was so used to seeing them speak. They already greeted me every morning. But one week later, I received a message from Daffodil and my heart tumbled through my body like a loose rock, running downhill to safety, escaping its old life hidden in the cliffs.
But her fear was all-consuming. Maybe she was a paranoid person. But she didn’t believe that it was right to pass certain traits onto someone else. That seemed selfless to me and I thought she would make a good mother. I had to remind myself. I was going to be the mother. Moments later, Dr. Saffiz, a sturdy woman whose face was so plain I thought she should wear glasses, led me and Daffodil into a backroom. Breadbowl stayed out front. He said he had a conference call scheduled with a chocolate milk and vodka company.
I stared at the screen. Daffodil and I both had the same 25 percent chance of giving a child double-jointed elbows. Look at us, I thought. We’re not so different after all.Daffodil looked at me. “Is there anything of yours you want?”Daffodil and I both had the same 25 percent chance of giving a child double-jointedDaffodil took out her phone and began to read from a list. The baby couldn’t have her nose or her ears. That was it. She put the phone away.
A huge grin spread across her face. Daffodil leaned close to my ear. It almost sounded like a song. “He thinks you asked to have your genes woven into the baby, that this was all your idea.” She let out a simple laugh that rang like a church bell. I felt her spirit rise inside me. I remembered that the baby was going to have her voice. My feet hardly touched the ground when I skipped through the parking lot back to my car.
When the baby was only a few months old, I begged her to watch Daffodil on the screen. I didn’t have to work anymore, and aside from media appearances, I was free all day. Some parents play Mozart and hope their children become doctors. All I had to do was make sure this baby stayed on track. All day, I cycled through Daffodil’s music, vlogs, performances, advertisements, and interviews. She had to know where she came from and where she was going. She pulled my hair.
I never comprehended or accepted this information. Everything in my life had become quicker and more urgent. News crews chased us day and night—to the park, to the grocery store, to the doctor. I was interviewed by the press at least once a week and I became good at vlogging everything myself. I essentially had two babies—Starla and the fans. They wanted to know everything—the size of her toes, her favorite stuffed animal, what made her laugh.
But she was already crying. I zoomed the camera into her face. The fans’ hearts would melt when they saw her weeping. Daffodil would be jealous. She would tell Breadbowl that she wanted a child just like Starla. But the child was angry. She reached her tiny sausage fingers over the lens and chucked my camera to the ground. The lens shattered. She jumped on the shards—they twinkled like a constellation—and she shouted, “I’m evil!” She ran away.
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