Stephanie Rodriguez-Moser

On the day before Valentine’s Day, I had egg retrieval. Nothing says romance like sticking a literal needle through the walls of your vagina, amirite?

Recycling jokes about stereotypes isn’t funny. Misrepresenting appropriation isn’t funny. Throwing three sentences into a video about the struggle doesn’t make you immune from criticism or a good ally. This could have been amazing.

But how dare you, terrible mother and/or father. Don’t you love your kids? Don’t you want them to prosper? Don’t you miss them with every ounce of your being when they are in class? Aren’t you weeping huge tears of sorrow over the loss of this valuable family time?

So let’s talk about my experience with IVF and money. So much money.

Okay, I know I’ve kept some of you that follow me on Instagram in the dark for awhile now, and I’m sorry. I wanted to write this column and let everyone know at once. With no further ado…

OK, I recognize that TV is actually having this moment with all the amazing original shows on streaming, and Making A Murderer has opened half the country’s eyes to the ridiculous horror of the American justice system and all. But every time someone posts about it, I just think, “Ugh, you would already know this had you obsessively listened to Adnan’s case on Serial.”

I’m pretty sure that the vast majority of kids understand the whole hierarchy of adulthood thing. I’ve worked in daycares and volunteered in my kids’ schools. The children there (who called me by my first name, gasp!) never seemed to think that they shouldn’t take direction from me or be respectful of me because I have a first name. Then again, I also don’t assume that, by magic, the second the clock stuck on my 18th birthday, I attained a higher station in life.

In Navigating IVF, IVF Steph takes us on her journey through the wilds of fertility treatment.  

Starting IVF requires a lot of phone calls and emails and waiting. And paper signing. My husband and I have signed so many things in the last week that I wanted to invest in one of those signature stamps.

I don’t mean the super rich 1% (if I did, this article would be a much happier one, listing all of the ways I was using my newfound wealth to ensure a Trump presidency never exists). Instead, I am part of the 1% of women whose pregnancies were ectopic or molar.