I learn about the importance of a person’s lunar return in trying to conceive a child. For all that millennials love to talk about astrology, we are not interested in babies. We assume we are the last generation; any new babies will soon be distributed by Amazon, and we are trying very hard not to engage in any form of corporatism. Better to opt out now.
I go around as lazy and apathetic as any of us, half the time, but I secretly want to believe we are part of history. I secretly want to believe in a life cycle, that scourge brought on by the Baby Boomers.
The book about Wiccan sex that I find outside the organic grocery store cites a case study in which a young man named Dustin’s sperm count tripled during his lunar return.
Over breakfast, I mention this to my husband. We are eating cruffins (if you didn’t know, they are a trendy cross between croissants and muffins) and listening to an article about Rachel Carson, read aloud by a voice actor so we don’t even have to read it. Rachel Carson is the marine biologist who wrote Silent Spring, and warned us all about DDT, back in the sixties. She believed we are all connected, and were before the internet. She introduced that chemical-crazy generation to the idea of ecosystems.
At least they were concerned back then. They listened, for a while. Birdwatching housewives wrote to the newspapers. Our news sites report that in fifteen or twenty years, human pregnancy might be as rare as the pregnancies of right whales. Reporters muse about how already, it seems surprisingly difficult for those few young Luddite couples anachronistically trying to start a family. My peers scoff at their naiveté. Don’t they know the human race is doomed?
We have been trying to get pregnant for approximately seven months and three-quarters.
Engrossed in Witch in the Bedroom, I am sad to realize I do not know what phase the moon is in, much less the phase of my own lunar return. For all that I protect and revere the cycle that just so happens to match exactly the 29-day lunar cycle, for all that I get a thrill when I see the blood from my own body, for all that I dump my diva cup into my houseplants, for all that my friends might call me a good plant mom, I can’t remember the last time I looked at the moon.
The witch author explains that having sex with a man during my lunar return will prompt spontaneous ovulation. My woman’s body, which is supposed to be a societal construct, will respond to the man’s body by laying an egg and the result will be the child I want, that my society refuses to construct. I am too politically incorrect to live.
At the organic grocery store I rush from the free-range eggs to the foil packages of three kale chips each, veering wildly across the aisle between joy and grief, laughing at the rich people and realizing I am one of them.
The chard at this grocery store comes hermetically sealed in plastic sturdy enough to transport water from a distant well. Perhaps we find it exciting to think we are coming to this.