Me – Sperm. You – Jane.

I am 32 years old. I like reading, backgammon, and long walks on the beach. I especially like… what?

This isn’t a dating site? Shit. Okay, once more, from the top!

I am 32 years old. I like waking up at 6am to our son’s preemptive anti-school protests, laundering the hell out of our gardening clothes, and going on supermarket dates with Quills. What could be better? We are together, we load up on food and wine, we pay through the nose, AND we come home to cuddle in front of a fireplace. If that doesn’t constitute a date, I don’t know what does!

Oh, and since I’m in a confessional mood, we both also have Twitter and a Facebook profiles that we keep in various states of neglect.

So do tens of millions of other Internet denizens, of course. Even if one of them happens to not be quite… er… fully gestated.

Really, what’s with the current trend of oversharing this much? Would anyone want their intrauterine peccadilloes reported on? Much less discovering said terrifying kernel of truth post-post-post-partum, when your potential employer and/or bedmate gives you the boot for some (totally innocent, I swear!) footage of underage drinking via Mom’s Margarita-fueled placenta?

Can’t speak for anyone else, but I, personally, cringe when my toddler pictures are trotted out, and that’s with my dimply one-and-a-half year old patootie thoroughly wiped and out of sight! Oh, and while I am at it, thank you, Ma, for having the common decency to keep those baby baby pictures locked up where the sun don’t shine.

Facebook has taken the world by storm, and I am just as culpable as anyone else of feeding its humongous Alexa ratings. But that doesn’t mean I am going to be reporting on the me-sperm-you-Jane shenanigans for any future siblings of my 3.5 year old.

Then again, considering the source article has come from somewhere, with yours truly doing her part disseminating it over the world wide web, perhaps something like this would be just what the doula ordered. After all, building community interest here, aren’t I? A modern egg-age romance might just get me there!