The Golden Seed

At 52, while teaching music in a preschool, Starina Catchatoorian is confronted by her grief over missing out on motherhood.

Starina Cathchatoorian hanging out with one of her students on the steps of Hudsy in Kingston, New York. Photo by Kelly Merryman.

I’m marching and singing along with nine preschool kids, leading an imaginary reptile parade, when one of them suddenly stops, points at me and shouts, “You’re the momma dinosaur!”

It surprises me at first, to hear myself be called mama. The word stirs up a sadness I thought I’d left behind. I look at the determined 5-year-old girl who appointed me mother of the hatchlings. She nods wildly, as if to say this is real, not pretend. Soon a smile stretches across my hesitant face and I believe her, if only for a little while.

Twelve years ago, I was about to turn 40 and on the brink of leaving a loveless marriage that left me deprived in many ways, not to mention childless. As a wedding gift, my aunt gave me a hand-crocheted baby’s outfit. I remember being horrified when I unwrapped the plastic shopping bag it came in. I thought, Who gives a baby’s outfit as a wedding gift? At the time, I was ambitious about starting my music career and ambivalent about children. But as the years passed, the baby’s clothes and the idea they contained grew on me. Every now and then, I’d take the outfit out of its bag and look at it: a turquoise and white poncho ensemble with matching booties, and a pom-pom beret. The delicate looped yarn was so tender I feared touching it, lest it unravel in my hands. After a few moments, I’d put the outfit back in its bag and try not to think about it again.    

But I always did.

I’m marching and singing along with nine preschool kids, leading an imaginary reptile parade, when one of them suddenly stops, points at me and shouts, “You’re the momma dinosaur!” It surprises me at first, to hear myself be called mama. The word stirs up a sadness I thought I’d left behind.

After I left my husband, I felt certain I’d make my way into a lasting partnership that would lead to a family. Instead, I morphed into a solo musician with jet-black hair singing in dive bars. My world became a revolving door of men, mostly alcoholic, some junkies, always unavailable. I tended to work a slew of side hustles— makeup artist, music teacher, babysitter, pet sitter, waitress—living paycheck to paycheck and always on the edge.

***

On my first day of teaching music at the preschool, I work hard to memorize each student’s name. Nathan’s is the first one I learn.

“How do you know my name?” he asks me, stomping through the circle of kids sitting criss-cross applesauce. I’m amused by his defiant demeanor.

Nathan’s poppy-red curls are tied into a man bun atop his head and as he pouts, I wonder if this was his hairstyle choice, or his mother’s attempt to tame the uncontrollable. A childhood memory floats into my mind of when my mother once chopped off my long curls, leaving me with a pageboy. She complained my hair had too many knots and was too much trouble. I remember how I cried for days afterward.

Nathan sits far from me, just outside the circle. I strum my guitar, slightly nervous, and begin to sing, You Are My Sunshine. All at once, he throws his torso onto the floor.

“I hate this song!” he wails. “My sister always sings this!”

I flub a chord and chuckle.

The following week, half-way out the door, a child’s mournful cry stops me. I look back and see Nathan punching his teacher’s thighs.

“She’ll be back next week,” the teacher says, and it’s then I realize he’s crying for me.

I stand still as I listen to his sobs. I thought I could never win him over, but now I see he’s loved me all along. Suddenly, a children's song pops into my head and I have an idea.

“The littlest worm, I ever saw, la dee dah dah,” I hum as I reach my arm out to Nathan, my hand in a closed fist. He stops crying and looks up at me.

“Will you keep this worm safe for me until we meet again?” I whisper, my fingers swaying in a magician-like motion as they hover over his small cupped hand.

After I left my husband, I felt certain I’d make my way into a lasting partnership that would lead to a family. Instead, I morphed into a solo musician with jet-black hair singing in dive bars. My world became a revolving door of men, mostly alcoholic, some junkies, always unavailable.

Nathan’s misty eyes widen in anticipation as he slowly looks into his palm, a single diamond teardrop frozen on his cheek. Suddenly, his face sinks.

“There’s nothing there!”

The teacher and I crack up.

“It's imagination,” she says.

Nathan darts his eyes back and forth between his hand and mine, searching for the missing worm. I wink and his puzzled face bursts into a bright gigantic smile, melting my insides in one magical instant, both of us laughing at the silliness of it all. I understood his longing, his love for me, and it's in this very moment that I understand my love for him.

***

A year after my divorce a friend convinced me to join her at a fertility event in the city. “It’s an egg-freezing seminar…at an ice bar!” she said. “You should come!” I was confused as to why a fertility conference would be held at a bar in midtown, but it became clear when I saw the queue of professional 30-somethings dressed in crisp skirt suits, carrying polished Coach leather briefcases, waiting to be handed parkas and iced vodka drinks. Nearby, a tall poster read: “Egg Freezing: Take Control of Your Reproductive Future. Complimentary drinks and h’ordeuvres!”

The walls of the bar were made of ice, hence the parkas. A few men wearing gold chains and open silk dress shirts, smelling like an Armani boutique, hung around ogling the women, enjoying being outnumbered. Loud electronic dance music pounded my ears, the thumping bass attacking my nervous system while the neon glow of ultraviolet light blinded me, forcing me to collide into faceless strangers.

“Isn’t this fun?!” my friend Katie, who’d invited me, yelled over the noise. I was surprised she got so dressed up, wearing stilettos and glitter makeup. I was still in my all-black clothes and Camper sneakers from my job in retail, with my clear plastic Bloomingdales security bag (which held my personal belongings and an untouched tuna sandwich) tucked under my arm. Katie was a few years younger than me and clearly on a mission. I followed as she pushed her way through the crowd. A waiter passed by and as I reached for a deviled egg, Katie grabbed me and pulled me into a frigid mid-sized conference room.

I saw the queue of professional 30-somethings dressed in crisp skirt suits, carrying polished Coach leather briefcases, waiting to be handed parkas and iced vodka drinks. Nearby, a tall poster read: “Egg Freezing: Take Control of Your Reproductive Future. Complimentary drinks and h’ordeuvres!”

For an hour, I sat shivering and listening to a man in a sleek grey suit and neatly trimmed goatee give a lecture on menstrual cycles. He spoke about egg quality, and how we “modern ladies” are starting families later than ever. I looked around the room. Some women were browsing the pamphlets. A few skeptical ones stood against the wall with their arms crossed, while others sat holding their lipstick-stained cocktail napkins wolfing down free sushi.

I watched Katie rapturously take notes, her head nodding along, and sunk deeper into my parka wondering why I was even there. Unlike Katie, whose wealthy family bankrolled her livelihood, my frugal middle-class mother would never in a million years fund the outrageously expensive process of extracting and freezing my “good eggs”. “Why you not find a new husband?” I could hear her say in her thick Thai-Indian dialect. No amount of tamago sushi would change my financial situation.

After the seminar was over, I stood at the ice bar, chilled to the bone, wiping my nose, while I watched Katie’s eyes light up as she talked to the man in the grey suit.

“What about you?” the man asked, suddenly turning to me.

“Me? Ah, I’m…”

“She’s just tagging along”, Katie said, sipping her vodka cocktail before excusing herself to the brochure table.  

The grey-suited man and I stood in awkward silence. All of a sudden, I blurted, “I’m 41. Is it too late for me?” I was surprised to hear the words come out of my mouth.

“Well, your chances of still having good eggs are lower at your age,” he said. “Have you thought about an egg donor?”

My eyes glazed over like I’d just been sucker punched. I wondered, How could I not have good eggs? The bodega guy always carded me for cigarettes, most of the men I dated were at least five, if not ten years younger, and just tonight, the ice bar doorman, like most doormen, did a double take when I handed him my ID. I thought, Surely my eggs are as young as I look. But the truth was they weren’t.

Right outside the ice bar, Katie and I smoked cigarettes. Suddenly she announced,  “I’m gonna do it. The guy says I need to start now, before I hit 40.”

Buying into the illusion of eternal youth, determined to outrun time, I started to lie about my age. I lied so often, in fact, that I started to forget my real age. No wonder I had assumed my ovaries were as young as my face looked.

Fuck her, I thought. Her decisiveness angered me. The fact that the universe had not aligned to bring me a child or a stable, consistent romantic partner pissed me off. All I could see was red. Katie would start harvesting her good eggs, the ordeal eventually costing her parents $10,000, while I would restart my crappy dating apps. I flicked my cigarette butt and said, “You’re gonna have to quit smoking, you know.”

It would take me years of therapy to reconcile all the time I wasted chasing the wrong men, suppressing my desire to be a mother, and pursuing a music career that never fully materialized. I had lost track of the truth. Buying into the illusion of eternal youth, determined to outrun time, I started to lie about my age. I lied so often, in fact, that I started to forget my real age. No wonder I had assumed my ovaries were as young as my face looked.

I eventually lost touch with Katie but recently, I was curious to know if she ever put her frozen eggs to use. I checked Facebook and though I saw a few random kids scattered throughout her page, she held none of them in her arms.

***

After I left Nathan that day, I started thinking more about his family life. Are there backyard picnics? Sunday church? Is there a father in the picture? I met his mother on a library field trip once. I was struck by how young and tired she appeared, wearing little makeup, her hair gathered messily in a clip, she was quiet and reserved. When Nathan blurted out demands, startling the poor librarian, she barely lifted her head. Was she so accustomed to his rambunctious nature it no longer fazed her? She fished through her shoulder bag and pulled out a ballpoint pen and handed it to Nathan. As she closed her bag, I smiled at her with pity, quietly judging her for not having at least one crayon in her purse.

Before I realized it, I started fantasizing about being Nathan’s mother. It’s a tight squeeze in my one-bedroom apartment, but I could never separate Nathan from his sister, so I rearrange the furniture in my head, making room for two twin beds. How they would fall into my care, god only knows—some tragedy I’d rather not think of. Regardless, I envision plush duvet covers adorned with princesses and dinosaurs, twinkling gold stars that hang from my bedroom ceiling, a four-person dining table (because in this fantasy I am not single). I cook healthy meals, introducing my mother’s Thai and Indian recipes—which Nathan and his sister at first stick their tongues out at, because I imagine that up until now, all they’ve had is pizza and macaroni. In my closet, black belt Karategis and little pink tutus hang beside my leather jacket and ripped jeans.

In the living room, tiny plastic Ninja Turtles sit atop my Fender guitar amp, and I bemoan the kids for not putting their toys away every time I stub my toe. At night, Nathan and his sister snuggle beside me in bed, their limbs entwined with mine, a dazzling wash of stars above our heads, as I read bedtime stories until they melt into sleepy dreams.

Before I realized it, I started fantasizing about being Nathan’s mother. It’s a tight squeeze in my one-bedroom apartment, but I could never separate Nathan from his sister, so I rearrange the furniture in my head, making room for two twin beds.

So real is this vision of being a mother, I sometimes catch myself absentmindedly saying, “Wash your hands, please,” as I lay down my dinner on the TV tray and prepare to eat alone. This is absolutely crazy! I tell myself, making an internal pact to never let anyone know I’m playing “house” in my mind, with another woman’s kids. Yet, this doesn't stop me as I slide my electric keyboard into the closet to make room for a children’s bookshelf.

***

The following week after class, a few kids hang around as I strum my guitar. I notice Nathan standing alone, his hand in his pocket. There’s a placid yet slightly hesitant look upon his face. I smile and he approaches me. Before I can say anything he holds out his open palm. Inside is a tiny dingy yellowish nut-like object. He hands it to me and I realize it’s a popcorn kernel, charred black on one side. Just then, a teacher yells and the kids scurry. Nathan moves closer, staring at my face as I study the burnt kernel between my thumb and index finger. I chuckle, wondering if he’d just picked this thing off the soiled playroom floor. But Nathan is not laughing. His face is solemn, his beautiful brown eyes that once exploded into tears, now unclouded. He looks at me and says, “It’s real.”

I realize he’s referring to the imaginary worm, but there’s something else, the simplicity in his words, the tenderness in his eyes. It disarms me, leaves me speechless. I feel as if he’s speaking to a deeper, hidden part of me. As I roll the seed between my fingers I’m suddenly struck by its beauty, a pure bright golden hue. How even its black-charred corner, a microscopic flaw, is perfect if only because it makes the yellow brighter.

I look at Nathan. We both have wide grins plastered on our faces. I thank him and tuck the golden seed into my jean pocket and then I hear myself say, “Yes, it is real.”