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Family historians can sometimes identify the child's biological father by using various documents in record offices and libraries. Names of mothers and children listed below came from many different series of records, some more informative than others. The original document gives the putative father's name and often other details, which may include his place of residence, occupation, age, nationality or place of origin, a detailed physical description or a photograph, or clues that will lead to Court or prison records.

The mother's address, occupation and other details are sometimes shown. In most cases the document that I've indexed names the child's mother. It is less common for the child's name to be mentioned. Explanation of names below: Most names are mothers of illegitimate children. Some were overseas , but most lived in Australia there are names from all Australian States.

Children whose father is named have [child] after their name. Names are from eighteen 18 different record series. Their content varies, but always includes the name of the child's father. Names are from various dates between and This is an ongoing project. Names without a surname, eg 'Nina Aboriginal ', are listed under the first letter of the name.

Scroll through the list. You can easily find out for yourself by reading one of the many articles I refused to read. The best way I can describe the financial impact is this: I had a friend in college who had two hundred CDs stolen from his dorm room during our freshman year.

This is exactly how I feel about the egg-freezing bill. What egg freezing does is give you the illusion of a plan. An expensive illusion. But the women with the resources to pony up the cash are buying themselves time, which is, arguably, the most valuable commodity on the planet. For me, time was the side dish. When I looked at it this way, it almost seemed like a bargain.

Before you embark on the egg-freezing process, you have to take a class. The class is mandatory but you have to pay for it, which is a bit of a boondoggle. We arrived in the order of what kind of parent we would be. Women who sat in the second row would remember it was Purple Shirt Day the night before and do a stealth load of laundry. Women who sat in the back would let their kids drink in the basement.

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I consoled myself that at least I was not the very last person to arrive. I was the second to last. But then I had to borrow a pen from my neighbor, which set me back. We were each given flesh-colored cushions reminiscent of ergonomic mouse pads. We had to practice pinching them as if they were our own skin, and injecting them with empty vials of medication.

All the cushions were Caucasian.

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The women in my class were advanced fertility chess players. They were eight moves ahead, their hands flying skyward as they asked questions about dosages and hormone levels and how soon they could pop their frozen eggs back from whence they came. One lady asked if it was okay to have sex during the process, which is just showing off. Overwhelmed by the naked want they all shared, I stress-pinched my flesh wad. My heart raced from peer pressure. Every month, all the eggs vie to be the power egg.

I had no idea that eggs were competitive like sperm. This is something we should toss into middle school health curriculums, if only for the sociological implications. My entire life, I have assumed that eggs were passive creatures, inert trophies to be earned by ambitious sperm. I blame Woody Allen. The first step in egg freezing is to hormonally democratize this dictatorship.

You inject vials of drugs into your abdomen to persuade that one egg to let everyone have a chance. At the end of two weeks, you are briefly knocked out while your eggs are popped in a freezer. Whatever symptoms of PMS a woman has when she normally gets her period exist in proportion to that one egg. The average egg-freezing cycle produces between eight and fifteen eggs.

You do the math.

But first, the drugs. The hormones alone can cost up to two thousand dollars. When I unleashed this information on my therapist, she told me she had another patient who had just undergone the process and had leftover medication. I was delighted. Especially given how much therapy costs. I had always assumed that if I bought mass quantities of drugs on the black market, they would be recreational in nature, but here we were. My therapist—our therapist— introduced us over e-mail and we arranged a time for me to come pick up the stuff. The woman was an Indian lawyer who lived in an apartment in Chelsea, a large doormanned co-op with aggressive lobby art and confounding elevator buttons.

The interior of her apartment could only be described as palatial. No wonder she was giving away drugs like candy. We stood on either side of her kitchen island. Visible through her open bedroom door was a large flat-screen television. The Bachelor was on. The top half of her body was obscured by the open refrigerator door as she stood on her tippy-toes. Later that evening, I went back and examined our correspondence. Sure enough, she had clearly listed prices next to the name of each medication. The numbers were unmistakable.

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The issue was, she had left the dollar signs off. Because I had never done this before, I assumed all those numbers were milligrams or micrograms or marbles. But the e-mails were not the point.

Did you know?

Why would I assume a total stranger would part with such expensive items for free? I wanted so badly to find just one loophole of ease, my subconscious made it so. I immediately began making justifications to myself about how I was right and she was wrong. She had found something incongruous about my appreciation and had ample opportunities to clarify the situation before I was standing in her kitchen.

Not to mention the fact that these drugs had been in her possession for almost a year and would expire in a month, which meant she needed to find a buyer pronto. Selling them online would be illegal. If I knew that, she definitely knew that. Would she rather consign them to the dumpster or donate them to a clinic than give them to me?

Absolutely she would. I explained that if I was going to pay full price for nearly expired drugs, I might as well just be an upstanding citizen about it and go through a pharmacy. No negotiation. Case closed. She was doing it because it was time to draw a line in the sand. She had gone through two rounds of egg freezing with negligible results.

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Her husband had left her for a younger woman. She was forty-four, spent her days thinking about fairness on behalf of other people, and she felt owed. And she was owed. Just as every woman who smiles through a lifetime of complicated biology and double standards is owed. But tonight, I was going to be the one to pay her. Only the Upper West Side, a neighborhood that caters to the yet-to-be-born and the on-their-way-out, would be host to a pharmacy that specializes in both fertility meds and compression socks.

I stood in line, eyeing bars of Reagan-era soap and a stunning variety of pastel candies. I tried to imagine the woman who had spent the past nine decades figuring out exactly which flavor of pastel candy she liked the best. When it was my turn, I relinquished my credit card to a cashier, who had to pry it from my fingers. As money had apparently ceased to have any meaning, I selected a couple of overpriced hair clips while he filled a supermarket bag. A few customers cast sympathetic looks in my direction. Do you want me to throw a patty of petrified horse shit in there?

Sure, why not? You only live once. I went straight home, put the bag on my kitchen counter, tossed the ice pack in the freezer, and threw on a dress. I would start the year as a grown-up card-carrying member of my gender, as someone who makes proactive health decisions and cowers before the reality of the future, as woman-shaped flesh wad. The next day, I decided to familiarize myself with the drugs.

I stood in my kitchen across from the bag, staring at it. But when I got up the nerve to peer inside, there were no drugs. Just the syringes, the needles and a portable toxic waste container for disposing of them. I touched the bottom of the paper, thinking vaguely of trapdoors.

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I could feel the anger spread across my skin. The cashier had forgotten to put my entire order of medication in the bag. Naturally, such a thing had never happened with a five-dollar prescription but of course it had with the fifteen-hundred-dollar one. I called when the pharmacy opened the following day, displaying a kind of barely contained rage for which I expected to be rewarded. Anything short of murder warranted a gold star. But their records showed I had picked up the medication.

I explained the difference between paying for something and leaving with it. I was not trying to swindle them. I barely wanted these needles. I threatened to take pictures of the empty bag. Still, they maintained the drugs were in there. Usually you have to see a wild animal or a celebrity you thought was dead. I opened my freezer and removed the foil pack. For the first time, I noticed a seam at the top. I ripped it open. Inside was a packet of ice the size of a playing card and boxes of medication stickered with the words human hormone. The reality of what I had done took no time to sink in.

One wonders what I would do with an actual child. The pharmacy had neglected to sticker the foil pouch itself and kindly agreed to send me new drugs. My case was easy to make. Improperly labeling medication is not an offense I came up with. Still, how could two of these misunderstandings have occurred in forty-eight hours? Before we hung up, I asked the pharmacist how many functioning adults had ever done what I did.

He pretended to scan his memory.

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The answer was none. In order to freeze your eggs, you must give yourself two different types of shots, one in the morning and one in the evening, always within an hour of the time you gave yourself the first shot. This is as elaborate as it sounds. My boyfriend offered to do the injections for me.

Some of the shots burn, others bruise, all of them force you to abandon your squeamishness around needles.

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The margin of error is significant. Another day I sliced my finger open removing the sheath from a mixing needle. It was such a precise cut, it took a second to get comfortable with its existence before bleeding all over the place. Freezing your eggs is essentially a cheap way to become a registered nurse. Meanwhile, I went into the fertility center every day to get reacquainted with the wand. One morning, as I lay back and put my feet in the stirrups, I announced that it was the darnedest thing—the hormones were having zero effect on me.

No tears, no mood swings, no irrational behavior. Finally, I was excelling at something. Then the doctor on duty turned off the lights as I was in the middle of reading from a list of questions. I cleared my throat. Perhaps I have mentioned that the exam entails a wand being shoved into your body. I started crying. Another smart strategy is focusing on setting tech limits around physical spaces , instead of holding your children to set numbers. Starting an open and ongoing conversation can help with this.

Follow us here and subscribe here for all the latest news on how you can keep Thriving. Stay up to date or catch-up on all our podcasts with Arianna Huffington here. Her previous work experience includes roles in editorial and digital journalism. For her undergraduate thesis, she researched the relationship between women and fitness media consumerism. She is excited to join Thrive in its mission to accelerate the culture shift and end the stress epidemic.