As someone long obsessed with the zodiac, there was no way astrological concerns weren’t going to come into play when I was having a baby. After all, I conceived during the new moon in Aquarius, after two IVF-cycles that resulted in a no-show and a miscarriage. Surely, the fact that I was now preggerz wasn’t the result of my doctor’s modified protocol (which, TMI, involved Viagra suppositories), but the result of the moon being new, a time famously good for new beginnings, a lunar phase that lends itself to metaphors of conception. And I actually conceived! My baby was due in October, towards the end but still in solid Libra territory. I imagined a harmonious, artsy baby with an enchanting smile. My pregnancy was super enjoyable, marked by increased friendliness from the public, time spent staring awe-struck at my newly goddess-y body, and binge-eating pints of ice-cream. I felt very blessed by Venus, Libra’s ruler. I couldn’t wait for the little mer-baby growing within me to swim out and say hello.

However. Towards the end of my pregnancy, it became clear that my little mer-baby had no intention of flipping into a swim-ready position. Stubbornly breach, he sat on his ass inside me, refusing to tumble into the head-down position necessary for a natural birth. All attempts at baby-flipping, from holding smoking sticks of mugwort by my pinky toes (Chinese medicine) to external cephalic version, or EVC, when a team of doctors try to manually lift and spin the baby (Western medicine) to lying with both a bag of frozen peas and headphones blasting Hole – early Hole – placed where you’ve sussed its head to be (punk rock/desperation) had failed. All those weeks I spent in my mindful birthing class, meditating through pain with my hand jammed in a bucket of ice, were for nought: I would have a C-section. My doula, a sixty-something shaman with cherry-red curls and an occupational distrust of the medical establishment, promptly warned me that my doctors would want to schedule the procedure, and urged me to resist. It was best, she insisted (and subsequent medical studies have concurred) to experience a bit of labor, if possible; it could clear fluid from my baby’s lungs, trigger hormones in my own body helpful for the fetus to absorb, and give him access to my microbiome, strengthening his immune system.

Again and again, the false belief that I was going into labor brought me into the hospital, where I then had to fight off medical staff eager to admit me for my C-section, right then and there. Didn't I want to meet my baby? Of course, I did! But I wanted as natural an experience for me and my obstinate offspring as I could manage. I trusted my doula. One doctor shook her head in condemnation, scornful that a woman with all of the 21st century’s medical marvels accessible to her was making such a big deal about wanting to have the painful experience of labor.

It was the month of October. Days turned to weeks. And time being what it is, Libra would soon turn to Scorpio. Yet again I entered the hospital only to be told I was not yet in labor, to be reminded I was past my due date, and to be pushed, each time a tad more aggressively, towards doing the C-section. And I caved. Because I didn’t want a Scorpio.

Before I continue, let me express how much I love a Scorpio. They are passionate and hilarious. They are unafraid of darkness, and this makes them deeply interesting. They are, I believe the most capable sign of the zodiac. Sure, they can hold a grudge and water a garden of resentments. They may take offense when none was intended and customize for you a cruel and unusual punishment. Nobody’s perfect. I’ll accept these occasional discomforts for the meaningful joy of connecting with beings so knowledgeable and philosophical, determined and funny and real. My mom is a Scorpio and my sister is a Scorpio. Some of my biggest collaborators and one of my best and longest friends are Scorpios.

But I didn't want to raise one.

Okay, okay, wait – it wasn’t just that the sun was a day away from moving into Scorpio and my baby was still in my body. It was that the sun and the moon and Venus were all about to slide out of Libra into tumultuous Scorpio, and I was said to be having a boy, which, I know, means nothing because gender is not real, but — testosterone! I once toured with a person who had both a ton of Scorpio and a testosterone-producing body. He was a compulsive masturbator who enjoyed seeing how close he could get to being caught in the act, without being discovered. I spent the whole tour waiting to be surprised by his penis. Or wondering if I was sitting in ejaculate.

However, I did also once tour with another person who had many planets in Scorpio and a body that had produced testosterone. She was a tarot-reading witch and a performance artist who channeled the spirit of William Burroughs’ murdered wife, Joan Vollmer. I spent the whole tour in awe of her art and her power.

Imagine if I had a child who was a trans witch who channeled the vengeful wives of overrated beat writers! What could be better? But, what if I had a child who grew into a sex addict with a penchant for perverse pranks?

I called my sister on the phone from the hospital.

“Is it wrong not wanting to have a baby with so much Scorpio?” I asked her, as a representative of her sign.

“It is not wrong,” she consoled me. “It is really, really hard to be a Scorpio.”

Was this the same gruesome instinct that would persuade theoretical parents to blast the theoretical “gay gene” from their futuristic babies? Avoidance of a hard life? Who said life was supposed to be easy? My life certainly hadn’t been, and it was those scars and traumas that had given me so much of the knowledge, chutzpah, and charm that I liked about myself. Was I depriving myself and the world of a deep and gritty Scorpio, instead opting for a shallow, vapid Libra?

As I struggled with my new-age, first-world problem, scanning various ephemeris on my phone, the doctor came into my room. They were having a spate of emergency C-sections and now wouldn’t be able to scoop my kid out until much later in the afternoon. They advised me to come back the following day. Scorpio Day. A day, I had just learned, when there would be a solar eclipse, on top of everything else. A solar eclipse! In Scorpio! Was I fated to die on the operating table or what?

“No!” I told the doctor, suddenly certain, full of force and gusto. “I have to have the baby today.” As my sister had said, life was hard enough. Give me a people-pleasing, co-dependent, pathologically harmonious Libra. A baby with a dulcet voice and a love of the arts. A baby who will pick out my clothes for me, correcting my sartorial overindulgences.

Is that what I got? Well, I’m actually not allowed to say much – my child is now six years old and, beginning to understand that his mother’s job is, um, blabbing about her life, he has forbidden me to write about him. So, as hard as it is to not elaborate all the ways in which this Libra-Scorpio cusp child is very, very, very, very Scorpio, I’ll just say this: he is very, very, very, very Scorpio. And amazing at helping me get fashionably dressed in the morning.

If I had to do it all over again, I don’t know what the fuck I would have done. Pregnancy is nine months of fear and anxiety, superstition, pressure from medical experts and new-aged earth mamas alike, and also hormones, impatience, occasional madness and terrific excitement. Feeling like you have even an ounce of influence or control over a literally life-or-death situation is seductive. As sad as it sounds, grasping onto the most rudimentary Astrology 101 concepts and using it as a crowbar to wrench some control felt sort of stabilizing. All I can say with any certainty is that I deeply love my now six-year-old mer-baby, and that all of us would benefit from having a hefty dose of Scorpio vibes in our astrological makeup.