In the first
entry of a biweekly series, writer Maggie Quale chronicles
the funny, sad, and thoroughly modern journey she and
her partner are taking in their quest to become moms.
I have a
confession: My partner and I have an acute case of baby
fever. We're passing it back and forth like some kind
of virus. It's bad. We dream up baby names, joke
about back pain, contractions, sleepless nights,
stretch marks, and bleeding nipples. And you know what? It
all seems like heaven. We are women obsessed.
Yesterday I stuffed a beach ball under my dress and
walked around playing pregnant while I vacuumed and
paid the bills. I even picture-messaged a photo of myself to
Kim at work. We're sick with wannabe-mommy love, but
the question remains: How do we parlay these surging
maternal hormones into a drooling, cooing bundle of
joy?
I must admit
that, from where I sit, I'm slightly overwhelmed by the
process. It's kind of like growing up with a swimming pool
in your backyard. You never had to go find a place to
swim—you simply slipped into your suit and dove
in. Well, this whole “how do I get pregnant?”
thing is equally baffling. For queer folks like us, baby
making is not like cannonballing into the deep end.
It's more like competing in a triathlon. Even though
we may lie awake until midnight imagining how we'll
decorate the nursery, the majority of our time is spent
researching sperm banks, considering potential friends
as donors, and reviewing adoption and foster parenting
options.
But making babies
is much bigger than simply finding a way to connect an
eager sperm with a willing egg. Over our morning tea we're
debating the ethical, social, and financial dilemmas
and challenging ourselves to find the healthiest ways
to combat them. We're learning about the current and
proposed legislation in our state and how it might impact
our future.
And let's face
it, our lives today are not as simple as they were in our
20s. I'm 31 and Kim is 42. We're complicated people with
pasts, patterns, and present considerations. Kim is
still learning how to be a parent to my own 5-year-old
son Calvin. I bring an ex-husband to the party, not to
mention an extended family still coming to terms with my
sexuality in a rainbow of degrees. We're carefully
considering the existing interpersonal relationships
and how our new baby might impact our community.
When I think of
all these pieces pulling us in every direction I secretly
start feeling a little sorry for myself. Shouldn't this be
easier? Why can't we do this the old-fashioned way:
one too many mojitos followed by panic and peeing
on a stick. At times it's enough to make me want to
forego mommyhood and take up rock-climbing or hang gliding
instead. Kim just smiles and tells me to breathe.
But you know what
I realized? All these caveats and constraints and
quandaries aren't a curse to queer parents—they're
actually a blessing. We've got choices, tons of
choices, in fact. Instead of belly flopping into these
crystal-blue baby waters, we get to take a deep breath and
set up the perfect swan dive.
You know what
else? We've got a village to love this baby—a whole
confused, stubborn, surprised, insane, lovely little
village. In these moments, I remember why we're doing
this—for family. My family is the reason I walk
this planet. Becoming a mother the first time around taught
me that lesson. Family is the reason Kim and I should be
quarantined with babyfeveritus. And suddenly I
see Kim with her smiling eyes, reminding me to breathe
and saying, “The water's fine, baby . . . come on
in.”
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Quale is a Bay Area–based writer and public
relations consultant.