QueerBabyMaking

QueerBabyMaking in Rad Dad

2009-03-22T18:34:00.000-07:00

Check out issue 13 of Rad Dad, in which J and I write about trans-parenting. You'll have to read it the old-fashioned way (that is, on paper), but come now, wouldn't it be nice to receive something in the mail?

Still here, just busy

2009-02-06T20:11:00.000-08:00

New posts coming soon, really. And of course, the eagerly-awaited What "Girls" Look Like project will be up soon too.

Working on some dissertation and fellowship deadlines, but looking forward to spending more time on this infinitely more interesting project.

Ocean continues to thrive. Check her out at threeifbysea.

Okay, that's it...

Gayby Sightings

2009-01-11T20:32:00.000-08:00

As mentioned in recent posts, while I am lucky enough to have a great community of queer friends and a burgeoning new group of parent friends, there is almost zero overlap between the two. Several of my queer friends are planning or actively trying to become parents, but for now, we've got the only gayby on the block.

Perhaps as a manifestation of my deep desire to bridge the gap between the queers and the 'rents, I hallucinate queer families everywhere I go. Two women with a baby carriage? Must be lesbian moms. Couple of dudes with toddlers? Hurray for gay dads! Inevitably, upon talking to them (or, eavesdropping on their conversations in the coffee shop), I discover that they are in fact sisters-in-law, friends from church, dads from the local neighborhood association taking the kids for the afternoon to give their wives a break. In my most significant faux pas, I mistakenly assumed that the butch woman standing in line behind me at airport security was partnered to the femme woman carrying a baby who was standing behind her. I was, of course, thrilled to see another queer family in transit. However, upon asking the butch woman how old her child was, she looked confused, and then laughed. "Oh no," she said, "that's not my baby!" The femme woman, on the other hand, looked utterly horrified, and awhile later I saw her and her husband (how had I missed him before??) boarding a plane to Salt Lake City. Right.

So the other day, when J and I were sitting in the local gay cafe sipping our coffees and chatting with a friend, I was thrilled to see a femme woman walk in carrying a young infant. Immediately, though, my excitement gave way to skepticism. Maybe she's just babysitting, I thought. Perhaps she doesn't know this is a gay cafe. A moment later, a butch woman walked in and joined her. I poked J. We stared blatantly, and lost all track of the conversation. Finally our friend suggested, why don't you go and say hello to them? And so, we did.

What's funny is how much we had to say to each other. We barely had time to sit down before the words were spilling out all over the place. Some of it was much the same conversation we have with our straight friends - breastfeeding and bottles, sleeping and teething, favorite toys and activities. But mixed in seamlessly with all that were the other realities of parenting that are indeed unique to queer families. The funny tanks that the vials of sperm arrive in, and what you say to the Fed Ex driver who delivers them. Second-parent adoptions and birth certificates. What we looked for in a sperm donor. How to find other queers with kids.

We left after exchanging numbers and emails, and as we walked to the car, J and I kept exchanging looks. Did that really happen? Did we just RUN INTO a pair of queer parents with a baby just a month younger than our own? We were giddy with excitement all evening.

Maybe it shouldn't matter. Parents are parents are parents, right? It felt so good though, just for a little while, to sit with a family that looked and felt a little bit more like our own.

The Things We Never Talk About: On Parenting and Isolation

2008-12-17T18:47:00.000-08:00

There are, without a doubt, many difficult things about having a new baby. The sleep deprivation, the endless loads of laundry, the triumph of timing required just to get out the door. And don't even get me started on breastfeeding.

For me, however, the greatest challenge, thus far at least, has been the ways in which parenthood both ensures that you are never, ever alone, and simultaneously engenders a huge sense of isolation. Parenting is such an all-consuming act sometimes that the simplest of things - sitting alone in an armchair and reading a book; getting in the car and going for a spontaneous drive; stopping in at the local bar for an after-dinner drink - come to feel like unimaginable luxuries. It is so very hard to find the time to do the things one needs to do to feel like a normal human being.

Compounding this is the sense of isolation that results from not being able to socially engage in the same ways I could previously. Before I had Ocean, I listened to people talk about how their childless friends disappeared from their lives post-baby, and thought, oh no, that will never happen to me. After all, hadn't I been so intentional about crafting not just an embryo, but a whole sense of queer community? My friends were there through inseminations, miscarriages, and cycles that didn't take. They celebrated with me when I finally got those thrilling double lines on the home pregnancy test. My friends were there during the first trimester of nausea and depression, the excitement of ultrasounds and maternity wear, and the incredible experience that was giving birth.

And yet now, I often find myself feeling so utterly alone.

This past weekend, two separate events brought this all to the fore. First, on Saturday night, J and I packed up the baby and drove an hour to have dinner with some friends in another town. As part of our commitment to maintaining community, friendships, and our lives, even as we have become parents, we attempt to battle isolation by taking her with us everywhere. We are determined not to become those people who have a kid and never leave the house again. So we take her to parties. We take her to conferences. We take her to cafes and museums and the taqueria. We ignore bedtimes and sleep training and much of the conventional wisdom about how to take care of a baby. And usually, it works out.

Anyway, on Saturday night, she was tired and fussy. We took turns rocking her to sleep during during dinner. This meant that often one of us had to leave the table to try and calm her down, but it seemed worth it to spend time with friends. After the meal, I went to the kitchen to wash the dishes. J soothed her, and finally got her to sleep in the bedroom. Finally, we went to join our friends in the living room. After a whole day of fussy baby and traveling, I was so excited to sit around with other adults and just relax. And then one of our friends said, "Let's go out dancing!" "Yes," cried another. "Let's go!"

When I pointed out that we could not go dancing, someone asked, "Are you sure?"

Yup, pretty sure.

And so, J and I woke up the baby again, loaded her back in the car, and drove an hour to go home, while our friends went out dancing.

I know that they weren't trying to be rude. Indeed, they probably thought that, having a baby and all, we would want to go home anyway. But, I felt left out, sidelined, and sad. We had tried so hard to be the hip people with the portable baby, but we still got left behind.

Then, another thing happened. Browsing online, I found pictures of most of my friends at a holiday party to which we were not invited. The host, a casual friend of mine, is close to my ex, and obviously felt that inviting us would upset her. And, even as I completely understand all of the ways in which small town dyke drama plays itself out, and even as I know better than to take offense, I still felt so sad, so left out, indeed, so isolated. Parenting is so hard. It is the time in which one most needs connection, conversation, community, friendship. It is the time in which one most needs to spend an afternoon with a bunch of other happy people, laughing, talking, drinking wine and eggnog. Seeing pictures of my friends, all together and enjoying themselves, made me feel, once again, left behind.

Now, my experiences parenting have not been all about isolation. Indeed, I have met amazing people and made great new connections. Sometimes my bonds with people are based simply on our shared experiences of parenthood. But other times, they transcend that, and I find myself interacting with people who may indeed become real friends. There are, however, so many obstacles. As parents, we have less time to spend together, less time to do the work of really getting to know one another. And then too, almost all of the women I meet are, if not straight, at least married to men, and living lives that look very different from mine. I miss my queer community. I miss not having to explain myself, my life, my identity, my family. And most of all, I miss the comfort of daily interactions with people who know me so well that our conversations start from a place of unspoken, already understood common ground.

It's hard to write about these things. It's hard to say that this thing that I'm doing, this amazing thing, also makes me crazy and lonely and sad. I love my kid more than I can possibly express. Today, when, for the first time, she grabbed her elephant toy and repeatedly pulled it down to herself from its hanger, I wanted to cry with love and joy and pride. But sometimes, looking back through the glass at what I left behind, it's hard not to feel a sense of loss.

Submission deadline extended: What "Girls" Look Like

2008-12-15T22:33:00.000-08:00

So, several people have mentioned that they want to dig out old childhood pictures while home over the holidays. In light of that, and in hopes of getting even more participation, I'm extending the deadline on the What "Girls" Look Like project. Send me all entries by January 10th, and I'll have them up by the end of January.

Also, please do spread the word about this. I'm hoping for a large and diverse response.

Thanks!

A blog of her own

2008-12-08T04:18:00.000-08:00

I'm often conflicted about whether or not to post cute stories and pictures of Ocean here. On the one hand, she's pretty gosh darn adorable, and I want to record every new thing that she does. On the other hand, my project with this blog was never to become yet another queer inundating the internet with video recordings of her kid's first poop.

To balance these conflicting demands, J and I have set up a blog just for Ocean:

www.threeifbysea.blogspot.com

QueerBabyMaking will remain dedicated to my thoughts and reflections on the politics of making queer family. The new blog is the place to go if you're looking for pictures, stories, cuteness, etc. Enjoy!

He's the donor, not the dad.

2008-12-07T20:20:00.000-08:00

I'm always surprised when it happens. Friends, family members, people who I think of as liberal, friendly, and relatively queer savvy ask questions like, "Well, what color is her dad's hair?"

Now, certainly I get these questions from strangers, and that, while sometimes exhausting, is a different story. But, when people who know that I conceived using sperm from a bank ask about the "dad" or the "father," it always throws me. To me it just seems so obvious- he's the donor, not the dad.

I know that people don't do it maliciously. It's simply not something that most people think about, and, outside of the circles of queer conception, I guess it's not really language that people use everyday. But to me, the notion of a dad, a father, is so far removed from a vial of frozen sperm donated by a person I'll never meet, that I can't help being startled, and yes, I admit it, slightly annoyed, every time someone uses those words.

And so every time I gently correct them, and say, "Oh, you mean the donor." Because, while I'm very grateful to that anonymous man for helping to me to make such an awesome kid, he most certainly is not the dad.

Call for Submissions: What Girls Look Like

2008-11-24T11:54:00.000-08:00

We talk about gender in my house on a daily basis. Having a partner who identifies as trans means that perhaps we thought about gender issues more often and more self-consciously than many people to begin with. And now that we are parents, committed to raising a fabulous feminist kid, we think about these things all of the time. The books we read to Ocean, the daydreams we have for her, the games we play with her, the nicknames we make up for her, the ways in which we talk about our family and other families, ourselves and our friends - throughout all of this, J and I engage in a constant process of self-evaluation, thinking about the implications of what we say and choose, and what vision of gender and identity it might teach her. We want to raise a kid who is comfortable in her own skin, and expresses herself without fear or doubt. We want to raise a kid who never questions whether girls should play soccer or play house or play the trombone. We want to raise a kid who understands that both of her parents were born with female bodies, and chose very different ways of inhabiting them. We want to raise a kid who values femininity and masculinity and androgyny, and who doesn't equate biological sex with any of those things.

Of course, the reality on the ground is that we live in a world rife with gendered assumptions, and the most simple acts of daily life can easily bring us into conflict with unstated norms. As anyone who has raised a young child quickly learns, the seemingly innocuous task of dressing your infant opens the floodgates of gendered assumptions and advice. We often dress Ocean in blue, and in outfits that probably came from the "Boys" section of the store. We do this in part because we like blue and brown and "boyish" things. We do this in part because putting frilly dresses on a baby of any sex seems ridiculous. And we do this mainly because 3/4 of our baby clothes (all of which are hand-me-downs) came from little boys. This leads to constant conversations with strangers that go something like this:

Them: How cute! How old is he?

Us: Thank you! She's three months.

Them (looking mortified): Oh, I'm so sorry! She!

Us (big smile): Don't worry. She hasn't chosen her preferred pronouns yet!

Them: Oh... [weak smile. confused look. walk away.]

Okay, fine, I'm exaggerating a little. Usually we just smile and say no big deal. Sometimes we don't correct people at all. In general, it's not a huge thing.

But then in the car the other night, my mother said, in a mock teasing voice, to Ocean, "Oh poor Ocean, they just won't let you wear dresses and be a girl!" This irked me for several reasons. First of all, though she claimed to be just teasing, the comment seemed rooted in some fundamental anxiety around gender roles and expression, and, protective parent that I am, I don't want my kid to become the locus of other people's gender trouble. Second, and more importantly, it implied that there is in fact a particular way to "be a girl," and that, by dressing her in striped onesies instead of pink frillies, we are somehow denying Ocean the right to her natural gender expression. Now, when Ocean is old enough to pick out her own clothes, she can wear anything she wants (and strong-willed baby that she already is, I have no doubt that she will indeed have her opinions). She can wear cute dresses, she can wear jeans and sweatshirts, she can wear three-piece suits. We will support her in whatever ways she chooses to express herself.

And in the meantime, I want to put together a little photo essay here on the site of what "girls" look like. I'm interested in a visual representation of all of the different ways in which people who identify or have at some time identified as female express themselves. So here's the deal:

Email me a picture of yourself (from now, or from your childhood). If you want, include some information about yourself (name? age? anything you think is relevant). Optionally, include a blurb about what gender means to you and your identity. I want to hear from butch girls, femme girls, andro girls, people born with vaginas who don't identify as girls at all, people born with penises who do. I want to hear from people who were girls and now are women; people who were girls and now are men; people who never were either, and still choose not to claim one gendered label over the other. Send your pictures and blurbs to me at queerbabymaking@gmail.com, by January 10th (***note the new deadline!***). I'll collect and post them by the end of the year.

Thanks!

The Obama Nation

2008-11-12T11:14:00.001-08:00

It feels almost cliche to write about the presidential election, especially now, more than a week after the fact. And then too, there's so much to say. How can I hope to capture a fraction of it in these fifteen spare minutes? Parenthood, the craziest, most exciting, most intense thing I've ever done, takes up so much time that it's often hard to write about it, even the moments that I find most important.

But even in the face of incompleteness and imperfection, I want to take a quick second to write about what it means to me to be a parent in this new political moment. I have been emotional about this election for a long time now. Even before Barack Obama was the official democratic nominee, I would get weepy thinking about the very possibility of a person of color being our president. By the end of my pregnancy this summer, they just had to mention his name on NPR to elicit a flow of tears. And then, last Tuesday, when he won the election (and won in such a beautifully clear, mandated, definitive way), I was so completely overjoyed that I simply couldn't speak.

It makes me so proud that my kid will grow up with a black president. This thing that was simply unimaginable during my own childhood has happened in time for hers, and I really do think that it will fundamentally shape some part of her identity. Of course, this isn't just about my kid- this election, this presidency, will profoundly change the ways in which children across the country, across the world, imagine the possibilities for their own futures. I'm not naive; I know that Obama is not going to be our saviour. He won't singlehandedly fix everything that is wrong with this country, and he will undoubtedly do things that anger and frustrate me. But, for young people everywhere, for my daughter, to grow up understanding that he, a black man from a poor family raised by a single mom, is the face of our nation, how can this not expand our imaginative potential? How can it not allow children everywhere to think of new futures, new roles, new paths? Our understanding of what it means to be American is subtly shifting, and I am so very proud.

And, in a sign that perhaps she understands more than I give her credit for, Ocean starting sleeping through the night on election day. Thank you, President Obama.

All the difference that a year can make...

2008-11-11T12:23:00.000-08:00

A year ago today, I had the insemination that eventually resulted in the marvelous Ocean Rae. It seems so long ago now, another lifetime almost. Neither of my friends who normally did my inseminations were in town, so I found an amazing homebirth midwife, who came to my house and performed them for me, one on November 10th, and one on November 11th. On the 11th, which is, I believe, the day on which I actually conceived, my friend Jonna came over to help out with the insemination- holding the flashlight, holding my hand, hanging out with me afterwards as I laid around on my bed, wondering if this was finally it. Jonna was there when I first began thinking about getting pregnant, going with me to clinics, learning about sperm banks, and figuring it all out. She was there when Ocean was conceived, and, nine months later, she was there when Ocean was born. I have always felt lucky to have been so loved and supported throughout this long process.

Funny to think that in just a year one can go from a little vial of sperm to this...

"You are a beautiful family."

2008-09-29T11:38:00.000-07:00

That's what an older lesbian said to us this morning, as we stopped in at the bakery across the street to get some much needed coffee. She was sitting at a table with several other women, all dykes in their 60s or 70s. When J and I walked in, with baby strapped to chest, they all smiled at us. As we were leaving, they called us over to see the baby.

"She's beautiful," said one of them. "And you are a beautiful family."

She said it almost forcefully, as if guessing at or anticipating all of the times that people either ignore us as a family, or simply don't realize that that's what we are.

They were so happy to see us, a young, queer, out family. And I was so happy to see them, and to finally receive an unequivocal message of support from an older generation. It made me cry. And it made me very proud of my beautiful family.

The First Six Weeks: A Redux

2008-09-24T19:58:00.000-07:00

Okay, very briefly, some highlights from the trenches of early parenting:

1. Ocean is the most amazing thing ever.

2. I never have enough time to answer all of my emails. Or update my blog.

3. In her six weeks on earth, Ocean has made four visits to the ocean. Not bad...

4. The first two weeks were really, really, really hard. And then, things suddenly got a lot better.

5. Even when things were really hard, I have been so unbelievably in love with that kid.

6. I've met a lot of new moms. Most of them are straight. Quite frankly, this was a little scary for me. But it has actually turned out to be great.

7. My friends are amazing. I have felt incredibly supported. I cannot overstate the value of having people cook meals, help with the dishes, and show up to take me and the baby out for walks. Amazing.

8. J is incredibly cute with the baby. The snuggle together all of the time in completely heartwarming poses. And, he gets up to feed her in the middle of the night. Amazing.

9. My mom has been here to help out, and watches Ocean in the afternoons so that I can work. Amazing.

10. I have taken a lot of pictures. When I have a faster internet connection, I will post a photo essay. Really.

11. I'm still working on writing out Ocean's birth story. When I have free time, I will finish it and post it here. Really.

12. Before I had her, everyone kept telling me that my life would change completely. I found this terrifying. The funny thing is that it was true, but I'm so happy. My life HAS changed completely, and I wouldn't want it any other way.

More soon. Really...

Welcome, Baby Ocean!

2008-08-11T19:43:00.000-07:00

I am thrilled to announce the arrival of Ocean Rae!

She was born at 1:17 am on Sunday, August 10th, 2008, after 9 hours of incredibly painful but all natural labor and birth. She was 7 pounds and 7 ounces, and just short of 21 inches long.

My birthing team was utterly amazing. J was at my side the entire time, as was my friend R, and their calm support and love helped me keep it together and labor at home for as long as possible. We arrived at the hospital around midnight, and the baby was born just over an hour later. We managed to be get checked out and get back home by Sunday afternoon, which was great.

I will post a more detailed birth story and more pictures soon.

I'll tell you right away. Promise.

2008-08-08T20:15:00.000-07:00

No baby yet. Though I sure was hoping for 08-08-08. Who wouldn't want that as a birthday? The Fanglet, apparently, because she's hanging in there.

Lots to write about. Soon. Really.

And friends, I love you. But please stop sending me text messages asking if I've had the baby yet. I promise I'll tell you. Really.

Still no baby. I will keep you posted.

2008-08-03T20:21:00.000-07:00

Title pretty much says it all. Tomorrow is my actual due date. Longer post to follow...

38 weeks, 1 day

2008-07-22T17:55:00.000-07:00

And no baby yet.

Let me say that once I got past the horrors of the first trimester, I've had a very easy pregnancy. I am very grateful for this, and I know that it's not an experience that everyone shares. However, now, in the final days, the tables have turned, and I'm not sure how much longer I can take this. Every part of my body hurts. I can't sleep at night. I feel nauseous and crampy and out of breath, constantly. Walking my dog around the block has come to seem like a monumental effort. And throughout it all I just keep thinking, dear god, how will I ever take care of a BABY???

So my friends, let us hope for an early delivery. You know, I'm free this weekend...

Alright, gratuitous complaint session over.

So, I've been very behind in my posts lately, and have wanted to respond to several comments that people have left about recent entries. While this blog, like everything else is my life, is always a work in progress (ie. incomplete), I wanted to at least briefly touch on a comment that was left in response to my post about our frustrating experiences at the airport. A reader wrote:

Yeah, I definitely can see how this would be exhausting. From the other side, though, I would recommend being less evasive. Just come out and explain the situation. "No, I was inseminated by a group of friends and so there is no father." Just explain it. It's personal, but it's not like you aren't revealing a lot of other personal things over the course of this conversation. But the evasiveness and exasperated glances give the impression that you are part of an "in" group and this baggage person is part of an "out" group. That tends to make people uncomfortable, and then defensive. So, even if he ends up being a bigot, try to give him the information up front that allows him a) to understand what you are doing, and b) feel happy for you, if that is his wish.

But I still get how constantly explaining is so difficult. We would get comments like "your baby is so small!" It was really hard for us to explain her illness and prematurity. Over and over again. I avoided public places until she was a "normal" sized baby.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately, particularly after spending a week in Provincetown where, for once, we just didn't have to explain anything. My response to this suggestion, that the best thing to do in this situation is to come out and explain my family's circumstances, is complicated. First of all, I should say, that in the vast majority of cases, that is exactly what I do, even though it is, even by the standards of queer families, a complicated story. ("Well yes, I was a queer semi-single parent by choice, with an ambivalent girlfriend in tow, who used anonymous donor sperm to get pregnant. Then, after my girlfriend and I broke up I started dating my transgendered boyfriend who will be parenting with me though we're not yet sure exactly how to define those roles.") I mean, lots of people are ready to accept, "Heather has two mommies," but my story doesn't even fit neatly into that trope. Which means that it's almost never a simple conversation. In addition to explaining what a sperm bank is and how it works, I often have to do a brief Trans 101 lesson. And usually, I do this. Because I do believe that there is a political impact and importance to the visibility of my family, and I take that responsibility seriously. As the commenter suggested, giving people information gives them the opportunity to expand the boundaries of their own thinking, and perhaps makes it easier for the next queer or non-traditional family that walks through the door. And so, I am one of the most "out" people I know about my sexuality, my family, and how we all fit together.

But. First of all, as anyone who lives outside the lines knows, constantly explaining yourself is really, really exhausting sometimes. One of my friends said the other day, in discussing his trangender status, "You know, I feel like I'm really patient and understanding the first 100 times I have to explain something. And then, I just get burnt out and feel like I have nothing left to offer, and that just makes me bitter and angry about having to explain things yet again." And I guess that's sort of how I start to feel some days, and certainly how it must feel to constantly explain having a sick or premature baby, a physical disability, a different socio-economic status, any number of things. And while I do think that part of the answer is for all of us to be patient educators, the other part of the answer is for people to take responsibility for educating themselves. I'm not actually the only person in the world who can explain queer family making. While I do understand that families like mine are not regularly profiled in the mainstream media, it doesn't seem so crazy to me that people might do a little bit of the work themselves here. Read a blog. Read a novel. At the very least, think for yourself about the fact that not all families have fathers. And then, if you want to ask me a question, do it from a somewhat reflective place.

The second issue here, though, is bigger than this, and highlights the difference between explaining a premature baby and explaining a queer/trans family. Though I am lucky in that I've never had to explain my child's illness or health problems, I would imagine that the most common response when one does so is sympathy. At worst, apathy. Coming out - or indeed, just being visible in the world - as queer or trans, is likewise often met with interest, enthusiasm, acceptance, or even relief from other queers and trannies. But sometimes, it is met with anger and violence. While I in no way mean to foster a culture of victimization here, it is statistically true that LGBTQ people, and trans people in particular, are far more likely to suffer at best discrimination and at worst heinous violence because of their sexualities and gender identities. So, this notion that coming out, explaining one's family, is always the best thing to do, just isn't valid to me. Do I think that we would have been attacked at the Northwest Airlines counter? No, I don't. However, do I think there's a chance we might not have gotten our luggage? Yes, absolutely. And do I think there's a chance that we would have received a lecture on not being "normal"? Yes, I do. And I'm just not sure how to balance all of those factors, all of the time. Particularly once the baby is actually here, on the outside, and my number one concern is making sure that it is safe and protected.

So I don't know. Maybe we should have explained ourselves more clearly. I acknowledge missing a teachable moment here. But I might also suggest that those of you who are in heterosexual relationships, the next time you're out alone with your kid and someone asks you where Dad is, or if Baby has Dad's eyes, that you take the opportunity to point out that just because you have a male partner, it doesn't mean that everyone does. And maybe, that will make things a little bit easier for my family the next time around.

Update from the Cape

2008-07-11T16:01:00.000-07:00

First of all, I want to highly recommend spending as much of pregnancy as possible in the water. When at home, I do this by frequenting my gym, which has a lovely outdoor pool. I generally swim about a mile three or four times a week, and then laze around on a noodle in the shallow section, with the senior citizens who are all there for the Aqua Arthritis class. Here on beautiful Cape Cod, I have the pleasure of swimming and noodling (oh yes, I brought my own water noodle) in the ocean, and I have to tell you, it's pretty hard to beat.

What's also hard to beat is how nice it is to hang out on the beach at Herring Cove with all the gays in their various manifestations. Last year I had the pleasure of being here in Provincetown for Family Week. Unfortunately, this year Family Week coincided with my due date, so I'll be safely back home by then. However, even now, a few weeks early, the beach is dotted with queer families of all shapes and sizes. Gay dads. Pairs of lesbian moms. Butches with babies. Tranny couples and their kids. It almost makes me dizzy.

I'm not saying this is a queer communal utopia. It's not. Most of these parents are white. Most have achieved a reasonable level of economic privilege. The notion of diversity at play here is a narrow one.

And yet, I'm grateful for this week, grateful for this chance to be in a place where I am automatically read as a queer parent, and surrounded by people who get it. And of course, grateful always for a chance to float in P-town's lovely queer ocean.

36 Weeks!

2008-07-07T18:04:00.000-07:00

The end, my friends, is in sight. If the baby were born today, they'd let me take it home from the hospital. Crazy, huh?

Most people, by this point in their pregnancies, have their lives, or at least, their houses, in some sort of order. Not so here at QBM headquarters, where I am frantically cleaning out closets, rearranging shelves, and throwing away duplicate jars from my spice collection. Yes, it's true. I am nesting. But, in typical fashion, I have waited until the last moment. Will the carseat be installed before the baby arrives? Will the co-sleeper be set up in the bedroom? Who can say...

The good news is that my mother has arrived to help, and has gamely taken on the assortment of crappy tasks that I keep throwing her way. (Mom, did I say "thank you" for vacuuming the mouse poop out of that drawer? Because I really am full of gratitude...) And, even more valiantly, J has thrown his heart and soul into helping me get the apartment cleaned and organized. Love is so many things, and I feel incredibly grateful to have a partner who is equally game for taking awesome pregnancy photos (see above), snuggling in bed while feeling the baby kick, and helping me reorganize the kitchen closets.

In other procrastination-based news, I finally filled out the hospital pre-admission paperwork (which had a notice printed across the top to be sure to return all paperwork to the hospital before 36 weeks...). In addition to sections about dietary and religious preferences, the form asked me to list any other "cultural considerations" of which the hospital staff ought to be aware. How to sum up one's weird-ass tranny birthing collective family in a couple of sentences? I'm not entirely sure. After agonizing for half an hour over three sentences (sadly, I've already mailed off the form, so I can't quote them for you), I talked to my friend K, who is a maternity nurse at the hospital where I'm delivering. Her response? "Oh, those forms? I don't think I've ever actually seen one filled out." So, who knows what will happen when Team QueerBabyMaking arrives at the hospital.

That's the news here. The QBM family will be heading out to Cape Cod at the end of the week for ten days of fun in the sun. Yes, that's right. I'm going on vacation while 37 weeks pregnant. Oh yeah, just try and stop me...

On Fathers

2008-06-18T11:39:00.000-07:00

Ah yes, it's true. QueerBabyMaking missed the requisite Fathers Day post, in which I tell you all about how my family is okay even though we don't have a father. Blame the internet, which was down all weekend. Or blame my own father, who has never, in the entire history of my life, been on time for anything. So perhaps it's appropriate that this brief rumination on fathers comes some days after the fact.

Several thoughts to share:

1. I did spend part of Fathers Day at the Home Depot, not in search of tools for dad, but rather, an appropriately sized o-ring. My local happy feminist sex toy shop was all out, and I foolishly believed the salesperson who cheerfully said, "Oh just go down to the Home Depot. You can pick one up there!" Just in case anyone's wondering, no, in fact you can't just walk in to the Home Depot and be immediately directed to the hardware for your sex toys. Or maybe you can, but, amidst all the dads and families browsing new grills for fathers day, I was too shy to reveal my exact intentions, and instead, kept referring vaguely to a "project" that I'm sure confused the many middle-aged men I enlisted in my quest. I never did find a metal one, which is what I wanted, but should anyone else be looking for the rubber kind, I suggest you check out the plumbing section.

2. I also remembered to call my father to wish him a happy day. He asked me to use the computer to try and find him a ticket to Greece (where he was born and raised). I asked him about his planned travel dates, and discovered that he wants to be out of the country from early July through October. Upon pointing out that I would almost definitely be having a baby in the next seven or eight weeks, and suggesting that perhaps he might want to be around for that, he said, "Yes, of course. If I can't afford a ticket to Greece, I will definitely come." Right.

3. Finally, on Monday, I went to pick up Loverboi J from the airport. He arrived, but his bags did not, and we thus had a long and somewhat uncomfortable interaction with Patrick, the extremely friendly but not so queer-savvy luggage coordinator for Northwest Airlines. While we sat around waiting for the various lost-luggage paperwork to be processed, Patrick, in making what seemed to be his trademark attempt at friendly conversation, first asked us if we were sisters. He then demanded to know why we were laughing as we answered with an emphatic "No!" This line of questioning was happily dropped when Patrick noticed my pregnancy. I then, however, had to field a number of questions such as:

Patrick: "Where's the dad?'
QueerBabyMaking: "There is no dad."

P: "But I don't understand, everyone has a dad."
QBM: "Nope, not this kid."

P: "Oh, is he dead?"
QBM: [looks helplessly at J] "Nope, not dead. No dad."

J: "Actually, we're both going to raise it."
P: [looks helplessly at us both] "Ah, well, I hope that you are very good parents."

Amazingly, J's luggage did eventually show up.

The whole interaction was sort of comical, except for all of the ways in which it wasn't. And it drove home again all of the ways in which having a queer family means constantly explaining yourself, even in circumstances that have nothing to do with you or your kid. The privilege of having your family accepted at face value is indeed a heterosexual one. Even though the majority of people I meet and talk to are in fact very friendly and accepting of my family, my choices, I still have to explain them. Every time. Over and over again. This work of constantly outing one's self, constantly educating others, constantly being a happy, smiley role model for those freaky queer breeders everywhere, is exhausting sometimes. But I keep doing it, because I do honestly believe that it matters.

Barefoot and Pregnant

2008-06-09T19:03:00.000-07:00

It's true. In the face of 98 degree weather, I've become that pregnant person who waddles around the apartment in her underwear, donning a sundress and flipflops for just long enough to walk the dog around the block.

In other news...
I went camping this weekend with loverboi J, our good friends Eyeball and Novalicious, and Harvey the Superdog. Here are some highlights and public service announcements:

Camping while 32 weeks pregnant: not an issue. In fact, just fine. I recommend it. Especially if your boifriend has an inflatable queen size air mattress.

Camping in temperatures that fluctuated between 45 and 95 degrees over the course of the weekend: more of an issue. My advice? Bring a sleeping bag, no matter what weather.com says.

Camping in what I think might be a state-department sponsored site of mosquito-based bio-weaponry: such a huge issue, especially if you're trying to avoid giving your fetus an extra limb by saturating it with DEET. Kudos to the guy at Whole Foods who directed us to the Neem Oil, which did in fact seem to deter some of them. I do have some bites, but considering the insane mosquito-to-human ratio, I think I did okay.

(Poor Superdog, however, did not fare as well. After spending Friday night vomiting up whatever dead thing he managed to ingest while slinking away from my watchful eye, he developed a terrible skin rash all over his belly, and has now been sentenced to twice-weekly antibiotic shampoos for the next month.)

On transportation: Due to the fact that J and Eyeball both like to celebrate their respective butch badassness by driving pickup trucks, and due to the fact that gas in my neighborhood currently costs $4.10/gallon, we opted to squeeze into one car for family vacation. Being the only person amongst us who owns a car that seats four (no, J, those seats in the back of the truck do not count), this meant that we all piled into my aging Nissan Sentra for our weekend away. Memorial day, when we went out to the Cape to visit M-Star and frolic by the sea, this worked just fine. This time, with tents, coolers, hatchets, two fishing poles, three tackle boxes, two camp stoves, and at least seven flashlights, quarters were a bit more cramped. Eyeball and Novalicious were smushed into a third of the backseat. Superdog spent the drive buried on the floor, under a pile of pillows and Cheezits. And, although I enjoyed the pregnancy privilege of having the front seat in both directions, even I was wedged in between several backpacks, two foam "fun noodles," and a fishing pole.

Regardless, we had a great time, and Baby Fang enjoyed her first camping trip. We also spent Saturday in Northampton for Trans Pride, which though plagued by heat stroke, was a lot of fun. It was awesome to see a bunch of queers and trannies milling about in one place (a place that isn't San Francisco, that is), and nice to see other families that looked a little bit like mine.

Now, back in Providence, I'm sitting in a pile of sweat and eating frozen strawberry bars like there's no tomorrow. Loverboi departed this afternoon for a week-long trip to Scotland, and, in a move that now seems ill-considered, we used our last hour together to fuck instead of installing the window air conditioning unit. I always knew that I'd pay a price for my promiscuity. Who knew that it would be heat rash, rather than an STD?

And with that, I'll close this long and rambly post, and spare you the rest of my heat-addled brainstormings...

One Year Later

2008-06-04T08:31:00.000-07:00

Somehow, in all the craziness of life these days, I forgot to post that yesterday was the one-year anniversary of my first insemination. In all of the inseminations that I did over seven months of trying to get pregnant, the first was by far my favorite, simply because so many people I loved were there. And, though I'm generally much more rational than this, when I got pregnant that first time, I really was convinced that it was because of all the queer love in my apartment that night.

A few nights ago, I had a dream about going into labor. I went to the hospital by myself, but when I got there, I discovered that all of my friends and family were there waiting for me. My sister was there, and my old friends who are now far-scattered, and indeed, everyone from that first insemination was there too, along with all of my other local friends and my lover. I wasn't in active labor yet, so we all sat around talking, laughing, and I woke up feeling so happy, so relaxed, so excited about giving birth. I woke up feeling loved, which is just how I felt at that first insemination.

Happy anniversary, kids. I can't wait for us all to finally welcome this baby!

Tips for Planning a Queer-Friendly Birthing Class

2008-06-02T13:47:00.000-07:00

So, as we approach the final week of my birthing class, I've been thinking about the sort of feedback I'd like to provide to our instructor. In doing so, it occurred to me that it might be useful to compile this as a list that might be helpful to others. Please note that this is not meant to be comprehensive, but rather, to serve as a starting point for a discussion on how to plan better, more inclusive, birthing classes. If you have specific additions or suggestions, please leave a comment, and I'll incorporate them into the post.

1. Advertising and Promotional Materials
Does your website or course brochure picture new parents? Consider including pictures of same-sex couples, of single parents, and of pregnant people who are transgender or genderqueer. Are the participants pictured racially and ethnically diverse? Differently abled? Does the language in your brochure refer to "couples," and to "moms" and "dads"? Perhaps consider adjusting your language to be more inclusive. (More on language below...)

2. Class Policies
One of the reasons I chose the class that I did was because the instructor didn't bat an eye when I asked if I could bring two people to each class, both of whom would be acting as my birthing companions. (The local natural and crunchy pregnancy/baby center, on the other hand, would have required that we pay an additional 50% of the course fee in order to bring an extra person.) For those of us with families that don't fit the two-parent norm, this is a big selling point.

3. Language! Language! Language!
This is might be the single biggest thing to think about when planning and teaching a class. Instructors, please recognize that using language that refers to a two-parent heterosexual family is incredibly alienating for those of us who are single parents, queer parents, parents with multiple partners. Here are some specifics:

Dads - This seems so obvious, I feel like I shouldn't have to write it, but the world of birth prep is full of the language of fatherhood. You know, not all families have dads. Some of us have partners. Some of us have two moms. Some of us don't have any other co-parents. I personally would advocate for just not using this word.

Partners- Okay, I'm a bigger fan of this. It's not gender-specific, it can be easily made plural, and I feel like it denotes a broader range of relationships. I would point out, however, that not everyone has a partner. Thus, it really shouldn't be used interchangeably with "birth coach," "birth companion," "birth partner," or whatever term your particular class uses for the people who are there to be part of the birth process.

Moms- This is a place where I think language becomes really challenging. So many messages out there tell us that the person bearing a baby is a mom, and, in the context of a family, the only mom. This isn't, however, always the case. First of all, I know quite a few transgender men who have gotten pregnant and born children. For them, the label "mom" simply doesn't fit. Second, I know many, many families in which there are two moms. In these cases, to refer to the pregnant person as "mom" subtly reinforces the notion (which is sadly all too prevalent in the world) that the partner who isn't pregnant also isn't "mom." My birthing instructor, for example, often says, "Okay, moms, do X, and birthing companions do Y." I often think about how I would feel if I were there with a pregnant partner who was constantly being referred to as "mom," while I was not. Non-bio moms are so often rendered invisible, socially, legally, culturally. This is a place where birthing instructors can have a great impact with their language. Perhaps using words like "pregnant people" rather than "moms" will feel awkward at first. But, it will make for much more inclusive classes.

4. Talking About Sex
We all have questions about sex. We all want to know what it's okay to do and not do in pregnancy. Please feel comfortable talking about sex, and don't assume that sex=penis in vagina with sperm. The other day, my birthing instructor said that sex can be a great way to help speed up labor - because of the chemical reaction of the cervix to sperm. It's fine to offer up this information, but do it in ways that recognize that not everyone's sex life involves sperm, and let the rest of us know how this information impacts us. One might say, for example, "Sex can be a great way to help a labor along, and those of you whose sex life involves sperm will have the added benefit of this chemical reaction." Similarly, parents who are single don't necessarily have outside sex partners. What about masturbation? Would that be helpful? If so, how?

5. Thinking About Bodies
Not all of us have gender identities that match our physical bodies. Not all of our bodies can do the same things. Think about how to make the material you present relevant to people who can't necessarily perform all of the exercises or motions you might suggest. Think about how to incorporate material that addresses the issues of people who identify as and are recognized as men, but have uteruses, and may be pregnant.

6. Information on Dealing with Hospitals, Doctors, etc.
Please keep in mind that those of us who don't have husbands have additional things to think about when planning our births. Is your local hospital queer-friendly? Will they allow a same-sex partner to stay overnight in the room, and have 24/7 access to the baby? What happens in the case of an emergency surgery, or, god forbid, a situation in which the birthing parent is no longer conscious? These are things that queer families need to think about in advance, and birthing instructors who educate themselves on these topics will be a great resource to their students.

Recommended Reading
The New Essential Guide to Lesbian Conception, Pregnancy, and Birth by Stephanie Brill discusses so many of these issues and more. I highly, highly recommend it both to people consider parenthood and to birth professionals who want a great resource for understanding more about queer parenting.

And now, for your thoughts...
This list is a work in progress. I often don't want to blog until I have a complete thought worked out. Here, however, I'm starting this list in hopes that it can become a collaborative effort. I will add more items as I think of them. And I encourage you to add comments and suggestions of your own. Let's make this a helpful resource for birth professionals and others!

Gratuitous Belly Shot

2008-05-23T16:30:00.000-07:00

Yup, there it is... just shy of 30 weeks.

Irked.

2008-05-22T14:34:00.000-07:00

So, my ex runs a book club, of which I used to be a member. Indeed, the book club was the site of our first meeting, and somehow, over the course of our tumultuous relationship, in some funny way, it came to stand for the status of our relationship. When things were going well, we appeared at book club together and happy. My first pregnancy ended in a lot of blood, the morning of our sixth book club together, and she broke my heart by going to book club, and then out to dinner afterwards, as if nothing had happened. Our first breakup also happened on a book club day, and though we eventually got back together, our mutual friends, when mentioning that month's meeting, would always avert their eyes and say, "Oh you know, the month you weren't there."

Today, in the library, I ran into a book club acquaintance, who I hadn't seen in many months. His first words were, "We missed you last night at book club!" Upon explaining that my ex and I had broken up, and I was "taking a break" from our monthly gatherings, he graciously changed the subject, and asked about my summer plans. Well, I said, I'm having a baby in a few months, so I've been trying to get as much done as possible before then.

I watched him do the calculations. A recently ex girlfriend. A baby coming in just two months. "Oh," he said, "I'm sorry. Well, I guess I won't say congratulations."

For a moment, I was speechless. Really? Single parenthood is that terrible? Finally, I composed myself and said, "Actually, congratulations are most definitely in order. I'm very excited, and can't wait to meet my kid."

But something about that moment stung for the whole afternoon afterwards, and left me feeling sad all over again about my weird book club exile. Hey kid, if you're listening in there, I can't wait to start a new book club with you.

Beyond the baby: Thinking about Queer Family Making

2008-05-14T12:16:00.001-07:00

I am twenty-eight weeks pregnant. In less than 3 months, I will meet my newest family member. This inspires daily fits of terror as I realize that I still haven't cleaned out all of my closets, stocked up on diapers, or thrown away that crap that's been in my refrigerator since my subletter of two summers ago left.

(Yes, I know, this is my own fault. I should have taken better notes during that nesting conversation...)

In addition to doing deep breathing exercises to mitigate the panic of my lack of preparedness, I've been thinking a lot about family, and what queer family really means to me. Throughout this process, I've felt committed to a vision of community, of family, that is rooted not in the biological, or even the sexual, but rather, on shared priorities, ideologies, commitments, love.

This vision manifested itself in my first insemination, last June, when eight of my closest friends, one of whom was my lover, came over to share in the process of making a baby. We didn't know what we were doing. We had a vial of sperm from the bank, given to me by a lesbian couple who had no use for it anymore. We had speculums, catheters, syringes, and a lot of knowledge gleaned from the internet. We had a diverse range of medical experience between us all, but none of us had ever performed an intrauterine insemination, or IUI, before. All I knew was that this was statistically more likely to get me pregnant than simply inserting the sperm into my vagina, and that, although it is a procedure usually performed in a doctor's office or clinic, I very much wanted my baby to be made at home.

The other night, looking back over the pictures from that insemination, I was struck again by the particular sort of courage it takes for a group of people to make a conscious decision to work outside of the system, to support one another in making choices about our bodies, our reproduction, our families, when we have so little support from the mainstream. My insemination involved a "medical procedure" that, by working together, we transformed from a clinical act into a manifestation of our joint commitment to building family. My insemination involved a "private moment," the origin of a new life, that is so often assumed to belong to the privileged realm of heterosexual intimacy. Even when we remove conception from the sex act, it still retains its mantle of intimate privilege. Who should attend one's insemination? Why, one's lover, of course. Not seven other people. In working together, as a group, to learn from and support one another in the process of inseminating, we affirmed that love does make a baby, and that that love can manifest itself in a diversity of ways. Could this be the bedrock of queer family making?

Recently, these thoughts have been on my mind again, as I've begun my childbirth education classes. My classmates, four straight, married couples, don't seem to know what to make of our group. Because indeed, we are a group, and a particularly queer one at that. I go to class every week with my trannyboi lover and my genderqueer friend, who committed a year ago to being my birthing partner. Our pronouns probably confuse people. Our relationships to one another probably do too. And indeed, sometimes they confuse us as well. One of the challenges of making this arrangement work has been reassuring both my friend and my lover that neither of them is superfluous to the process. And that has forced me to articulate for myself what I want out of my birthing experience. To commit oneself to a process that doesn't privilege one's lover over one's friends is challenging, particularly in the context of a class and a teacher who refers at best to "partners," and often simply to "dads."

I am not interested in replicating a heterosexual nuclear family unit. I want my lover to be with me when my baby is born. But I want my friends to be there as well, and to be recognized as a playing a role no less important, no less critical. If, as all of these birthing books keep telling me, birth really does set the blueprint for the life to follow, this seems particularly crucial. I want my child to come into the world surrounded by queer family, loved by, bonded with, and cared for by a group of people who aren't necessarily related by blood, who don't necessarily fuck one another, but who have nonetheless staked out commitments to each other. A group of people with the courage to love one another, to support one another, to call each other family, even in the absence of recognized models that look like us.