The Other Mom

We are just about finishing up the second trimester in the G household. The baby’s room is filling up with all sorts of baby things given to us by our family and friends: a swing, a stroller, a car seat, garbage sacks full of clothes, and a “Pack & Play” given to us by a stranger. Mrs. G finished up her dresser project (after about 18 coats of white paint) by installing some awfully cute vintage blue glass drawer pulls. We picked up a few things at a consignment sale: a changing table, a bathtub, a bouncy chair. We even have a cute vintage high chair for the future.

All of the “office” stuff is out of the guest room and all of the baby stuff is transforming it into a true nursery.

Our neighbors across the courtyard just brought over a suitcase full of maternity clothes for Mrs. G… so she’s taken care of on that front.

We’ve been surrounded by a community of awesomeness.

We’re still about 4 months away, yet all of our “big ticket” stuff is taken care of, thanks to my parents & sister with their gift of a crib and mattress. We looked at our registry yesterday. Almost everything left is under $20. All we really need now is a good ergonomic carrier… it’s pretty nice.

We’re not rich by any means, but it’s nice to know that our community of awesomeness is there to help us with everything we need.

So I’ve been struggling with a name for this blog. I keep changing it. It used to be something “daddy,” but as in the lesbian community, “daddy” means something way different than “parent that didn’t give birth,” and I’m not that kind of daddy.

And honestly, the term “daddy” as the other mom never really sat well with me, from a feminist point of view.

While I can’t wait to do “dad-style things” with my kid(s), it is awfully sexist to think things like “only dads can take their kids fishing,” or “only dads can coach soccer.” And I’m not a man. I am a woman. A butch woman, yes, but a woman nevertheless.

So what should I call this blog? Something witty and short and cute… it shouldn’t be that hard, right?

I’m stumped.

Mrs. G and I are very lucky. This I know.

I can’t help but feel guilty for our own good fortune. I have so many friends who have either been trying for months without success, or who have this deep-seeded urge to be a parent, yet don’t have the tools/money/partner/help to make it a reality. But I can’t feel guilty. It’s not my fault, after all.

Being a gay parent is going to be hard. This I know.

Harder than being just a parent parent. Because who I am and who my partner is will affect how people look at my family. And maybe, just maybe… we will encounter people who are not so nice to us. I can take it. I’ve got a tough skin. But I can’t help but want to protect my children from the hate.

This video, cheesy as it is, gives me hope:

My baby is a boy. This I know.

Astronaut Mike Dexter* is officially a boy. I keep joking that I finally have someone to play robots with. Truth be told, I’d say the same thing if our baby was a girl.

*This is what we’ve been calling our fetus.

…sucks.

Any questions?

Every friend of mine heard this on repeat: “If you want to knock up your lady, make sure you really love her, because in the first trimester, it’s easy to forget.” Mrs. G would agree with this statement, I’m sure.

I won’t go into details.

I will say, however, that Mrs. G was a champ. And she survived. And on April Fool’s Day, we got the first glimpse of our (alien) baby:

If you’re starting to read this blog right now, go on down to the bottom and start there. ‘Cause this right here… this is the money shot, and I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.

Really.

Go ahead on down.

I’ll wait right here for you.

…

OK. So. If you can recall, Mrs. G’s pregnancy test after the second insemination screamed “NO!” at us. And even though you could set a watch to Mrs. G’s ovaries… her period never came.

The next day, she took another pregnancy test. And it was positive!

Thus began the hardest two months of my life, because I couldn’t tell anyone.

See, making a baby is a very personal thing. Especially for the mother who carries the thing. And complications happen early on, long before the mother is showing. And sometimes families choose to deal with those things behind closed doors. Hence, no talking.

Not a peep.

Sure, we told our families and a couple of very close friends, but for the most part, no one knew that a little creature was growing in Mrs. G’s belly. I couldn’t wait to make the announcement (but I did).