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By
Harlyn Aizley
© BEACON PRESS, 2006
Moments after I gave birth to our
daughter, my partner Faith scooped the baby up,
cooed into her squishy newborn face, and said, “Hello
there, I’m your mommy.”
I wanted to kill her. Faith, that is.
Granted I was doped up on hormones, painkillers,
and fatigue. Granted I had been up all night struggling
to learn how to place my cracked and excruciating
nipples into our child’s rosebud of a mouth
so that I might offer up every ounce of nourishment
and energy I had left in me. Granted I had not had
an Advil, a glass of wine, or sushi in a very long
time. Still.
Who was Faith to call herself “mommy?”
I wanted to be mommy, the only mommy. Yes, we both
had planned for the birth of our child; yes, we
both had been present and accounted for at her conception;
yes, we both were women. But hadn’t I earned
it?
And so we were off, into the beautiful - though
often unexpectedly complex - terrain of two-mommy
parenting. To extend the metaphor, while frequented
by many, we soon learned that this new land that
was our home remained virtually uncharted. Where
were the guidebooks? Where were the stories from
other settlers? As a new biological mother, I had
at my disposal mommies’ groups, lactation
consultants, my obstetrician, and my own mother,
all of whom wished to share advice, support, and
stories of their own similar initiation into parenthood.
But where was Faith’s experience? Where were
the anecdotes from women who, like Faith, had opted
to postpone or forgo their own birthing experience
to assist their female partner in hers? Where were
the tales of life at home raising another woman’s
child who also was your own, but in a wholly different
way? Faith needed them. I needed them. And one day
our daughter would need them too.
A search for literature on the subject revealed
a sad wealth of horrid and fearsome custody tales,
news and scientific reports about the battles between
women over their children, made all the more painful
and divisive as they had the added pressure of creating
precedence for custody cases yet to come. There
were stories about states that forbid adoption by
same-sex parents, and harrowing tales of a biological
mother’s relatives exercising their assumed
blood rights over those of a non-biological mother.
While valid and critical to our understanding of
the social and political impact of same-sex parenting,
these stories provided little in the way of support
and/or relief. They emphasized the need for adequate
legal safeguards – writing wills and powers
of attorney, accessing the right to second parent
same-sex adoption when possible – but shed
no light on the every day experiences of the non-biological
mother. Legalities aside, lacking were what we needed
most: tales from the frontlines of non-biological
motherhood; optimistic, funny stories of otherwise
happy and contented lesbian moms struggling to make
sense of their family structure at the playground,
at PTA meetings, in carpool listening to three year
olds discuss what it means to have two moms, or
when slamming headlong into unanticipated maternal
longings – their own as well as those of their
bio-mom partner. (As far as this bio-mom was concerned,
the reluctance to share the title of mommy was just
the tip of my biological iceberg).
The narratives in this anthology are stories from
these settlers. They are anecdotes about what it
means to be a macho butch politco more accustomed
to passing as a man than as a mother, or a woman
grieving her own infertility while supporting a
partner who has easily become pregnant for the second
time. They are honest, candid confessions of jealousy
experienced while watching a partner breastfeed,
and exasperation at having to come out publicly
a dozen times a week thanks to the question, “Who’s
the daddy?” These are the stories from childbirth
class, from the nursery in the middle of the night
and the tot-lot first thing in the morning. They
are humorous and poignant, exquisitely personal
and deeply reflective.
Confessions Of The Other Mother is not a guidebook,
because as any one of the women featured here will
tell you there are no universal rules for two-mommy
parenting – or any parenting for that matter.
It’s more like a campfire around which a non-biological
lesbian mom can listen to tales told from a bunch
of gals making the same journey as her self. It’s
a place where that same exhausted mom might at last
slap her knee and exclaim, “I know exactly
what you mean!”
The essays that make up Section I, Birth, Babies
and Beyond, explore the experience of non-biological
motherhood from conception to childhood. Almost
every author addresses the issue universal to lesbian
couples desirous of biological children: Which one
of us will get pregnant? But from there they diverge,
with some women using the brief telling of a moment
in their lives as parents or parents-to-be to convey
the emotional significance of their role: watching
a partner breastfeed, battling homophobic bureaucracy
in the maternity ward. Others consider the place
in society their mothering has created with longer
pieces that capture both the personal and political
sides of non-biological mothering. Still others
challenge the presumptions of language, suggesting
that all female parents need not be mothers, and
that words like “non-biological” and
“non-birth” are negatives that do no
justice to the very positive fact of their parenting.
Because lesbians have at their disposal varieties
of parenting that far exceed those available to
couples sporting opposite genders, we include two
shorter sections. Section II, Mucking With the Stuff,
gives voice to women who have straddled both sides
of the mothering fence. In it we hear from two biological
moms whose partners chose to become pregnant, as
well as from two non-biological mothers who later
birthed a child. In Section III, Arriving After
the Show Has Started, a lesbian “step-mom”
shares her story of picking up the parenting pieces
after her partner’s failed marriage.
Some of the essays are funny. Some are sad. Some
are both. All are riveting enough to keep you up
at night pondering the meaning of motherhood, parenthood,
and the nuclear family. This is a campfire after
all. Hold tight to your marshmallow.
During share time at a group for new (biological)
mommies, I confessed my dirty little secret about
wanting to be the only mom in the house, wanting
to delegate to Faith some new word that does not
yet exist to represent her role as parent. Thinking
myself homophobic, an embarrassment to gay parents
everywhere, I was shocked when the only other lesbian
mom in the group guiltily nodded her head.
“Me too,” she said in a voice full of
shame.
As both Faith and I are Jewish (albeit of the non-practicing
variety) a well-meaning heterosexual mommy suggested
Faith refer to herself as “Ima,” the
Hebrew word for mother. This seemed to me like a
great idea. Maybe we even would join a temple to
lend it context.
“You be Ima,” was Faith’s response.
“But I’m her mother, her American mother.”
“So am I.”
That it took me some time to grasp that Faith was
as much our daughter’s mother as she was a
red-blooded, blue-state American, I blame now –
thanks to my contributors - on the limitations of
language, rather than my own lack of comprehension.
With no name for her role, Faith had only her heart
to guide her as she carved a place in the world
for herself and our family. Sheepishly, I shoved
over and made room.
Ultimately, our daughter decided for us. She refers
to us as Mommy Faith and Mommy Harlie. Sometimes
to save breath, when either one of us will do, she
shouts from across the house, “Mommies!”
This collection is dedicated to Faith, and to non-biological
lesbian moms everywhere who grapple not only with
the usual trials and tribulations of parenthood,
but also with the sometimes arduous and revolutionary
task of creating their own role as mother/parent
in their homes as well as in the outside Cheerio
and Elmo filled world. It’s for the women
who would remind us that just because they are women
with children, that doesn’t mean they are
moms or mommies. It’s for those who until
now have had to look toward fathers in an effort
to locate themselves in the vast open waters of
parenting. These are your stories. May they provide
support and laughter, strength and kinship, and
may they serve to educate the rest of us as to the
historical enormity and cultural significance of
your mothering. Have at it, girls!
Harlyn Aizley
Boston, Massachusetts |