Confessions of the Other Mother Harlyn Aizley

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.(We went from driving a Mini Cooper to driving a minivan.It used to be, as I scooted around town, that I’d get a few winks and smiles when I got into the Cooper.Now I am the image of invisibility.)Other potential image busters are the baby carrier and diaper bag; as already established, I don’t do frilly, pink, or floral, so finding the right diaper bag has been a challenge.I will probably go for a “daddy bag,” which might just be butch enough for me.The baby-carrier selection required a two-hour class of its own.Because I am so big through the chest, it was a challenge.We ended up with the one carrier I liked least because it fit the best.But it allows for skin-to-skin contact between mother andC.J.WARD 17baby, which enhances bonding, and is basic black, which will blend nicely with my primary wardrobe of black T-shirts.That we have a great attorney and live in D.C.(where second-parent same-sex adoption is legal) means that I will be able to become Abigail’s legal mom and have a birth certificate issued listing both me and Melissa as parents.I hope that we will be able to complete the paperwork as soon as possible in order to provide our family with that security.It also is important for Abigail to have my last name: in a sense it is all I am able to contribute to her heritage, and it will ensure my parental rights with regard to major (of the academic and medical variety) decision-making if we ever move to an area where same-sex adoptions are not recognized.By having a birth certificate with my name beside Melissa’s, navigating the bureaucratic world becomes a bit easier.I don’t really worry about the outside world’s view of us as “two moms.” I figure that the religious Far Right is doing enough worrying about it.If I allow it to define my family, it automatically wins.I truly believe in my heart that Abigail will be a force of nature like her biological mother and that she will set the pace for her world.I envision for her a life in which she is proud of her family and not aƒected so much by what others think about it.I picture her as the student who leads a group to fight the injustices of discrimination (of any variety), for those who are unable to stand up for themselves.I imagine her like her mothers—passionate, strong, funny, empathetic, sympathetic, emotional, and above all else loving.Mostly I want her to be happy.As her mother, if I could pass on only one piece of advice, it would be to seek happiness and joy in all she does.Which mother will she be like? She will simply be a combination of the best parts of both of us.And I can only hope she will inherit, from me, trouble with pink.High-Femme DadShira SpectorThat title may be misleading.It may be the first in a series of lies, like clothes that fit you badly but you keep wearing them because you’re broke and that’s all you have.Cheap itchy lies, lies with subtle oily stains, and ones that have to be yanked down at intervals like pants that won’t sit right.Lies that give you rashes and make you want to cry, wishing you could go home and start your day over, eradicating the moment when you looked in the mirror and believed this lie was a becoming choice for today.I was born to Ellen and Sander thirty-four and a half years ago, in an entirely diƒerent millennium than my own yet-to-be-born child, a creature known only as Bean, who currently floats and performs circus tricks in the belly of my luscious-like-a-fruit, cranky-as-a-venomous-spider, sweet-as-cheesecake, nine-months-pregnant girlfriend, Chris.Let’s stop here before any misconceptions hatch.By girlfriend I do not mean the type that drags you all over the mall asking if her ass looks big, but rather the kind who drags you into bed and mauls you.I’m no regular mama and not a dad either.I am something else, not cataloged, not named.Lucky me.There simply are no coƒee-table books for neurotic nonpregnant mothers-to-be who love children but fear what will become of their desire to one day become (among other things) a proficient burlesque striptease queen.Nothing is written for those awaiting parenthood who sleep in beds with ingeniously constructed headboards that boast a collection of dildos of such diversity that Madonna herself would be overcome.I worry about these things.They never came up in prenatal class.I concede that you cannot have a toddler teething on sex toys, but heaven help the fool who gets between this mommy and her vintage lingerie.19Aren’t I big and bad? I don’t even know if I will be capable of speaking coherent sentences by the end of next month.This is why I so badly need a road map of some kind, even though we have the equipment; our house is filled with squeaky toys and intimidating stacks of clean cloth diapers, soft, seen-it-all hand-me-downs, and brand-new velour numbers waiting in their nests of crinkly paper.Despite the years of patiently bouncing the colic out of other people’s children, I feel wildly unprepared, like I’ve forgotten something, and that causes me to have this recurring dream: I have to leave home suddenly.There is hardly any time to pack, and I dash around frantically, trying to remember what I need to bring with me.Inevitably a sort of fog comes over me and I have no idea how to convince my hands to grab the things I want.Upon arrival, I always open my suitcase wondering,What the fuck must I have been thinking? since it is obvious that I have packed my bags in the middle of an acid flashback.Returning home is never an option in this dream, instead I must cope with unfamiliar surroundings without my favorite jeans.Oh well, I think in dismay, at least I’ve got the popcorn machine and my old orange umbrella [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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