Awaiting (impatiently) the birth of your first kidlet can make a gal reflective. It was a year ago this week that the Supreme Court of the United States answered with finality the expensive and ridiculous question of whether or not same-sex couples should be granted the rights and protections of marriage. And with their answer, my wife (ha!), Elenor, and I could finally put into motion our plan to start a family.
We wouldn’t have to establish residency in a state that allowed same-sex adoptions or worry about only one of us having a legal relationship with our child. No, we could just nestle up on the couch, put on a sweet rom-com in the background, and thumb through online cryobank catalogues of possible donors to our progeny’s DNA.
We had decided a while ago that parenthood is probably complex enough for us without adding a known bio dad into the picture (despite having lovely genetics at our disposal and seeing that that model can surely work for other families). But honestly, we were both a little taken at process of choosing a donor. Attraction is much easier to recognize than a possible spawn-making genetic match.
We thought we’d look for a donor with Elenor’s physical characteristics to see if we might increase the odds of randomly generating a human that looks like both of us. But, it soon became apparent (ha, again) with the provided audio clips of the donors that widening the pool for that particular group would be necessary. And when we found a healthy, atheist, cat-loving, academic athlete we immediately bought two vials of his life juice (it was about $700/vial, and one vial is one try, and you get one try per month -- because I know you were wondering).
We geared up to fight an oppressive system and find a doc who would inseminate a couple of heathens, but we quickly learned our girded loins were much ado about nothing. Our first stop, the University of Utah’s Center for Reproductive Medicine, was our last. The people were warm, inviting, and accommodating as ever.
Call me Myrtle, because I got knocked up on the first attempt (on average, it takes two to four tries). Elenor likes to joke that she got me pregnant, but isn’t the father. She’s really dedicated to stockpiling some solid dad jokes, and I think that’s something we can all admire. Cheesy ain’t easy.
The U’s Midwife Group has been equally as lovely. They welcome Elenor to all our appointments, validate her experience, and generally treat us with the respect and dignity of a regular old hetero pair! We’re not their first same-sex couple, and won’t be their last. Aside from being giddy and giggly at every appointment, we’re probably pretty typical. Funny how good it feels to be ordinary.
We decided to find out the sex of the kiddo, even though we know it doesn’t necessarily indicate the mini human’s gender and although we had already picked the name. Our rationale is that while his chromosomes and body parts might point us in one direction, he might feel differently, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Statistically speaking, most people feel gendered in some way(s), and that varies across a beautiful spectrum. We plan to be perceptive to Harvey’s feelings and adjust pronouns, wardrobe, etc. to accommodate.
Yeah, Harvey. After Mr. Milk. The first openly gay person to be elected to public office in California, but more importantly to us, the creator of a narrative of hope and love that has empowered and saved the lives of countless LGBTQ people (including mine). He is a hero. And so will be our son.
Our friends, families and workplaces have thrown decadent baby showers for both of us ensuring Harvey is the best dressed infant of 2016 with all the accoutrement two mamas and a baby could need.
And, as the child-bearing mama, I couldn’t be more fortunate with a spouse. Elenor repainted the house, assembled all the new furniture, she does all the cooking and cleaning, and takes breaks to rub my feet and tell me I’m pretty. She paints the toenails I can’t see anymore and has single-handedly changed the cats’ litter for nine months. She’s even decided to become a Gomberg (second-wave feminists, we don’t want to hear it; it is not anti-lady to have a family name – I don’t pretend to own her).
So now, I sit (uncomfortably) just days away from bringing little Harvey James into this world. He’s sure to be the most exquisite human being to grace this planet. We’re not going to be too pushy or anything, but we’re fairly certain he’ll put an end to hunger, reverse climate change, and as our friend Micquelle said, “He’ll abolish stupid mash up names for political events (Brexit). He’ll get rid of High Fructose Corn Syrup, single handedly take everyone’s guns and give them a joint in replacement, and he’ll insist upon equal pay for equal work, but less work for everyone.”
Or maybe he’ll be a butterfly collector. Only time will tell. But what we do know is that we are so ready to welcome this little man into our lives and our hearts (Son, that’s a gentle eviction notice).
We know with tragic events like the Orlando massacre and alarmingly high youth suicide rates in Utah that all isn’t over in the fight for LGBTQ justice, but the gains we have made for our families are real and life-changing.
So this week we raise our glasses (mine with sparkling cider) to marriage, to Stonewall, to babies, and to love.