Confessions of the Other Mother Part 3

As Israelas national health care system provides fertility counseling and reproductive technologies for all citizens, becoming pregnant there would not stress us financially as it would have in the United States. Empowered and encouraged by the workshop as well as our own union, just two short years into our partnership Dana and I scheduled an initial appointment, to see if becoming pregnant was adoableaa"would the health care system really be available to us as a lesbian couple? Could we manage its bureaucracies?

Sperm donation is tightly controlled in Israel. Every donor is college educated and categorized according to his backgrounda"either Middle Eastern (Sephardic) or Ashken.a.z.i (European) descent. All samples are anonymous, so that there is no traceable aba (father). Once a baby is conceived, the respective donoras remaining samples are removed from the pool of available sperm and saved for the biological mother in case she decides to impregnate again. This a.s.sures that her children will be full blood relatives. The only complication: sperm banks are closed on holidays and the Sabbath. Even if a womanas ovulation is regular as clockworka"as it turned out Danaas wasa"she is at the mercy of the Jewish calendar.

We tried for months to get pregnant. On several occasions, the director of the sperm bank suggested that Dana begin hormone treatments. While many people we knew used hormones to help them get pregnant, we had been hoping Danaas healthy thirty-four-year-old body would do the job without them. With the support of our wonderful gay gynecologist in Tel Aviv, we persevered without such treatment. However, with each try and subsequent failure Dana became increasingly more depressed and frustrated. I felt powerlessa"unable to afixa our problems, uneasy comforting her as she mourned a motherhood I was still ambivalent about, inadequate because I couldnat impregnate her myself and because I wouldnat, couldnat, bear a child myself. After six tries and the accompanying frustration, we skipped a few months and rethought whether we really were meant to have a child.

Meanwhile, I was growing bored with the sterile atmosphere of the high-tech world and longed for the vast empty beaches, redwood forests, and close friends of Santa Cruz. Dana, an author and English/Hebrew translator, was thinking that a few years in the United States might expand her career opportunities in Israel. As a result, we planned a move to America. Since the move would put on hold our pregnancy plans, we decided that before relocating we would give it one more try. Several weeks after that decision, while still in Israel, Dana and I found ourselves staring at a positive home pregnancy test, unable to believe our eyes.

Our international move was made during Danaas fourth month of pregnancy. It took us a good month to find a home. By the time Dana entered her third trimester, I was exhausted from furnishing the house, caring for her, and working to build a home business. We both entered the birth tired and overwhelmed.

This birth experience turned out to be beautiful but harrowing. Our son, Boaz, was born after thirty-six hours of labor in a highly planned home birtha"which was supposed to be about chanting and gently bringing this new life into a supportive communitya"and then twelve more hours at the hospital Dana was transferred to, where she was given lots of drugs and a C-section. Boaz was born with his eyes wide open. He seemed to recognize me. I like to think that Iave never looked away from our son since that moment.

Immediately following Boazas birth, Dana was almost completely knocked out, resting in bed, but the hospital staae' had to contend with me before getting to Boaz. I was a protective momma bear. My experience as an Israeli foot soldier (I served two and a half years of mandatory military service in Israel) influenced me as I found myself standing guard over Boaz, sticking up for his rights, and caring for both him and Dana. It took a couple of days to monitor my reactions. I practically barked aNo!a when asked about circ.u.mcision. When after two days Danaas milk hadnat come in for hungry Boaz, the hospital wanted to start him on formula or put sugar water on Danaas nipple to encourage Boaz to suck. I stepped in, taking on the job of our babyas advocate for the first time. With the guidance of our midwife, I purchased breast milk. A friend brought the milk, packed in dry ice and sent from a milk bank forty-five minutes away in San Jose. By the seventh day we were safely at home and Danaas milk came in strong and sweet. Fortunately, the hospital staae' was completely non-h.o.m.ophobic. There was never any doubt on the part of the staae' that I was the aother parent.a Each night I slept on a sofa close to Dana and Boaz.

We had arrived home from the hospital exhausted, to a house full of guests: Danaas aunt, who had arrived from Haifa two weeks before the birth, and her parents, also Israelis from Haifa, who stayed for two months. While all were wonderful and helpful, I became the twenty-four/seven aschlepper,a in addition to trying to run a business, be present for Dana, and learn to be with my son. Dana and I both desperately needed anormalcya to return to our lives. But that is exactly what goes out the window when you bring a baby homea"nothing is the same as it was, and nothing lasts. You learn how to do something perfectly so that your son doesnat cry, and a week later that same trick is the very thing that makes him the most annoyed.

My home business was growing, but too slowly to keep up with the high cost of living in California. With Boaz still a newborn, I began the diacult task of obtaining a work visa for Dana (more lawyers, more money), wrote a business plan, and incorporated my business, all in order to hire Dana so that she might work for me and remain in the U.S. legally. Unfortunately, I was too busy, and the details of the business started piling up. My stress level rose simultaneously.

Dana and I both were suae'ering from sleep deprivation. As a result of the C-section, Dana had diaculty moving and couldnat hold Boaz for the first six weeks of his life except to nurse him. By the third week, Dana was sinking into mild postpartum depression. I tried to pick up where she left oae', but the angelic baby in my arms, who I would protect with my life, wanted lots of attention, the business taxes were waiting, and I still had a house to maintain. There were the grandparents who had spent their life savings to come all the way to California to be there for their daughter and enjoy their first grandson. There was Dana, wondering what she had gotten herself into. With my own needs coming last due to necessity, my exhaustion increased and turned into anger, frustration, and impatiencea"mostly with myself for not being awonder woman.a Dana was spenta"hormonal, and homesick for Israel. Already stretched too thin, I started resenting Danaas decreased energy level, while she harbored her own resentment of my desire to rid our house of well-meaning relatives so we could be a family of our own.

As is true for all new parents, partnership suddenly meant more than simply two people spending their lives together. With a child in the picture, the definition of who we were to each other changed. Now a partner was the only other person who got to make decisions about your child. It was the person you handed your son to when you were too tired to hold him for one more second. It was someone whoad better be trustworthy and have patience, goodwill, and inner strength. At the very least, it was someone who was willing to compromise and not be afraid to seek help. Unlike most other new parents, we also were contending with Danaas ability to stay in the United States, and acquiring legal recognition of my role as coparent.

To a.s.sure that our relationship survived, Dana and I joined a postpartum wellness group. We also started therapy with a practical lesbian therapist who had four children of her own. With the help of these support systems, we created a chart distributing work and childcare responsibilities between us. We learned to listen to one another. Because I did the bulk of the childcare while Dana was recovering from her C-section, at first it seemed that I was in the role of biological mother and Dana was the aother mother.a As Dana recovered and took on more responsibilities, I had to learn to make room for her opinions. It took some adjustment, but eventually I was glad to share the responsibility, and embraced Danaas special role as Boazas biological mom.

As Boaz grows, our life as a couple is mending. I appreciate the fact that when we needed help, we had the right to free therapy under Californiaas First Five program (paid for by tobacco taxes), just like straight couples have. However, I do not appreciate the underlying accusation from the federal government that I am not a real parent until I prove it in court. Iam tired of being asked if my son will have enough male influences in his life. Still, we will do what we have to, and presently I am in the process of legally adopting my Boaz.

Given our status as registered domestic partners in the state of California, legal parental rights would default to me if anything ever happened to Dana, just as they do for married heteros.e.xual couples. But our domestic partnership isnat recognized federally, so if we were traveling out of state and had a car accident, depending on whether that stateas medical community chose to honor my relationship with my son, I might or might not be able to make medical decisions for Boaz. To a.s.sure our best legal protection, we are going through an expensive and at times humiliating adoption process. This involves having friends write aadavits and sign forms attesting that I am a drug-free adult capable of caring for a child, undergoing a home visit by a social worker, and fingerprinting (to make sure Iam not wanted in any state for molestation). While the adoption process is the same for heteros.e.xual coparents, I often find myself stewing over the fact that when any two straight people have s.e.x and make a baby, they instantly become legal parents with full rights and privileges under the lawa"regardless of their mental status. In a month or two, I will appear before a judge to sign the final papers and then, most importantly, Boaz will be my legally adopted son. After the adoption we will take Boaz to Israel, and weall do a similar adoption there. We also maintain living wills in both countries and powers of attorney over each otheras finances.

When Boaz was eight months old, I experienced what initially had been my biggest fear with respect to becoming a parent: inadequacy. Staring into his hopeful, confident eyes, I imagined he was asking me to confirm that the world is a wonderful, ma.s.sive mystery just waiting for him to dive right in.

The d.y.k.e in me wanted to answer, aNo can do. The world is an unfair and opportunistic place. You are safely snuggled here in Santa Cruz, California, while our Palestinian friend Rammi, in Ramallah, fears he will be shot dead by his own brothers if he ever were to come out of the closet. Sorry, Boaz, the world is a c.r.a.pshoot, a self-destructive, queer-bashing, coldhearted thug. George W. Bush is at the helm, and if it looks, tastes, and smells like fascism, then maybe it is fascism even if it is called ademocracy.a My poor, innocent son, what have we got you into?a But as a parent, I knew I could not answer that way. That morning, waking up, as usual, moments after Dana and Boaz, I watched my son, tucked under one of Danaas arms, nursing, while she spoke to him in a soft singsong voice about all the fun things to do in the coming day. Taking a long, deep breath, I snuggled her closely, reaching over her warm body to stroke Boazas head. He cooed and giggled. There was nothing I would trade for such a perfect moment.

Yes, I am parenting and supporting a family in a heteros.e.xist, capitalist world. But this nonbreeder is content, happier in a family than she ever before has been. And somehow that makes possible living among the hypocrisies of a world that just might also be a wonderful, ma.s.sive mystery just waiting for Boaz to dive right in.

Whoas Your Daddy?

Heather DeRosier.

In 2003 we had a baby. Actually, my partner, Laura, had a baby. We traveled all over Seattle to find the perfect fit for health care, visiting birthing centers and interviewing countless ob-gyns and midwives. Because some people think I am Lauraas sister, we went out of our way to inform everyone we met that we were a couple, and that ashea was pregnant but awea were having a baby. After meeting many health care professionals we decided we would deliver by midwife in the hospital. I accompanied Laura to every prenatal appointment.

Before we decided to have a baby, Laura and I had been together for over seven years. We went back and forth about the issue of parenting for about four of those yearsa"utilizing lots of pros-and-cons lists and lots of therapy to help guide us. Upon deciding to have a baby, Laura and I got married. Although same-s.e.x marriage is still not legal in Washington, we felt that having our friends and family witness our commitment to each other was an important step to make before having a baby. In addition, I always felt that if we could not be aouta enough to get married, then we had no business starting a gay family.

After choosing to become parents, the next most significant decision we made was to keep our donor information confidential. This decision was largely mine. I felt that because I wasnat carrying the baby, I didnat want there to be a lot of focus on who the adaddya was. I wanted parenting to be about me and Laura and our baby. My gut instincts were confirmed when, after Laura became visibly pregnant, everyone and their neighbor (literally) wanted to know who the father was. We remain private about our babyas donor. And still, most people can hardly stand not knowing.

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Our mail carrier and unexpected fan, Debbie, knew something was going on in our home long before anyone else did. My mother, knowing what a huge hypochondriac I am, always knew it would be unlikely that I would birth a baby. According to her, my hypochondria started in second grade, when I was sure I had a tooth growing in my throat. From there, I always overthought my natural bodily functions. These fears lessened slightly as I grew up, but giving birth would be a whole diae'erent game. I was sure I would fear terrible things while being pregnant: Does my baby have two heads? Why isnat she moving? So my mothera"and Ia" knew it would probably be Laura who would carry. Anxious for another grandchild, and a not-so-subtle hinter, my mother jumped the gun and started two magazine subscriptions (Mothering and Parenting) long before Laura and I even announced the idea of having a baby. She thought that Laura would enjoy these even though she wasnat pregnant.

Our mail carrier must have seen those magazines coming to our house. About three months into her pregnancy, Laura was walking the dogs and ran into Debbie, who stopped to ask if she was pregnant.

aYou can see it in your chest,a Debbie said. aJust wait until your milk comes in.a Laura asked that Debbie keep the pregnancy news on the down low, as none of our neighbors yet knew.

Debbie has been delivering our mail since we moved into our Central Seattle home five years ago. She always has a big smile and an opinion or two about things. After Laura had confirmed her pregnancy, Debbie told me she thought for sure I would have been the one to agoa first. When I asked why, she was quick to respond that she thought I was more feminine than Laura. I was shocked, for two reasons. One, she saw me day in and day out for over four months stripping the paint from our two-story, one-hundred-year-old home and then painting it (sometimes while wearing overalls and a brown suede tool belt). Not exactly what I think of as feminine. Second, while I donat consider myself butch, Laura is by far the more girlie-girl of the two of us. Although taken aback by her candor, I was also pleasantly relieved that Debbie understood that we were a couple. Nowadays we see Debbie throughout our neighborhood while we are out walking the dogs and the baby, and she always says something sweet like, aAhh look at the cute family!a Debbie recently asked me if I was going to go next. I told her, like I tell everyone; I am scared to death of giving birth. She responded, aYou can do it, girl. Iall help you!a About six months into Lauraas pregnancy, we signed up for childbirth cla.s.ses. When we showed up to cla.s.s, not surprisingly we were the only lesbian couple there. Being one of only three women abirthing coachesa in the room (the others were the mother and a friend of their pregnant partners), I felt like the odd wo/man out, strange for being a woman who was not about to have a baby.

Our cla.s.smates sized us up, a.s.sessing our situation without asking. Two women having a baby. The idea that people might be thinking about us made me uncomfortable. In my mind, we were just normal people trying to figure out what to do with the baby that would soon be coming out of Laura. Just like the others, we went every week and did all of our exercisesa"me and the others in the afathera role with the fellas, Laura with the ladies.

At one of our final meetings, the instructor asked for volunteers to role-play early labor in front of the room. Laura convinced me to be the volunteer from the fellasa group. Standing in front of thirty people, rubbing the instructoras back, telling her she was fine and to keep breathing, was mortifying. I was hyperaware of my every action, anxiously antic.i.p.ating the response of my fellow cla.s.smates. I have to think that if I were one of the husbands, or if we had clearly established our asituationa for our cla.s.smates, my self-scrutiny would have been less aggressive. But as it was I felt exposed, and rather than commit myself to the pretend birth of our instructor, I could think only about the roomful of people studying mea"the lone lesbian onstage for special grading by the cla.s.s on her ability to perform in this new role.

Laura was eight months pregnant and big as a house when, as block watch captain for our street, I coordinated our annual summer block party. The party is usually attended mostly by neighbors who are familiar to us, but this particular summer there were a lot of new people. Apparently, a pregnant belly lends itself to a free-for-all of personal questions (i.e., aWhoas the daddy?a). One woman on our block whom I knew only in pa.s.sing felt the need to ask me if we did it the anaturala way. I wanted to ask her if she thought I had a p.e.n.i.s, but I just gave her a shocked look and tried to shrug the question oae'.

She must have a.s.sumed from my response that we didnat know the donor, as she added, aNah, acause thatas naasty, right?a Another woman whom neither of us had met before plied Laura with questions about her birth plan, before going for the clincher: aDo you mind if I ask who the father is?a aYes, I do mind,a Laura answered.

This woman continued anyway, saying that she had no current relationship with the father of her children, somehow implying that we had chosen similar paths.

Two months later, at 4:00 am on October 6, 2004, Lauraas water broke. She had tested positive for group B strep about two weeks earlier. This is common and normally doesnat aae'ect oneas health, but if you happen to be pregnant and your water breaks you need to be on an antibiotic drip immediately to prevent injury to the baby. So we headed to the hospital. We both thought that Laura was going to pop this baby out in no time, but that couldnat have been farther from the truth. We ended up being in the hospital for days (forty-one hours of labor in total), with Laura getting IV antibiotics for twenty minutes every four hours.

After a good thirty hours of pre-labor, which consisted of Laura and I walking for miles all over Capitol Hill, where our hospital was located, me stopping for coae'ee and bagels and Laura performing her own awkward version of the nipple-stimulation technique taught to her by our midwife, we decided to return to the hospital and regroup. After thirty-two hours of good eae'ort, not to mention a pair of very calloused nipples, we gave our blessing to the midwife and told her to order up a pitocin drip for the recommended induction.

From that point on, Laura was in hard labor. During these six hours, she became someone I no longer knew. She was my hero. We went through seven nurses and five midwives in total. Each time one of the nursesa shifts would end I found myself hoping wead get a agooda nursea" one who was open-minded with regard to two-mommy labor. While I had only partially readied myself for my time and role at the hospital, I certainly had not prepared to introduce myself to seven diae'erent nurses.

Laura had written a birth plan of which I, of course, was a big part. Before even meeting us, each nurse knew our room would contain two moms and no dad. Imagine our surprise upon learning that labor and delivery nurses (at least at our hospital) actually have some choice as to which patients they see. Our nurses had chosen us. This was evident in the support and acceptance I felt of my role in our new family.

After forty-one hours of labor total Laura pushed our baby girl out in twelve minutes, while standing and with no pain medication. I was there with the midwife to catch Lucia. In the moment I received her, I felt overwhelmed with love, and I knew indisputably that she was my daughter.

Visitors started pouring into the hospital and then to our house. From Luciaas first public appearance on, Iave heard countless times, aShe has your eyes, Laura,a or, aShe looks just like youa (meaning Laura). I never could have dreamed how painful those words would be. I am sure I said them myself many times to other gay and lesbian couples with children, but as a parent they meant simply this: Lucia looks nothing like me.

For the first few weeks I felt saddened and alienated, thinking that Lucia and I shared no physical resemblance. Even though at that time Lucia didnat really look like Laura either, everyone, including me, looked for the similarities. And I wanted Lucia to look like me too. Even though her eyes were blue, I held on to the hope that they would turn brown like mine eventually. I felt that people might validate me as her mother if we looked more similar.

Over time, I care less and less that Lucia and I do not resemble each other. Perhaps this is because as Lucia becomes more a part of the world, she also becomes her own person, separate from both me and Laura. I imagine our physical gap will only close more with time. If I had my way, I would pick and choose the best of both the biological father and Laura and give Lucia all of these traitsa"physical and otherwise. But the truth is, as with all children, Lucia entered our lives an individual in her own right. All I can do is love and nurture her.

Our first shopping trip out of the house took place when Lucia was twelve days old. Lauraas twin sister, Katherine, was in town to help us. We decided that we needed lots more baby stuae'. The things we had werenat quite right, so oae' to Target and T. J. Maxx we went. Having not left the house in twelve days, I felt like I was in a giant bubble, clouded from reality. We went to T. J. Maxx and quickly split upa"Laura and Katherine to shoes and me and Lucia to baby gear. I was scared stiae' to be out of the house with a twelve-day-old baby. Germs, criminals, cars, raina"so many things threatened her safety. As if to confirm my fears, before too long Lucia began to cry and scream. Pushing a shopping cart with all of her baby stuae', and with her in my arms, I frantically looked around the store for Laura but could not find her anywhere. At this point Lucia was wailing.

Meanwhile, there were what seemed to be countless women walking the aisles, staring at me and commenting, aYour baby is hungry,a as if I were a horrible mother who was neglecting to feed her child.

I never had felt so inadequate in my life. Nearly in tears, I panicked because I simply could not find Laura, and Lucia was now screaming in my ear. Abandoning the cart with all of our carefully selected things, I ran down the aisles calling, aLaura!a When at last I found her, Laura was calmly perusing the stationery.

Practically throwing Lucia into her arms, I shrieked, aMy G.o.d, couldnat you hear your daughter screaming for you throughout the store?a Clearly she hadnat. She had been happy just to be doing something other than breastfeeding. I knew then I wasnat quite ready to leave the house.

Four months into Luciaas life, I was alone with her when Laura went on an overnight trip to Las Vegas. Lauraas business partner was getting married and Laura really wanted to be there. By this time Laura was back at work and pumping her breast milk, so I was used to giving Lucia a bottle and spending hours alone with her. Still, this would be the first time she spent the night away from Lucia. It happened also to be Valentineas Day and a time when Lucia was suae'ering major crying attacks during which she could not be consoled. (She was later diagnosed with reflux.) Only about seven hours after Laura left, Lucia was in one of her crying jags. There was a time when, during her major cries, I could turn the blow-dryer on low, tickle her body and face with air, and she would just melt with calmness. But lately, even the blow-dryer trick wouldnat work. The only thing that helped was taking her outside into the fresh, cold air.

I had been crying, myself, from the helpless feelings I was having all morning. There I was, standing on our front porch all puae'y-eyed, when flowers arrived. Laura had sent them in advance, without telling me they would be coming. It happened to be a friend of a friend who was delivering the flower arrangement.

I was holding Lucia while she continued to cry and said to him, aItas been a rough morning. Lucia has been crying and Laura is in Vegas.a His reply: aOh, whatas that like when the real mom is gone?a I was stunned by this comment, as any aothera real mom would be. As it turns out it was not the last time I would have to endure such insensitivity. The only thing Laura has on me is the nine months Lucia spent in her womb and the milk-filled b.o.o.bs. Other than that, we are equally part of our daughteras life. The presumption that I am a alesser moma hurts on a level only someone in a similar situation can understand. If I hadnat been so preoccupied with Luciaas health and happiness at that moment I would have probably shrieked, aWho do you think has been up since 5:00 am changing p.o.o.py diapers and soiled onesies, comforting her when she cries and warming her bottle?a Instead I muttered something about being perfectly able to take care of my daughter, and that the two of us were just fine.

Lucia was six months old when my work required me to go to Vancouver for a week. Laura decided that there was no way I was leaving her home alone with the baby for a week, so she packed her bags and came along. This was our first time leaving the country with Lucia. We drove up to Vancouver. When we got to the border, we were asked whom the baby belonged to. I was driving and I told the woman she belonged to me and her, pointing to Laura. She asked me if we were both on the birth certificate. We are, I told her. She said to have a great time and oae' we went. I was relieved that she took this information with such ease.

Not only was this our first time out of the country, but also our first time staying in a hotel where we would have to go out for all meals and coae'ee. Early one morning, when Lucia had been wide awake for some time and in one of her fabulous smiley moods, I packed her up in the Baby Bjrn and walked four blocks to a coae'ee shop. We were in the coae'ee shop, standing at the condiments station, where another childas dad was adding cream to his coae'ee.

The dad looked at me and asked, aHow old?a We made parental small talk, and then he said, aYouare lucky, I had such a hard time in the beginning because I couldnat feed the baby and felt the baby didnat really need or want me.a I stood with Lucia, smiling, and thought to myself, little does he know how similar we in fact are.

I call Laura the amudder with the udders.a She doesnat seem to mind, as she loves to nurse. However, while blissful for Laura and Lucia, breast-feeding for me has been bittersweet. Because of the comfort Lucia experiences while nursing in Lauraas arms, there definitely have been times when Iave felt jealous, like Lucia might not even notice if this second-cla.s.s mom were not here. When I give a bottle to Lucia, she doesnat wrap her little arms and legs around my body like she does when she spoons Laura while nursing. It causes me to wonder whether Lucia likes Laura better than me, especially now, with Lucia grown from a newborn in need of nourishment to a baby enjoying intimacy. Breastfeeding used to seem more instinctual, like a business deal: you feed me, I p.o.o.p, I pee, and I sleep. Now that Luciaas eight months old, itas a party, as she pauses between sips to smile and blow raspberries. Luciaas body language is like that of someone lying in a hammock on a warm sunny day, someone without a care in the world. I would give my big toe to be that hammock.

Both Laura and I wanted Lucia to call us mommy, but agreed that only one of us would have the t.i.tle. For weeks we went round and round arguing over who would get the coveted name. I wanted to wait until Lucia naturally came up with her own names for us. Unfortunately, this proved too confusing for everyone. People kept asking who is who, and what we call each other. So we decided that Laura would temporarily be aMommy,a as Lucia is tangibly linked to me in the social world thanks to the fact that she has my last name. Iave taken the name aMama,a but confess to still not being at peace with the idea.

Now that the first eight months of chaos, anxiety, sleeplessness, and fear are behind us, and amnesia for that time has started to kick in, we are thinking about giving Lucia a sibling. In response to the profound emotional experience of parenting Lucia, Iave decided I do want to give birth should Laura and I choose to have another child. At this new place in life, my emotional needs far outweigh my fears of the physical aspects of pregnancy and childbirth. Mothering, wanting our little family to grow larger, and my old rival breastfeeding have stirred in me a maternal longing Iave not felt before. Now I want to feel a baby growing inside of me; I want to share with a child the connection that comes from nursing.

Perhaps it makes sense that not being able to breastfeed my daughter made me feel like an outsider within my own family. A warm, hands-on, loving person who likes to cuddle and be close to people, I long to tightly hold my child, relieve her pain when she hurts, and provide her with comforting hugs and kisses when she craves closeness. Though Laura is a person who prefers distance, it is she who Lucia turns to when she wants to be cuddled. After trying hard to have that connection with Lucia, Iave realized that this is part of their natural bond. For now, Lucia and I connect in diae'erent ways. While Laura is hesitant to add another child to our already full schedules, she also admits to being afraid to be in my position.

Today when people ask their myriad questionsa"Whoas the daddy? Whoas the real mom? How did you do it? What will she call you?a"I take a deep breath and spout one of the many stock responses Iave learned over the months. Depending on my mood, I can choose to educate the questioner or not. More importantly, deep down I know none of their questions really matter.

What does matter is that I get to spend each day as a mother to Lucia and in family with her and Laura. Should I birth our second child, the journey that has been my experience as a nonbiological mom will enable me to support Laura in hers.

Betsy Loves Bobbies.

Faith Soloway.

Bobbies: breastfeeding; b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Down bobbies: nursing while lying down, sofa or bed. Sitting bobbies: nursing while sitting. Down naked bobbies: do I really need to spell this one out?

Betsy loves bobbies. When my partner, Harlie, comes through the door after not having seen our still-nursing toddler for a significant chunk of time, Betsy shouts, abobbies!a In antic.i.p.ation of their physical reunion, Harlie scoops Betsy up as our daughter continues her gleeful demand of her body.

aDown bobbies!a Betsy demands.

The whole bobbies routine has a subtle command system that our daughter finesses with impressive confidence and control. Though Harlie prefers sitting bobbies, she usually relinquishes control to our tiny fanatic dominatrix who orders up down bobbies on a regular basis.

When I have the privilege of being audience to this spectacle, Betsy comically rises to the occasion. She talks to the bobbies to make me laugh.

aHow are you today, bobbies?a She cleverly changes song lyrics in honor of them. aIf youare happy and you know it clap your bobbies.a Even the origin of the term bobbies makes us laugh. We both link the emergence of the quirky nickname to visits we had with Harlieas father, Bob, and his woman friend, Linda. At any typical visit, one can hear Lindaas shrill voice yelling around the house, aBobby, what did Maria do with the bath towels?!a Or, aBobby, can you help me with this? Bobby, Bobby! Bobby!!a We figure one such visit must have occurred at a particularly important developmental moment in Betsyas life, because as soon

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as we got home she began referring to b.r.e.a.s.t.s as bobbies and requesting them from Harlie with a fervor similar to the warbling Geschrie of Linda. Given that we refer to our own b.r.e.a.s.t.s as ab.o.o.bies,a we were pleased with Betsyas original take on the slang. After all, bobbies is a much more appropriate and discreet name in social settings.

From the moment Betsy was born, Harlieas b.r.e.a.s.t.s have always stood, or should I say hung, at the center of Betsyas development. The maternity nurses nicknamed Betsy aBarracudaa in honor of her powerful suck.

aYou should have no problems whatsoever with breastfeeding,a they told us.

No problems whatsoever for Betsy, that is. As she herself will say, aI could bobbie all day long.a (Yes, the usage of the word bobbie has now been in our vernacular for so long, itas earned verb status.) Harlie would say that bobbies have taken on a personality of their own, completely devoid of her own ident.i.ty. At times Harlie feels like a milk hostage. At other times, she feels like a warm and cozy haven for our girl. When supply and demand is at its worst, Harlie just wants out. I try my best to help her as she struggles to deal with these psychological land-mines. Knowing that weaning this bobby-lovina toddler ainat going to be easy for either of them, I strive to be as sensitive and supportive as possible. This means I choose to keep my feelings to myself.

Basically, I am insanely jealous of their flesh-on-flesh, boundaryless, nurturing, complicated relationship. I watch my two ladies intertwined on the couch and the picture is both heavenly and bittersweet as it constantly reminds me of my third-wheel status. Later, as I listen to Harlie process the challenge of weaning, I want to say unhelpful and selfish things.

aDo you know how lucky you are to have a little flesh pet? She depends on you for everything. She needs you for every emotional turn she takes. She seeks refuge in your body. She seeks healing from your b.r.e.a.s.t.s. How does it feel to hold such power? You are her G.o.d. She knows no other. Iave always wanted that feeling. Iave always wanted to love some-onea"and to have that love reciprocateda"so incredibly much that all I want to do is give my body over to the love.a Iam glad Iave never unleashed.

Iam not quite sure how or why these feelings of inadequacy and jealousy started to grow. I am also startled by them. When Harlie first declared her Iam-having-a-baby-dammit-thereas-no-turning-back-eitheryouare-with-me-or-not position, I was both scared and relieved. Being an arts person who wears many creative hats, my muse came before anything. I wanted the freedom to create, rehea.r.s.e, write, and most of all, sleep in. At the same time, something in me always wanted to be a mom. Throughout my life, Iave always worked with and even taken care of kids.

This conflict within myself was not a good way to a.s.sure my partner I could be there for her. But we went ahead with all things baby, and within that year I started to feel a calm connection to my upcoming, supportive, second-mama role. Once our baby girl was born, all the inner turmoil evaporated into What the heck was I thinking? dust. I was so in love with our child that I wanted to be with her whenever I could. I still do. I canat wait to see her when I get home or wake up in the morning. I canat get enough of her. And Betsy canat get enough of Harlie.

I sometimes wonder whether Betsy might be more bonded to me were I the stay-at-home mom. There was a two-week period at the beginning of September before I went back to work when I had the chance to be with Betsy all day. It was heavenly. I loved every second of it. But when Harlie came home, bobbies stole my thunder. Those d.a.m.n bobbies. I should have known they had the power to totally eclipse two weeks of hardcore playing.

Now Betsy is two years and eight months and shows no signs of wanting to give up the breast. I figure I have had two and a half years of trauma. Two and a half years of jealousy and inadequacy issues swirling around my psyche. Two and a half years of having my own maternal instincts toward Betsy trumped by the mama milk that I, too, regard as holy. Perhaps Iave willingly sat back because of my own ma.s.sive reverence for the breast. To me, the fact that a baby can survive and be healed by its motheras milk is an evolutionary miracle, as simple as it is intimidating. Itas like there is this maternal holy trinity made up of the mother, the child, and mama milk as the holy spirit. Breastfeeding and the milk she produces must serve the mother too, somehow, as she instinctually guides herself and her baby through their life together. Or maybe Iam still getting over seeing my sister squirt her own breast milk into her sonas eyes to cure his conjunctivitis.

As capable a mother that I know myself to be, I cannot, will not, challenge the holy trinity, nor the holy mamaas maternal instincts. And so I relegate myself to being the best d.a.m.n nonbio mom I can be. I defer, support, oblige, serve, but never lead. I cannot deny the power that bobbies hold, and I know Iall never quite have it. I love who I am to Betsy, as much as I am in awe of what an amazing mother Harlie is. We have an incredibly happy girl and I know I have done a fine job contributing to her wellbeing and our family dynamic.

But because I do have the need to be maternal in a biological way, Iam currently trying to have a baby. I hope I do get pregnant so that I really may experience this. And we both want Betsy to have a sibling. I know Harlie is eager to see how I will handle it all. I wonder myself how open and G.o.d-like I will be about my own body if I do end up having a child of my own.

I know what will happen. As if to challenge me even more, life will probably send a baby with a wussy little suck. In a desperate attempt to seduce my newborn into nursing, Iall come up with new nicknames.

aCome on, baby, donat you want some . . . tibbies?a But then, letting my own maternal instincts take over (and maybe six expensive lactation consultants later), Iall let go and trust myself and my child. And together weall find our own relationshipa"with or without bobbies.

Naked Brunch.

Fern Bliss.

Florida 2002. My partner, Becky, and I are visiting her ninety-five-yearold Aunt Emma. Emma lives independently in a small house that sits on the tenth hole of a sprawling green golf course. The house is a ranch too large for a frail ninety-five-year-old, but Emma refuses to leave. Her husband, Richard, died in 2001. If Emma survives one more year without him the house will be hers. If she pa.s.ses before December 2003, all proceeds from its sale will go to Richardas son from a previous marriage. Such was their marriage. Emma herself never had children.

Becky and I do have a child, our daughter, Phoebe. Becky gave birth to Phoebe against all odds, almost a year to the day prior to our Florida visit. The odds that were not in Beckyas favor included her age (forty) and our s.e.m.e.n (frozen). The reproductive endocrinologist who guided us through the hoops of donor insemination told Becky she had a 5 percent chance of conceiving. A month later, Becky was pregnant. So there.

Truth be told, weare not actually in Florida to visit Aunt Emma. Weare in Florida to attend a surprise sixtieth birthday party for Beckyas Uncle Theo. But as Becky said the day we left, aIf I donat see Aunt Emma now, Iall probably never see her again.a So here we are abandoning our cushy hotel, complete with pool, exercise room, and twenty-four-hour PBS Kids, hopping into Uncle Theoas car and schlepping an hour west to Tamarack for brunch with Aunt Emma at the clubhouse.