On a beautiful morning, my 6-year-old daughter, Mia, woke me with joyous shouts and hugs: “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy! Happy Mother’s Day!” Her 7-year-old sister, Zoe, followed closely, proudly presenting a single red rose and a handmade card. This was the moment I had envisioned since childhood when I first dreamed of becoming a mother.
My path to this day was fraught with challenges. Navigating the world of dating to find a partner took time, and then my husband, Mark, and I faced years of complicated experiences with fertility clinics. We ultimately chose a leading clinic, traveling from our home in Austin to Denver for essential evaluations and intricate procedures.
Upon arriving in Denver, the first step involved a series of tests on my reproductive health, and the results were disheartening. At 38, my eggs were deemed too old, leaving little hope for successful pregnancy, whether naturally or through medical intervention.
Mourning for one’s DNA is a unique sorrow. It’s not about a child you know but rather about the children who will never be. It’s not simply the lack of a child but the absence of a little one who might resemble you, who would share traits and quirks with your family lineage. We refer to my daughters’ genetic mother as “Lisa.” Although we do not have her real name or a picture, we have a brief medical history. Since she was an office manager, we chose the name “Lisa” after a beloved character from a show. As a token of our gratitude, we even crafted a beautiful glass sculpture of dolphins, which she adores.
On Mother’s Day, Zoe brought me breakfast in bed, delighting me with Nutella toast and coffee—two of my favorite things. Mia showered me with hugs, and the girls spent time playing with their cousins. I cherished the moments shared with all the mothers in our family, enjoying kickball games in the yard filled with laughter and joy. Yet, amid the celebrations, I found myself contemplating the right time to share the truth about Lisa with my girls.
Recently, Zoe’s older friend completed a science project on dominant and recessive genes. I joked with her mother, “Maybe keep my girls away from that!” Both my daughters have blue eyes, while Mark has blue and I have brown. It’s a curious statistic that begs explanation.
At bedtime, as we snuggle, I share their birth story. I explain our deep desire to become parents and the journey we undertook to find a special doctor in Colorado who assisted us. I also mention the remarkable woman who played a vital role in their conception. We’re incredibly thankful for the support we received, which allowed us to become Mia and Zoe’s parents.
We’ve been open about our IVF journey with family and friends, but we haven’t disclosed the specifics of how Lisa contributed to their lives. The challenge lies in explaining the biological process of how an egg and sperm create a baby, which may be overwhelming for their age. More importantly, I worry about how to express that they have a DNA mother who isn’t me. Will they be curious about her appearance? Will they long for a connection with her, even though they’ve never met? Might they feel a distance from me due to our differences?
If I share this information too soon, will it confuse or upset them? Conversely, if I wait too long, will they feel betrayed by my silence? By the next Mother’s Day, my daughters will have gained more understanding. We will address their questions gradually, ensuring the conversations are age-appropriate. I take pride in my family and my girls, eagerly anticipating the many Mother’s Days still to come.
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Summary:
This article discusses the emotional journey of a mother contemplating when and how to explain to her daughters that they have a biological mother who isn’t her. Balancing the joy of motherhood with the complexities of their conception story, she reflects on the significance of transparency and the potential impact of this revelation on her daughters’ understanding of family and identity.