“Who is her real mom?”
“They both are.”
“But which one is her REAL mom who carried her in her belly?”
Children are curious creatures. They want to know the origins of their family. A little girl, aware that she and her sister developed in their mother’s belly, inquires about the source of my child. For kids, the concept of “real” doesn’t equate to “fake” in the same way it does for adults. While I grasp a child’s innocence and curiosity, I feel an ache to defend our family structure.
Never did I anticipate being a non-traditional mom. As a child, I cherished my dolls, nurturing them as their mother. I educated them in our basement and played doctor. I remember Annie, the doll in her vibrant red dress, a birthday gift from the Home Shopping Network. I eagerly awaited her arrival, with my entire neighborhood joining me in anticipation. Back then, UPS trucks were a rarity in our suburban street. Wrapped in protective plastic and cushioned by colorful packing peanuts, she bore the mark “HAND MADE IN GERMANY.” Her eyes would close when I tucked her in, and with patience, we mastered the art of French braiding her long, blonde hair.
One early morning, convinced yet again that I wasn’t pregnant, I took a test anyway. It was twelve days past insemination, our tenth attempt, and my body seemed to be failing us. The financial strain of fertility treatments was becoming overwhelming.
The test showed positive.
I rubbed my bleary eyes and dashed to wake my partner, Sarah, who was still in bed that late July morning. I hadn’t mentioned I was testing again; I didn’t want to risk disappointing her.
Her joy was palpable. “Look closely!” I urged, half-expecting the result to be a mistake. It felt surreal that our dream was finally coming true. We were on the brink of becoming parents.
Before meeting me, Sarah hadn’t envisioned motherhood as a possibility, believing it was one of the sacrifices that came with being part of the LGBTQ+ community. She thought that, along with marriage and other freedoms, parenthood was off the table for us. Thankfully, this time she was mistaken.
We married in 2004, just months after Massachusetts became the first state to legalize same-sex marriage, and a little over a year after we met. Sometimes, you just know. Fast forward five years, and we celebrated our anniversary on a Cape Cod beach, cradling our little girl while shielding her from the harsh July sun.
The question remained: Who is the real mom?
In those early days, I breastfed while Sarah changed cloth diapers. We balanced remote work and office hours to postpone daycare as long as possible. Our daughter’s first word was “book,” quickly followed by “Mama,” her term for Sarah.
Six months later, she decided to call me Mommy.
Mommy, Mama, and Zoe—our little family of three.
“Zoe, who is your real mom?”
“Both of you,” she responds, rolling her eyes with an expression only a five-year-old can master. She insists that Mama gives better baths because apparently, I get water in her eyes. Yet she prefers riding in my car, drawn by the superior snacks and the notebook I always have on hand to share with her.
As Zoe grows, the days of ultrasounds and breastfeeding fade; our connection evolves into the everyday moments of kindergarten drop-offs, hair brushing, and dinner preparations. We wipe away tears, share stories, and tuck her in at night.
Zoe knows about her donor; she understands she grew in my belly and recognizes how desperately we longed for her. Most importantly, she knows the boundless love that both her Mommy and Mama have for her.
So, who is the real mom? The answer is clear: both of us, every day and every night, more than ever.
If you’re interested in navigating your own journey to parenthood, check out this article on couples’ fertility journeys. For more insights on toddler development, visit this resource. And for comprehensive information on pregnancy, Healthline offers excellent resources.
Summary: This article explores the complexities of motherhood within a non-traditional family, emphasizing the shared experiences and love of both parents. It reflects on the challenges and joys of parenting, while addressing a child’s curiosity about family origins. The narrative highlights the importance of understanding and acceptance in diverse family structures.