What others are saying about Momma Baby Mama
"It is no small task for any woman to overcome her personal fears, doubts, and even ambivalence in order to joyfully embrace motherhood. But in addition to those primary and universal issues, a lesbian woman often has to take on mass societal ignorance, governmental restrictions, and even familial bigotry in order to raise a happy and well-adjusted child. Mindy has tackled all these roadblocks head on, and emerges victorious. A must-read for those women, particularly lesbian, who are considering parenthood and are looking to see how it's been done—successfully!"
--Jan Bono, www.JanBonoBooks.com
“It’s easy to count the ways this author is just like me: a woman, a mother, a teacher. It’s tempting to count the ways she is not like me: lesbian, activist, single. But through all these pages her heart touches mine, and every other reader I’m sure, and she invites us all to stand shoulder to shoulder as fellow human beings, fellow travelers through the joy and sorrows of life.”
--Julie Brown, PhD, Author of AMERICAN WOMEN SHORT STORY WRITERS
"Hilarious, heartwarming, and real. Momma Baby Mama is a true life adventure tale. Author Mindy Stokes and her partner Katie confront head on, the personal and the political, the social trials and tribulations, and the glorious victories along the way to lesbian motherhood."
"Her candor and wit echo Rita Mae Brown, in a contemporary memoir. Stokes is born of authentic humorist stock."
--Dinah Urell, Editor and Publisher of HIPFiSHmonthly
"Momma Baby Mama was a thoroughly absorbing read. I loved every minute. Mindy writes with daring honesty, exquisite description and profound compassion. I felt a deep sense of pride being part of the growing number of visible, loving and caring lesbian parents!"
--Margaret R. Frimoth, MAV, Educator, Counselor and Consultant
Momma
Baby
Mama
Story of a Knocked-Up Lesbian
By
Mindy Stokes
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Mindy Stokes
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Dedication
To my life partner, Katie, and to our precocious daughter, Soleil. I love you both with all
of my heart.
Authors Note
This book is a telling of my memories. Some names have been changed (to protect the guilty of course). Most have not. There is one event I am not entirely sure happened as I have written it. I’m referring to the Fallopian Tube Dance chapter when I’m told by the doctor that I cannot use Pedro’s sperm because he isn’t my husband. This may have been the case, or the process of using his sperm would’ve presented months more of obstacles, which the doctor frowned upon. She emphatically encouraged me to go with her reputable sperm bank. That being said, my feelings at the time, were that the system had control over my body and I did not. I have called the fertility doctor many times to verify actual events, but I have not been able to talk to a real live person.
Conception
Chapter 1: Shot Glass
Chapter 2: A Protesting Baby
Chapter 3: Captain Midwife
Chapter 4: Donor Possibilities
Chapter 5: Penis Envy
Chapter 6: Chocolate Covered Pork Rinds
Chapter 7: Giant Running Vaginas
Chapter 8: Fallopian Tube Dance
Chapter 9: Insemination Fun!
Pregnant
Chapter 10: Christmas Morning Sickness
Chapter 11: I Hate Everyone!
Chapter 12: Thighs Rubbing Raw
Chapter 13: Baby Love
Chapter 14: Just the Same
Chapter 15: Queers of Joy
Chapter 16: Baby Shower
Chapter 17: Pervert at the Movie
Baby
Chapter 18: Love Initially
Chapter 19: Love Like Never Before
Chapter 20: Mosquito Crazy
Chapter 21: Without Words
Chapter 22: Oxytocin Addiction
Chapter 23: Oregon?
Chapter 24: Lesbian Sighting
Chapter 25: Why Can’t They Just Leave Us Alone?
Chapter 26: Civil Union
Chapter 27: On the Horizon
Shot Glass
January 2004
I’m ovulating and I don’t need a seven dollar stick that changes color when I pee on it to tell me so. My egg feels like it’s the size of a ping pong ball about to shoot out of my lower left abdomen with a force that could take someone’s eye out.
“I can’t believe today’s the day. Are we actually going to do this? Are we crazy?” I ask Katie. I know what she’s seeing right now as she looks at me. My eyebrows are furrowed, accentuated with that permanent downward line grooved into my forehead from years of bunching up my entire face so my message of bewilderment and/or disappointment is adequately conveyed to whomever I am talking to at the moment. The whites of my eyes inhabit more geography than my pupils and the argument could be made that I’m sporting a grimace. To make sure Katie comprehends my apprehension, each statement coming from my mouth is an octave higher than the one before.
We’re sitting at our kitchen table which is covered with biology lesson plans, meditation mantras, and the infamous What to Expect When You are Expecting.
She confidently smiles, just like she always does at times like this, and says, “Of course we’re ready. We’re going to make great parents. And besides, you’re ovulating and we don’t want to miss this opportunity. We won’t have this chance again for another month.”
Katie is always more sure about impending endeavors than I am. She has been wanting a baby for months now, if not years, while I’ve been on the fence about it. Even at this moment,
I’m only about 51% sure I want one. In fact it’s only been recently in my 35 years on this planet I have even considered the possibility of bringing life into this world.
Just as I am about to respond with a list of reasons why we are not ready to have a baby, there’s a knock at the door.
Katie answers it to find Lee standing in the doorway. As she walks in, the tips of her gray-tinged hair brushes the top of the door frame. Lee has one of those really bad lesbian haircuts. It is straight as a board and cut so it sticks up in the air reaching about two inches above her head, reminding me of dusters used to get cobwebs out of far-to-reach corners.
Why do lesbians choose from only a couple hair styles? Either ultra-mod with a tube of hair gel applied daily making the hairs multi-directional, and possibly dangerous, or buzz-cuts suited for old men with pocket protectors, pens and protractors stuffed into polyester pouches.
Lee has been a friend of ours for a long time now, though she is not one of our typical buddies. She was raised in a conservative Christian family from North Carolina, and she has a southern drawl that turns even short two syllable words into long drawn-out paragraphs. When she says Hey, it sounds more like Hhhhaaaaaaayyyyyy! Also, she is more apolitical than my grandma. While most of our friends are volunteering at homeless shelters, picking up stray dogs and taking them to the Humane Society, or gathering signatures to combat the latest homophobic assault by Christian Right Republicans, Lee is staying busy minding her own business. In fact, whenever I mention the latest anti-gay legislation, she looks at me with her big, innocent brown eyes, testifying to her ignorance about the matter and her wish to remain so.
I decide this time to forego my usual political lesson and turn my attention to the matter at hand. “Did you bring the goods?”
Lee flashes one of her bright smiles. I wonder to myself if she was born with extra teeth in her mouth. She exclaims jubilantly, “Yes, ma’am, I sure did. I have three different types of plastic syringes and two speculums.” Then she asks, “When are y’all gonna start?”
Katie replies, “Tonight. Mindy’s ovulating.”
I imagine my egg exiting my body at 50 miles per hour, carving a six-inch hole into Lee’s right thigh.
“Which hospital are y’all gonna have it at?” she inquires.
“We found a midwife we like. And we’re leaning towards having the baby at home,” I explain.
Lee’s eyes get real wide and she looks worried. “Are you gonna lie on some hay too, and spit the little critter out?”
I look at her and shake my head. Not only does she have a bad haircut, is apolitical and drinks shitty beer, but she has also fallen in line with the masses of other people who seem to think the medicalization of pregnancy is normal and preferred.
“No, Mindy will have the baby in the company of a trained midwife. She might even have it in a hot tub,” Katie explains to Lee, whose color now has totally drained from her face.
After hearing this last bit of news, Lee shakes her head in disbelief and exits the mobile home in silence.
Katie and I turn to each other. We both shrug our shoulders.
“Oh well,” Katie says.
We look into the bag Lee placed on the couch to find all of the baby-making paraphernalia she described earlier. Just as she promised, there are two differently-sized
speculums hiding at the bottom. The larger one looks like it’s suited for an elephant—and that’s when reality hits me. I am willingly going to have what will equate to a pap smear tonight. And it isn’t even time for my annual physical. I am crazy.
“You are not coming anywhere near me with those torture devices!” I practically scream at Katie.
“Don’t worry baby, I’m going to make this as painless as possible. And we won’t do anything unless you’re absolutely ready.” Then she grabs me, holds me tight and whispers in my ear, “You’re going to be our baby’s momma. I love you so much.”
Whenever Katie talks like this, it melts my knees and makes my heart go pitter-patter. It’s in these moments that I really do want to have a baby. And I envision the three of us at the park sitting on a fair-traded blanket, made by women in Guatemala, eating hummus and pita chips while talking about the inner-workings of the Democratic Party, or the meaning of George Orwell’s novel Animal Farm.
I remember the precise moment I fell in love with Katie. She was driving me home in the wee hours on a chilly December morning in 1998. She was dressed in her usual attire: jeans, sweater, black leather jacket and motorcycle boots. As she drove, she turned towards me and asked if I were her girl. What I loved about that moment was that she didn’t ask specifically if I would be her girl only, but only if I’d be her girl.
After our first date, I would often call her answering machine during the day when I knew she was at work. The sultry tone of her voice excited me. It was calm and yet commanded respect. I already knew she was a bad-ass. Katie was a key player on the local hospital’s open heart surgery team. She was the only woman in the operating room with all of those big boys—a place I wouldn’t be caught dead in.
“I need to call Pedro and see if he can come, pun intended, over tonight to make a deposit,” Katie says as she lets me go and walks to the phone.
“When you’re done, I’m going to have to call my mom and see if the time frame will work for her too.” My mother and grandma are visiting from Northern California for a week. They’re staying in a condo on St. Pete Beach.
I overhear Katie firming up plans with Pedro. He’ll be here at nine o’clock.
I cross the room and pick up the phone and dial my mom’s number. “Mom, do you mind if Katie and I skip dinner tonight? I’m ovulating and Pedro’s willing to come over and contribute to the cause.”
“Oh no. Don’t worry about it. You should try to make a baby instead. I want a grandchild from you.”
Most mothers want a grandbaby because they can’t wait to coo over the thing and spoil it rotten. Not my mom. I’m sure she wants me to have a kid because she’s hoping I have one just like me. According to her, I was the devil child. I did things like remove my panties so I could pee on the living room floor and blame it on the dog. Besides, she can’t wait to teach my baby how to play poker.
After our phone calls, we must determine the logistics of the evening. “How is Pedro going to catch his sperm? Do you think he’ll bring his own collection device?” I ponder aloud.
“I don’t think we should leave it up to him to bring anything but his penis,” Katie says. “I bet a shot glass will work.”
“I was thinking along the lines of an old quart-sized spaghetti sauce jar we have up in the cupboard.” I picture Pedro in the throws of ecstasy, his mouth wide open, filling it half full as bad 70s funk porn music with too much base (Bom Chicka Bom Bom), plays in the background.
“He’s only going to produce about a tablespoon worth of sperm, not a couple of cups,” Katie explains as she shakes her head at my suggestion.
“Okay, you’re probably right,” I say agreeing with her, “but we don’t have a shot glass.”
“No, but I do know what we have that’ll work.” Katie walks to the bathroom and retrieves a plastic cough medicine cup that has a blue stain around the rim. “We just have to wash it first.”
Luckily, vaginas aren’t sterile environments. In fact, they’re playgrounds for bacteria. So, washing the cup with hot soapy water will be sufficient.
Along with the sperm collector she’s retrieved a monogrammed hand towel.
“What’re you going to do with that?” I ask.
“He may want to pat his hands dry after finishing.”
After washing the cup, she places it next to the hand towel. It reminds me of fresh linens displayed next to complementary shampoos and lotions found in nice hotel rooms.
*****
It’s ten o’clock and we’re still waiting for Pedro. He’s notoriously late. I’m extremely tired and have to get up early in the morning. At this point I’m seriously reconsidering this whole baby thing. I start to contemplate what little sleep I’m really going to get if a newborn makes its way into this household. “Are you sure we’re doing the right thing? That we’re ready?” I ask Katie.
Just as she’s about to answer, we hear a knock on the front door. Katie leaves the bedroom to answer it. It’s Pedro. I walk out to the living room to greet him. He is wearing a long-sleeved brown cotton shirt tucked into black jeans, cinched by a leather belt, and close-toed black shoes. Wrapped around his 21-inch neck is a string of thick, fat pearls. And over his shoulder is slung a satchel of some sort. It is either a medicine pouch or a cute little purse.
“Pedro, you look so gay!”
“Thank you,” he replies.
I notice he has a VCR tape in his hand. I look at him with raised eyebrows.
“I brought the tape to make it easier for me,” he explains.
“That’s not a problem, but our VCR is in the living room. You won’t have a lot of privacy. We’re willing to lend you our bedroom,” Katie replies.
“No, I would rather have the VCR,” says Pedro.
Katie hands him the plastic cup and hand towel. “We’ll be right in here. Just knock when you’re finished.”
We retire to our bedroom which is only 40 feet away. We live in a mobile home with walls that have only a small slab of sheetrock in each one. The only thing between us and Pedro is one thin wall lacking insulation and a door to our bedroom. To add to his lack of privacy, there is a three-inch space from the bottom of our bedroom door to the floor.
As we wait, I work on my biology lesson plan for tomorrow—a lecture about fungi and parasites.
After an hour, I ask Katie, “What do you think is taking him so long? Do you think it’s because he’s old?” Pedro is over 50.
She responds, “I don’t know. I thought he would have been done a long time ago.”
At this point we think we may hear some form of slapping. It’s quite possible since Pedro has muted the volume on the television. We look at each other and stifle our laughter.
I turn my attention back to tomorrow’s lecture. As I read, the living room becomes silent. Katie and I turn to each other.
“Do you think he finished and left without telling us?” Katie asks. “I hope he didn’t leave the sperm on the kitchen counter,” she says aloud.
“Get down on the floor and look under the door to see if you can get a peek of him,” I urge Katie.
She gets out of bed and quietly kneels on the floor next to the door. She slowly lowers her head to the floor, straining to hear or see anything, reminding me of a CIA agent I saw once in a movie.
“I don’t hear anything, but there are two naked, well-tanned, muscled men lacking chest hair involved in some type of sexual activity on our television!”
She gets back up on the bed and we giggle aloud.
Just then there’s a quiet knock on the bedroom door. It catches me by surprise and I wonder if he heard us laughing.
Katie answers it. Pedro is standing there, with a slight sheen of sweat resting on his brow, and in his hand is the plastic cup with about three million specimens. To my surprise, there’s only about a teaspoon of sperm clinging to the bottom of the glass.
“Sorry it took me so long. I was nervous,” Pedro testifies. Then he adds with a smile as he turns to leave, “Good luck!”
We hear the front door slam shut. Now it’s our turn.
I’ve been trying to work my mind around the idea of having Katie shove this speculum up my vagina. I know without a doubt I am completely insane for signing up for this.
I stack two pillows on the bed and place a hand towel over the top. Unfortunately, I grabbed one with a huge bleach hole in the middle. Any ideas of romanticism are blown at this point. I am ready to keel over from exhaustion as we have been held hostage for almost two hours in our bedroom, waiting for a gay man to finish masturbating in our living room.
As Katie draws the sperm into the syringe, I hike my back end up on the pillows because we want my ass to be higher than my torso, allowing gravity to work in our favor, hopefully delivering sperm to egg.
I reluctantly spread my legs so that Katie can inseminate. She slides the speculum in fairly easily. This is only because I insisted we use a jar of lubricating gel. She pushes in the sperm. It is cold and slimy as some of it slides down my crack. I lie there trying to relax with my legs up to heaven, as my friend Patty says.
Research shows that pregnancy is more probable if I stay in this position for 30 minutes. So I lie on an old, scratchy hand towel that should have been thrown away years ago, with my feet sticking straight up in the air, hoping my back doesn’t go out, and think about what brought me to this point.
A Protesting Baby
July 2003
I’m sitting on my porch steps allowing the hot sun to coat my skin. If I’m uptight about anything, all I have to do is walk into the sun and experience immediate relief. As I sit with my face upturned to the rays, I remember a lesson learned long ago.
Once after a bad day at work, I wandered into a swarm of dragonflies while walking from my car to my apartment. Hundreds of them cast their blue/green iridescence into the air, vibrating around one another without touching. Their purpose of flight instantly brought me back to the moment and I abandoned all thought of the asshole at work who had taken hostage of my mind. Instead, I stood quietly under the eaves of the roof, appreciating their simple beauty.
Since then, whenever I am feeling anxious, I conjure up those images. They remind me to breathe.
The phone rings, startling me from my meditative state. I lazily reach for it and bring it to my ear.
“Hello.”
“Hey, it’s Kim. What are you up to?” Kim and I met in a yoga class I taught and we’ve been buddies ever since. We go to independent films together and occasionally meet for happy hour at a local pub to listen to a mutual friend’s band.
“I’m relaxing on the porch until I have to go to a film about the human body at the IMAX theatre in Channelside. It’s part of the teacher training I’m doing. What’re you up to?”
“Calling to see what’s going on with the baby idea.”
My smile fades and I lose my breath momentarily. No longer are dragonflies flitting around my brain.
I picture a woman sitting on a recliner with a dish towel draped over her slouched shoulder. She’s in complete darkness except for the light from the television engulfing her. In front of the TV are little kids running around, happy-faced as an inane diaper commercial jingle pierces the woman’s ears because the volume is turned up. It is the type of jingle that gets stuck in her head for days, stalking her in the shower, at the grocery store and even during sex.
She wears gray sweat pants, the kind with elastic around the ankle, exposing her unmatched socks lying in wrinkles. Covering her upper body is a black sweatshirt with throw-up stains on the front. Some of her hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail grown limp and slimy from the long day. Most of her hair is falling down around her face, not in a sexy way—it’s stuck to grape jelly smudged onto her forehead, cheek and chin. She has a vacant look in her eyes, too tired to remove the hair blocking her line of sight. She hasn’t spoken to an adult for the last 48 hours.
I shake the vision from my mind and silently contemplate how long Kim has been waiting for my response. My mind has been wandering a great deal these days. I wonder if anyone but me has noticed my temporary lapses in communication.
“I don’t know what to do. I still don’t know if I should have a baby,” I tell Kim in a whiny voice.
“What do you mean? I thought this was something you and Katie have been talking about for months.”
“It is. She’s all for it, but I’m still not sure.”
“Why?”
“What do I want with a baby? They’re messy. Shitting all of the time, eating stinky food the color of orange vomit, the same kind of food they make old people eat in nursing homes. And if they’re not pooping, they’re peeing or crying.”
“There’s more to being a parent than that. You won’t have to change diapers forever,” Kim suggests. “And just think, you could raise a little activist. I can see her now, carrying a sign that reads Feed the Homeless.”
I smile as I think of a little five-year-old girl marching the picket line with the local teacher’s union shouting, “Hey, hey, ho, ho, teacher pay cuts have got to go!”
“Yeah, that’s true. But there’s a lot of years between taking her to protests and having her monopolize all my time. Babies are parasites. They suck all of the life out of you. Besides, can you imagine what’s going to happen to my body?”
Kim laughs.
“It’s not funny,” I proclaim with a somewhat shrill tone. “My boobs will no longer be mine! I’ll have a little baby sucking on them all the time, and they’ll just hang there like a momma dog’s.”
I take a loud breath and continue. “Just the other day, I saw a Golden Retriever mix lying in the neighbor’s driveway and she had at least eight puppies tugging at her teats. They were so young I don’t think their eyes were open yet. You should have seen them clambering over each other. Yelping and nipping, trying to get to an available milk spot. That poor dog! She looked exhausted and overwhelmed. If she could have spoken she would have definitely said that she was over this baby thing.”
I think I hear Kim sigh on the other end of the line but decide to continue my rant. “Not only will my breasts no longer be mine, but they’ll probably get as big as my mother’s. Hers have their own zip code. And I’ll end up having to wear a bra. You know I don’t want one of those things strapped around my torso cutting off circulation, engraving a permanent groove into my upper abdomen.”
The famous 18-hour cross your heart bra commercial invades my consciousness. I remember when I was little wondering why that woman had tape measures strapped around her chest. It looked like her boobies were two missiles ready to launch at the nearest target.
“Women’s boobs go back to normal after having the baby. So, you’ll have big tits for awhile. I bet Katie will love it,” explains Kim.
“I don’t care what Katie likes! They’re mine, and I don’t want big ones! I prefer my B-cups!”
“Okay,” she says, “I get it.”
“And, I’m afraid I’ll become one of those freaked-out, mall-visiting, mini-van driving soccer moms with an over-stuffed purse. The kind your mom used to carry. We used to find everything in there from apple cores and chewing gum to used, snotty tissues.”
Kim chortles.
“And I can just see me buying economy-sized quart containers full of anti-bacterial gel wiping my kid down so often that she develops an obsessive-compulsive disorder. Eventually she’ll need medication because she’ll be unable to touch a door handle or use a public restroom for fear of catching a horrible and incurable disease, like the ones found in ancient medical texts!” I practically spit into the phone. “She’ll blame me for all her problems. I may as well start saving for future therapy sessions. Some parents save for college, I’ll save for her psychoanalysis.”
I can hear Kim take a deep breath before responding to my complaints. “I can’t picture you driving an SUV, and I definitely don’t see you with an over-stuffed purse,” she responds. Kim has seen my many hippie purses slung over my shoulder, capable of carrying two small items like natural lip gloss and my driver’s license. “I think you’re being paranoid about this whole thing. You and Katie will make great moms, and your politics aren’t going to fall by the wayside just because you procreate.”
I think about Kim’s suggestion for a moment and then add, “So maybe you’re right about the mall and SUV thing, but what about all the predators in our crazy world lingering in dark doorways looking for their next victim? Last week, another kid was stolen from the Bradenton area. How do I protect my child from people like that?”
“Mindy, I don’t know the answers to all your questions. But I do know that most of the world is safe. You’re right. It’s not possible to protect a baby from every creep, bacteria, virus, bruise, skinned knee or broken heart. But what you can do is to be a really good, loving parent so that your kid has the ability to make good decisions, and leave home one day to be a global citizen.”
I ponder Kim’s words. “Maybe I would make a good mother. God knows I’ve been to enough 12-step meetings, therapy sessions, and consumed my share of self-help books. I’m working on my master’s degree, have a good job, and we’re getting ready to buy a house.”
“Exactly. You and Katie are both educated, peaceful, loving women who care about the world. In fact, I couldn’t think of more suitable parents!”
“Thanks,” I say beginning to feel a little better. “But do you think motherhood is a code word for co-dependency? It has taken me years to unlearn all of those old family rules like take care of others before you take care of yourself. To be a good mother, I will have to take care of my kid first,” I tell Kim.
“I think mothering is an act of love, not sickness. When you take care of your baby, you’re ensuring it survives and thrives. It’s Darwin at his best. You’re making sure your offspring lives to make its own babies.”
I am a science junkie and Kim’s argument is starting to sound reasonable.
“What you say makes sense to me, but I’m still going to expect her to start making her own sandwiches when she’s two. She’ll have to start taking some responsibility for her life at some point.”
“Mindy, you’re crazy!” Kim laughs.
“Maybe, but I think these are all legitimate concerns. I don’t want to have a child, just to screw it up or bring it into an unsafe world.”
“Mindy, you will be a great parent because you do think of these things!”
“Ahhhh! Thanks for the pep talk.”
“Hey, not a problem. Anyway, gotta run. I’m training for a triathlon and I’ve got to swim laps. Bye.”
“Bye.” The phone clicks. I look at the clock. I still have an hour to sit and do nothing before the movie.
I tilt my head back to the sun. It feels so good out here. I take a deep breath and try to summon images of dragonflies.
Instead, a vision of Katie, myself and a little girl floats through my mind. We are standing with others during a rally in a park. The little girl is about three years old and she has light brown, wavy hair pulled back by a big hair band. The kind worn in the 1970s. She is wearing jeans and a shirt that reads My Mommy is a Democrat! In her hand is a sign that reads Babies Have Constitutional Rights Too! She looks at me, smiles, and then opens her mouth and shouts “Hey, hey, ho, ho, George Bush has got to go!”
I smile.
Captain Midwife
August 2003
It’s Sunday morning and I awake to find something long and furry draped over my neck. Turning my head, I discover my nose is dangerously close to Mr. Black’s butt. Any moment his anal juice could shower me, polluting my taste buds the rest of the day. I grab him and throw him off the bed.
“Hey, what’re you doing?” Katie sleepily demands.
“I was afraid Mr. Black was going to shoot his cat-ass-pudding into my mouth!”
Mr. Black is Katie’s gray tabby. They have claimed one another, even though we found him together while walking our dog one balmy afternoon. Either Katie thinks she’s part cat or Mr. Black thinks he’s human. I haven’t figured it out yet.
Oftentimes I walk into the living room to find them on the couch, reveling in their exclusive club for two. He stands on his hind legs with his front paws resting on her shoulders as if he is her high-school boyfriend and they are standing in the hall between classes telling secrets and stealing kisses. In return, Katie wraps her mouth around the base of his ears and strokes them with her lips in the same way I’ve witnessed others remove mayonnaise from an artichoke leaf.
“What are you doing?” I ask incredulously.
“I’m grooming my boy.” She likes to call Mr. Black her boy, as if she shot him out of her uterus.
“Why?”
“Because he thinks I’m his mother,” she replies, sounding as if I’ve asked a stupid question.
Even though I’ve tossed Katie’s cat from her pillow, she isn’t mad, because she has experienced far too often his leaking anal glands. Once, after a mid-day nap, she woke to find a most peculiar and disgusting smell emanating from the area just above her eyebrows. During their nap, Mr. Black’s butt leaked onto her head and she couldn’t wash his stench from her forehead for an entire day, no matter how many times she showered or which shampoo she used. And every time she sat down for a meal she complained of her food tasting like cat ass.
With Mr. Black gone and my face out of danger, I turn my thoughts to starting a family. Lifting up on my elbow, I look at Katie and confess, “I’m starting to wrap my mind around having a baby.”
Katie rolls closer to me, sweeping hair out of my eyes. “I knew you would. It always takes you longer to get used to a new idea.” She leans over and kisses me on the forehead. “I love you.”
It’s the next logical step, isn’t it? Heterosexual couples do it all the time. Maybe having a baby will make our love stronger and facilitate personal growth in ways unimaginable.
“I’ve been thinking about how we can raise a little baby to be a global citizen and help our fucked-up world,” I explain with a huge grin on my face. “Maybe we can help those around us become more tolerant and loving.”
“Yeah, me too! We can take her to feed the homeless on Thanksgiving, and teach her how to be kind to animals,” Katie exclaims.
“I know what you mean. I can just see us all cooking in the kitchen, making dinner for the little old lady next door.” I refer to a 75-year old woman who lives one house over. Most nights, we feed her too because she’s hungry despite her family living a two-minute walk away. “We’ll also have our daughter save money each week to give to a charity of her choosing. This is exciting!”
Katie rises up on her elbow and asks, “When do you want to start?”
I’m a Capricorn and all loose ends must be tied before trying to get pregnant, leaving nothing to chance. Pragmatism should be my middle name. “We have some things to figure out first. Like finding a midwife.”
“Do you know any?” Katie asks while stretching her tanned arms behind her. She’s been working a lot in the sun lately, and it’s paying off. “Or should we look in the yellow pages? Maybe we could find a listing for a progressive, lesbian-friendly, baby-liking woman. It would make things a lot simpler if people were listed by political party affiliation, phobias, likes, and dislikes,” she says with a chuckle.
“I wish!” I picture a photo in the yellow pages of the Goddess of Willendorf and a caption that reads: Feminist women unite! Call me for all of your midwife needs!
“I spoke with Elaine and she gave me a number of a woman she knows,” I say while scrunching my upper lip like I do when I’m thinking. Elaine is a friend of mine who was present at the original Woodstock. She and her folk-singing husband lived on a commune in the 70s, picking berries, hunting game and dropping LSD. We share the same politics and belief system.
My mind wanders to the conversation I had with her last week when I excitedly explained that we were thinking of starting our own family. “Hmmm. I don’t know, Mindy. I think babies should be born the traditional way with a mother and a father,” Elaine tells me.
I’m in the kitchen leaning over the counter with my head in my hands in a state of shock. I can’t believe, that of all people, Elaine has an issue with this! Isn’t she forward-thinking? She eats organic, believes in global warming and knows without a doubt the presidential election was stolen by George W. Bush. She lived in a fucking tipi for God’s sake! She is the counter-culture. And she’s telling me, without reservation, she doesn’t believe my partner and I should have a baby despite the fact that babies are born into heterosexual families everyday and end up abused, misused and neglected. Yes, we are two women. Two women who are healthy, loving, stable, educated and who will give the world to a new baby. I can’t fucking believe it! It becomes painfully obvious to me there is a hell of lot of work to be done in this universe.
Not wanting to spoil the mood, I decide not to tell Katie of my conversation with Elaine. Instead I turn to her and ask, “What do you picture when you think of birthing this baby? Do you want to have it in the hospital? At home? What do you want?”
Her brown eyes grow soft as she pulls me closer so my head is resting on her shoulder. “I think we should do what you want. You’re going to carry our baby. We have to make sure you’re comfortable.”
I want what the rest of my yoga-practicing, meditating, skirt-wearing friends have had, a home birth accompanied by a midwife. Included will be a band of women holding hands and singing Kumbaya as incense burns next to lighted candles sitting atop drums and other flower-children paraphernalia.
At my side is a midwife, gently urging me to breathe through my labor pains, which she refers to as surges. She will wear a long skirt that reaches down to her ankles revealing unkempt toenails and a long-sleeved billowy blouse reminiscent of pirate attire. Her hair will be long and brown with gray streaks running through it, swept up off of her neck and kept in a semi-mess on top of her head. And she’ll have a faint smell of patchouli oil and body odor.
“I want to have the baby at home with our friends gathered around, eating yummy organic food and drinking herbal tea,” I explain to Katie.
“I thought you would,” Katie says as she rolls onto her side and places her feet on the floor. “Why don’t you give the midwife a call while I hop in the shower?”
After Katie exits the room, I get out of bed, and stand naked stretching my arms above my head. Retrieving a phone number hidden in my night stand, I pick up the receiver and dial the number. It’s answered on the first ring.
I speak eagerly into the phone. “May I please speak with Rachel?”
“You are,” says a voice sounding surprisingly professional and a little cool. I’m caught off guard because I expected to be greeted by a hushed, soothing feminine voice, the kind my massage therapist has. “What can I do for you?” She is as abrupt as a military sergeant speaking to a captain during roll call.
Adrenaline shoots through my body, precipitating my heart pounding in my ears. Can she hear it too? Feeling exposed, I instinctively straighten my spine and suck in my gut. Why do I feel like I’m in trouble?
“Hi, my name is Mindy and my friend Elaine gave me your phone number. She says you’re a midwife. Are you still practicing?”
“Yes,” Rachel says using the minimal amount of words possible.
It’s my turn to respond, but I don’t know how to proceed. I was hoping there would be chit-chat and pleasantries exchanged before getting down to business. I want to know her political affiliations, charities she donates to and if she likes her mother. As we sit in silence, I breathe as quietly as possible hoping she doesn’t sense my apprehension.
I am reminded of a recurring nightmare in which I have someone chasing me but I don’t know who it is. In the dream, it’s dark and I escape into an alley and hide behind a dumpster. Crouching on the ground, I strain to hear footsteps but can’t due to my labored breathing. Panicked, I fight to get my noisy breath under control but fail, which brings more trepidation.
To add to my vulnerability at this moment, I realize the time has come for me to come out as a lesbian. The process always delivers a certain amount of discomfort, but today I’m distressed more than usual, and afraid.
Once on a flight from California to Florida I struck up a conversation with a woman sitting next to me on the plane. She was a new grandmother, returning home after spending time with her daughter and her new grandbaby.
“Do you have a husband?” she asks, while looking at me with an expectant smile.
After a quick calculation in my head, I decide to be forthright and not dodge the question by saying I’m single. Chances are my honesty won’t result in something detrimental, like job loss.
“No, I have a partner. She’s picking me up at the airport.”
She looks at me, holding my gaze longer than what is socially comfortable. Then she drops her head and remains silent for the first time since take-off.
Does she hate queers or is she pondering telling me about her long lost gay sister who ran away while still in high school after revealing her sexuality to her parents? Or is she going to tell me she has discovered true love for the first time in her life and it is with her best friend? Instead she places her fingertips in steeple fashion and prays.
Is she praying for a safe plane ride or to ensure she doesn’t turn gay by sitting next to me? Does she think I have lesbian cooties that can jump off my coat sleeve onto hers, eventually embedding themselves into her skin turning her into a flannel-wearing, man-hating carpet-muncher?
For the rest of the plane ride, I sit in silence and can’t wait for it to be over.
Now I hesitantly speak into the phone, “My partner, Katie, and I want to have a baby and we are looking for a midwife, and you come highly recommended.” Is my voice shaking?
“Wonderful. We should meet. I have time in my schedule right now if that is convenient for you two,” Rachel states.
I exhale. She didn’t hang up or shout prayers into the phone. This is a good sign. “Absolutely! That would be wonderful,” I say.
“Write down these directions,” she orders.
I obediently find a pen and furiously write down the information she quickly recites.
Just as I set down the phone, Katie walks in with a towel wrapped around her body.
“Guess what?!” I ask her, very excited.
“What?” “We have an appointment with a midwife!” I exclaim with a smile that extends across my entire face.
“You work fast. Just yesterday you were hesitant, and today you’ve found
a midwife. I’m impressed.”
“It’s the Capricorn in me. I can’t help it.”
Katie asks, “What’s her name?”
“Rachel.”
“Rachel, huh? I like that. There was a midwife in the Bible named Rachel. I think
it’s a good sign.”
I think it’s a good sign that Rachel lives nearby and we won’t have to drive far. “She gave me her address. It’s only about five minutes from here.” I pause to take a breath, “Get dressed. We’re meeting her in 20 minutes.”
*****
We find Rachel’s dwelling to be a townhome in a subdivision standing next to nine other identical townhomes. It is surrounded by a well-manicured lawn without one plant or blade of grass out of place. It must take a lot of effort to keep a yard under this kind of control. We park next to a Buick Century that has a spotless windshield and hood.
We walk up the cement pathway to the front of the house. Just as Katie is about to knock, the door swings open and a well-groomed woman in her 30s stands in the doorway. She has brown shoulder-length hair, is about 5’7, and has very good posture. Her pants are navy in color, pleated and neatly ironed. She wears a white scoop-neck blouse that doesn’t reveal much.
“Hi. You two must be Katie and Mindy. I’m Rachel,” She says matter-of-factly. “Please come in and have a seat on the couch.”
We obey and enter her house. I consider saluting, but decide I want to give her a good impression.
As we lower ourselves onto the couch, Katie comments, “You have a lovely home.”
“Thank you,” Rachel says. She sits in a dark-blue vinyl covered chair across from the couch, with her legs crossed at the knees, and her hands clasped in her lap. Wives of presidents normally sit with this kind of propriety. “Tell me about yourselves.”
Katie begins, “Mindy and I’ve been discussing having a baby for some time. She’ll carry it and we want to begin trying soon, but first we want to find the right midwife.”
“You aren’t pregnant yet?” She turns her gaze from Katie, looking at me with raised eyebrows. Have I disappointed her? Should I apologize?
“No, we haven’t started trying yet. But hopefully my eggs will be cooperative and it won’t take long,” I say, hoping my humor brings a smile to her face.
She remains somber. “Well, the first thing you must do is to decide if I am who you are looking for.”
I contemplate telling her my idea of a midwife singing songs and encouraging my partner to have sex with me so a baby will come sooner, but I decide to forgo the information. I don’t think she’s that type of midwife.
Katie says, “We are looking for someone with experience, who’s reliable and supportive of our relationship.”
Rachel turns to me and says, “I have been a midwife for seven years and have helped dozens of women birth babies. I’ll give you a list of references I encourage you to call. What is most important is that you are comfortable. I think any couple that is stable and loving, regardless of sexuality, should have children.”
I breathe a sigh of relief and my shoulders relax about two inches.
“Let me give you an idea of how this usually works,” she continues, “Once you’re pregnant, I will drive over to your house once a month and administer a physical, the same kind you would get in a doctor’s office. This way, you won’t be put out waiting for an appointment.”
I think of all the hours wasted in physician’s offices waiting for my name to be called. Why do they schedule so many people at the same time? Does being a doctor automatically turn a person into an asshole, negligent of other peoples’ time? I’ve always wanted to send them a bill for my time, but have never had the nerve.
“Once you’re in your last trimester, I will come over for physicals every couple weeks, and then every week. Once there, I’ll draw your blood and send it to a lab for analysis. My pregnant moms love this service.” She pauses to tug at the bottom of her starched shirt. “When you go into labor, I’ll drive over and sit with you, coaching you in many ways we will discuss later.”
I wonder if she’ll have Katie stimulate my nipples facilitating a faster labor. Should I ask? Better not.
“Those are wonderful services,” Katie responds. “How much does it cost?”
“Your health insurance should pay for it. If it doesn’t, then it will be $3500 to $4000. Much cheaper than a hospital birth.”
A phone rings in the back room. Rachel gets up to answer it. She does so on the first ring.
Katie and I turn to each other.
“What do you think? Do you like her?” Katie leans over, whispering.
“I do. She’s not what I expected, but seems very competent. Let’s hire her!”
Rachel returns to the room.
“We would love for you to be our midwife!” Katie exclaims.
“Wonderful,” Rachel turns to me, “Are you taking any pre-natal vitamins yet?” Again, I get the sense I’m being scolded. My face turns red as I shake my head no.
She gets up and goes to the kitchen, returning with a vitamin jar that looks like it weighs two pounds.
“Take these twice a day, one in the morning and another at night.”
I resist the urge to blurt Aye-aye Ma’am and secretly decide to refer to her as Captain Midwife.
Donor Possibilities
September 2003
I can’t believe we’re actually going to have a baby. I bet we get pregnant right away. My ovaries are ripe and in good shape. They remind me of plump Beefsteak tomatoes ready for the picking after a long, hot summer.
The sun is bright in the sky and I raise my face to it as I leave the health food store. I love being warm. They say a woman’s body heat rises during pregnancy and menopause. I hope it’s true. I typically run cold, so I carry a sweater with me everywhere I go. It’s a shame, because we live in Florida, and yet every public building I enter is frigid. The merchants keep them 70 degrees. What a waste of energy.
Why can’t people be a little uncomfortable? They make it seem like they’re going to die if they’re too hot. It’s an exaggeration just like when guys get kicked in the balls. Come on—it can’t be that bad! I’m convinced rolling around on the ground and groaning is more about the “idea” of having their testicles injured and not the actual hurting itself. It leaves them vulnerable.
Why are their dicks the most important thing in some men’s lives? They serve them like masters—temporary pleasure at the expense of relationships and heartbreak. I’ve been told by a few men that they are willing to fuck anything they can. One old acquaintance explained when working on a farm, he and the other fellows longed for female companionship, but instead of meeting women, they cracked open melons, carved out the middle and screwed the insides. “You’d be surprised how similar watermelon flesh is to a lady’s.” How disgusting—each man for himself searching for just the right fruit to love. I wonder if small personal watermelons were the date of choice because the guy could palm it quite easily, freeing up his other hand for only God knows what!
I’m glad I don’t practice heterosexuality anymore. Ever since I learned of the melon fuckfest, whenever I’d meet a potential mate, I’d secretly wonder if he too had loved produce. Besides I’m far more comfortable in my own skin since coming out as a lesbian. I don’t mind being different than the mainstream—in fact I revel in it.
As I cross the asphalt, there’s a Disneyesque feeling with me today. It’s almost as if yellow and pink butterflies and little blue birds ought to be flying around my head as I hum soft melodies and skip along my merry way. I wonder if this is what being pregnant is like.
As I saunter back to my car, I caress the cloth sack slung across my shoulder. It accompanies me on trips whenever I plan on making some type of purchase. If I’m shopping at a big supermarket, the bag normally attracts dirty looks from other folks. The people in line behind me pout as if I’ve put them out by requiring an extra couple of minutes for the clerk to place my food in something other than a flimsy plastic carrier.
That’s Florida for you.
Shopping at the health food store is different—the entire experience has been slowed. Customers spend time in the aisles looking at their potential foods—inspecting labels, squeezing and smelling perishables. Standing in line is different too. Rarely do I have a rushed person behind me glowering because I’ve had the audacity to bring my own bag. Instead most people are like me, they bring their own too.
Walking, I’m in my own world—caught up in the fantasy of enlarging our family. I’ve been getting used to the idea more and more every day. Now I’m even excited.
“Excuse me,” a deep voice sounds.
I open my eyes to find I’m within two feet of a complete stranger. “Excuse me. I’m sorry I didn’t mean to almost bump into you,” I offer.
“That’s alright,” he says.
I stare at this unfamiliar man. He looks to be seven-feet tall and he’s beautiful. I can tell he’s of mixed races. His hair is a loose afro with spirals spilling all over the place—reminding me of popcorn taking flight from a sizzling hot pan that’s missing its lid. His eyes are blue and his skin is milky brown.
I smile. I usually don’t take this much interest in men, but I like this guy.
We pass one another as I head to my Honda and he into the market. I turn around to get a better look at this male god who just crossed my path. And it dawns on me he would make beautiful babies. I want his sperm!
Is it kosher to ask someone I don’t know?
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Come on Mindy, just ask. What’s the big deal? He’s getting away!
I open my mouth again—but am silent.
Okay, at least get his phone number.
Silence.
Should I even be doing this? Asking a complete stranger for his sperm?
He enters the store and I lose sight of his toned back and long legs.
I don’t think this is normal. Is there something wrong with me? Does this mean I’m a
slave to my ovaries like guys are slaves to their dicks?
I load my tofu, cheese and soymilk into the car. Looking in the mirror, I find that my face is flushed. I’m embarrassed.
Driving home I ponder the ways to get sperm—an anonymous source or someone we know?
What are we going to do? Should we have sex with a guy while I’m ovulating? Wouldn’t that wreck Katie’s and my relationship? We’d break up even before a baby could happen.
There’s no way I’m going to have sex with a guy even if Katie were present. It would screw with her head too much. She’d constantly accuse me of cheating, or at the very least finding too much pleasure.
But what if we had sex with a guy and I laid there like a dead fish? Wouldn’t this prove to my partner that I don’t want him except for his sperm?
I’d only be doing it for the baby; it would be a huge sacrifice on my part.
No way, I’m not going to have sex with a guy with or without Katie. Our relationship is too important to me.
Besides I don’t even know if I could do it with a man. It’s been a long time and I’m afraid I’d start crying during the act and have bouts of depression for weeks afterwards. For sure I’d end up in therapy costing loads of money. I don’t need that.
I drive up to the trailer and find Katie home from work. Walking into the front door, past the lawn cacti, I find her lying on the couch reading another pregnancy book. I wish she’d wait until we get knocked-up before buying all these books. They put pressure on me. And they’re expensive.
“Hi babe,” Katie says as she looks up from her latest hardback: The Ten Best Ways to Get Pregnant!
“Hi honey,” I respond. “How was your day?”
“Great. How about yours?” she asks.
Sitting on the couch I decide to broach the subject of our most needed ingredient. “I just ran into the most beautiful man I think I’ve ever seen.”
Katie puts down her read and looks at me, questioning. Uh-oh, I was afraid she might get jealous. Katie has a history of her girlfriends cheating on her with men. It’s a sore spot—akin to men who find out their female partners have had sex with women. Certainly the question arises: Do they know how to satisfy better than I?
I forge forward. “As I was leaving the health food store, a bi-racial man passed me in the parking lot. He had brown hair and it was in a soft afro. You know the kind where curls are loose like bed springs, not real tight.”
“Yes,” Katie says with hesitancy.
I continue, “He was about six and half feet tall, with blue eyes. His skin was gorgeous. I bet one of his parents is White and the other Black or maybe he’s part Hispanic too.”
Katie nods her head as if she’s getting what I’m saying.
“And he was absolutely stunning. He reminded me of Lenny Kravitz,” I say by no mistake. This rock star is one of Katie’s favorites.
“Lenny Kravitz, huh,” Katie offers. Maybe I’m out of the woods. She’s looking like she approves of what she’s hearing.
“I wanted to ask him for his sperm!” I blurt, forcing myself to hold Katie’s gaze. I feel a little dizzy right now and I think my face is heating up again.
Katie looks alarmed and she gasps, “You didn’t though, did you?”
“No, but I wanted to,” I say. “I was embarrassed. Then I thought about getting his phone number so maybe you and I could call him, but I was afraid he’d think we wanted to have a threesome.” I take a breath. “Baby, this is so complicated. What are we going to do? We need sperm!”