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ParentsAugust 30, 2017

‘Who’s the dad?’ and other things not to say to lesbian mums

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Lisa Melville is a lesbian mother and PhD student at Waikato University where she’s looking at the decisions and experiences of lesbian mothers in Aotearoa New Zealand. Here she talks about what those experiences can look like.   

A lesbian has just told you that she or her partner is pregnant. What is the best response? Is it:

A) Congratulations!

B) Did you have sex?

C) Who is the father?

You can probably guess which is the best response: it’s A. But can you guess the most common response?

Sadly, it’s not A.

For lesbians, and some bisexual and queer women, this can be how sharing your pregnancy with the world goes.

Not “When are you due?” or “Are you throwing up every morning?” or all those other annoying questions. But “Did you have sex?” and “Who is the dad?”

Parenting is not easy, we all know that. Most parents have prejudices or stereotypes they are battling against on a daily basis. People don’t say things directly, but there are deep seated preconceptions of what a family is.

The mihi our children are given at school is: “Ko… tōku matua.  Ko… tōku whaea.” “My father is… My mother is…”

We are all told that children are created through sex.

We are all told that “Blood is thicker than water.”

We are all told that a child has two parents.

We are all told that families are genetically related.

Lesbian families, gay families, one parent families, whāngai families, foster families, adopted families, step families, blended families, grandparent families, surrogate families, straight families using donor eggs or donor sperm… none of these families fit into this narrative.

There is definitely more awareness of family beyond the nuclear family now than there was a decade ago. But, in general, society still hasn’t come to terms with lesbian families.

What they look like, how they work and how they are made – it still seems to confuse people. Preconceptions and assumptions still simmer under the ground we walk on daily, and like an earthquake (hey I live in Wellington!) these jerk us out of our own personal beliefs and into other people’s beliefs.

For lesbians, and some bisexual and queer mums, sometimes it’s a 4.5 rumble – like the assumption that because I have a child, I am straight. Sometimes a 6.1 shock – like the assumption that because I am not genetically related to my child, people think I am not ‘the real mother’ of my child.

These preconceptions and assumptions also mean that queer families don’t necessarily have the same protection as straight families. One women expressed her fear about the straight donor who already had children changing his mind. She told me: “Is he going to get insanely annoyed with our parenting and try and take our child off us? That thought was terrifying at the time.”

She finished her story with some good old parental humour: “But then we had children and realised that nobody who had children would want another one.”

Preconceived ideas about family shape the questions that are asked of lesbians when they announce their pregnancy. These questions have nothing to do with lesbian mothers and everything to do with trying to fit people into quaint ideas of family.

“Did you have sex?”

Yes. A lot. Oh you mean with a man?

“Who is the father?”

Don’t ask this. There are donors. Sometimes there might be fathers involved. But Just. Don’t. Ask.

“Who gave birth?”

Oh geez! Um… well… you know I can’t remember!

“Do your children have the same father?”

Who knows who my partner sleeps with.

“Really? Cause I knew a lesbian once and she didn’t want to have children.”

Oh so I’m not a lesbian. Well next time I’m holding hands with my partner and someone yells ‘Faggot!’ at me I’ll be sure to let them know you said I’m not.

“Gosh I didn’t realise you were a lesbian! How come you wear lipstick?”

Actually the Handbook For Lesbians says lipstick is okay. The shade ‘F*ck Trump’ is quite popular at the moment.

So what should you do if you want to be more aware of the issues facing lesbian and some queer and bisexual mothers? How do you learn about how lesbians get pregnant?

Let’s start with:

What To Do When A Lesbian Announces She Is Pregnant: A Beginner’s Guide

Rule #1: Say “congratulations!”

Rule #2: Do not ask about the donor.

And if you want a more in-depth guide: you’re lucky! I have one for you. Remember those ‘choose your own adventure’ books where on each page you got to make a choice, and each choice lead you on a different journey? Here is a choose your own adventure where YOU get to be a lesbian who wants to get pregnant. Will you choose your friend from high school as the donor, or someone on the internet who wants a photo of you naked? Will there be a marmite jar in your journey? The choice is yours…

This is a light-hearted approach to discussing the issues and experiences of lesbians and women in relationships with other women who are trying to get pregnant. These stories were told through interviews and online surveys. The story is one way to educate and increase awareness for people who want to have more of an understanding of the lives of lesbian mothers without asking personal questions. So, go forth and choose your own (lesbian) adventure.

If you are a lesbian mother or a woman who had children with another woman and you want to share your story through an online survey, please get in touch. You can contact me at ljm13@students.waikato.ac.nz.

Endnote: My research is directed at lesbians, but people with other identities have also chosen to participate. Queer, Takatāpui, bisexual and transgender parents have other challenges which I have not addressed here.

And if you want to know how to mihi when you have two mothers, Ko [name] tōku whaea can be rewritten: Ko [name] rāua ko [name] ōku whāea. Meaning: my mothers. Or Ko [name] rāua ko [name] ōku mātua which means “my parents” which is useful for many other types of families as well.

Lisa Melville has a University of Waikato doctoral scholarship which means she can spend time with her children (and study of course). She is incredibly thankful to all the lesbian, gay, queer, mostly lesbian, and bisexual women who have talked to her or filled out her online survey. They have confirmed a sneaking suspicion which she has always held – lesbians are frickin’ hilarious.

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ParentsAugust 29, 2017

Emily Writes: I’m sorry to my friends without kids

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Like it or not, friendships tend to change after babies. Spinoff Parents editor Emily Writes thanks her friends without kids who have stuck by her – even through conversations about poop.

Friendships change when people have kids. It’s inevitable. Becoming a parent is huge – and it changes every minute, every second, of your day. It changes your life.

When a friend moves overseas, we accept that our friendship will change. Having a baby can feel like you’ve taken up residence on another planet.

Before I had kids I ghosted a good friend of mine who was pregnant with her second baby because I couldn’t understand where her life was at. Before I had kids I thought her kid was just an asshole – but now I know that all kids are horrible (I AM JOKING STAND DOWN). I now know about reflux and being late and how kids have permanently snotty noses.

I have been lucky that my friends have stuck by me and been a better friend than I was. I do think some of us aren’t that easy to be mates with when we have young kids – at least, I know I’m not, and I’m hoping others are the same.

 

So, this post is to thank every single person without kids who puts up with their mum friend being hard work. And every mum who puts up with their friend without kids being hard work.

I am sorry for the times I have talked about my child for 45 minutes before I asked you how things are going. That was shitty. I have basically forgotten how to talk and I feel embarrassed that I have nothing else to talk about. When my kids were babies I couldn’t watch the news because my hormones were out of control and the slightest thing would make me cry. I couldn’t talk politics or current events because my whole world consisted of four walls and a bassinet. I was so brain dead tired I couldn’t form sentences.

I really love my kid. Like so much that I find it hard sometimes not to talk about them. I am that parent. And I am sorry. I am trying, but I tried forever to have a baby and now I live in this world where I pinch myself at how lucky I am. I want to be a cool mum who is so many other things than just a mother – but this is me and I’m OK with it. I’m grateful that you’re OK with it too. I am a baby obsessive who loves talking about her kids and any kids around. I’m just like that. But that’s no excuse for being a self-absorbed dickfritter so I’m sorry.

Emily and her bestie Chris

I am sorry for the times I have turned down hanging out. I am aware this is basically every time you ask to hang out. I am sorry. It’s because I’m scared to come to your house because it’s a child-free utopia. It’s beautiful. I want to live there. Sometimes I have dreams about sitting in your skin and living your life. But I can’t tell you that, because it’s fucking creepy. I love you, but your couch is white. I cannot come to your house with my monstrous albeit gorgeous and undeniably adorable children.

I’m sorry I can’t come to Logan Brown for dinner at 8pm. I mean I could, I could bring my kids and they could scream for 45 minutes while I shovel down food I can’t afford. But I would rather lick Gordon Ramsey’s taint than endure fine dining with a two-year-old who communicates by screaming. But please, please keep inviting me to things. I will be able to come one day – I promise.

I am sorry that when you come to my house we eat dinner at 6pm and you have to leave at 7pm. I swear I wanted to be one of those chill-as parents who has no bed time for her kids and they’re just bohemian rascals who go to bed whenever. I literally said “Our child will fit around us, not the other way around.” But my dear friend, I was full of shit. We cannot fuck with our child’s bedtime routine. We cannot. I could be told that all I need to do is delay their bedtime by 10 minutes and I’d be able to ride Chris Hemsworth like I was in a kangaroo rodeo and I’d still say: “tell him he’s dreamin’.”

I’m sorry that I’m not a great friend right now. I’m sorry that I fall asleep when you’re talking about something important. That I leave your birthday party because the baby woke up. I’m sorry I can’t get a babysitter or that when I do I get really hammered because I have no alcohol tolerance anymore. I’m sorry I have no money to do anything fun anymore. I miss our weekends away so much – hang in there, we will do it again one day.

Thank you.

Thank you for being my friend despite it all.

The best girls.

Thank you for loving my child. I know children take time to win over. Thank you for working so hard to be an aunty or an uncle to my kids. Thank you for nurturing your relationship with them so you can take them out and I can sleep. Thank you for treating them so well and spoiling them and listening to 38 minute stories about diggers and tractors.

Thank you for offering to take them to Jumperama. Jumperama is made for people who don’t have kids. You have the traits needed for that place, traits I don’t have: Energy and a strong pelvic floor.

Thank you for inviting me out to the best nights out ever where I get to pretend I don’t have kids and I’m 19 again. Thank you for not getting upset with me when I act like I don’t have kids and I’m 19 again. Thank you for sending me home before I’m arrested and reminding me I don’t want to look after the kids too hungover.

Dancing on bars and still home by midnight.

Thank you for sitting through kid birthday parties and actually enjoying them. Thanks for eating chicken nuggets at Chipmunks with us instead of going to a fancy brunch. Thanks for offering solidarity and support over my child’s constipation or glue ear. Thank you for waiting for me to emerge from the baby bubble and being there even when I was the shitty friend.

Thank you for taking me out to nice places where I get to dress up and get out of my ugly maternity leggings.

Thank you for covering your white couch and making cheerios for lunch.

Thank you for cuddling my babies and being an aunty or an uncle for them.

We need a village. And you could have stayed on the much nicer less spew filled and poo obsessed side of town but you chose to slum it with me. My children adore you. You’re an irreplaceable part of their lives and mine.

Thanks for letting me be hard work for a little while.

x

Emily Writes is editor of The Spinoff Parents. Her book Rants in the Dark is out now. Buy it here. Follow her on Facebook here.

Follow the Spinoff Parents on Facebook and Twitter.


This content is entirely funded by Flick, New Zealand’s fairest power deal. In the past year, their customers saved $398 on average, which pays for a cheeky bottle of wine in the trolley almost every shop. Please support us by switching to them right now!