Plus we want to tell our children who their father is.
Lesbian mothers: My two mums
Monica paused before asking in a soft voice: We don't want to take chances. He has to understand that it's our child, not his. I continued shopping then, super-conscientiously, to butter up my wife, Carol. Later, as I unpacked her favorites huge seedless grapes, Manhattan clam chowder, pygmy carrots , I casually mentioned the unusual proposition.
Truth is, I desperately wanted to impregnate Monica. The situation seemed perfect: I could breed without financial or emotional cost. My lineage would be reared at a distance, by doting lesbians. I began thinking, maybe there's more -- maybe I can get all the lesbians in the world pregnant. For five years, Carol and I have been discussing parenthood -- discussing, but procrastinating. Carol's excuse is her skyrocketing career; my reasons involve sloth, fear and an immaturity that is apparently chronic, since I am 45 years old. I'd worry that you'd love Monica's child more than ours if you were only related to hers.
Carol, if you're gonna freak out about this, maybe I shouldn't. I just thought, hey, this is the politically correct, gay-friendly thing to do, right? I had her there and I knew it. She's still dyke-identified, embarrassed about her hetero marriage. Ideologically, she has to do anything to assist her lesbian friends, including loaning out her husband's gonads. We'll sign preconception papers in front of a lawyer. They want me to send birthday cards, that's all. Visitation rights will be completely controlled by them.
Monica telephoned early that night.
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Reluctantly, I handed the receiver to Carol. I walked down the hall but crept back, stealthily. I crouched in the next room, eavesdropping, of course.
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It's been a long time since two women fought over me -- maybe another lifetime. Their conversation was absolutely appalling, worse than anything I imagined. Instead of a cat fight, they spent the next two hours chatting amiably, laughing uproariously on numerous occasions. No evil brawls, no sobs or tears -- they were snickering! My wife was lesbian bonding with the rival womb.
I hated them both! The meal was organic pasta and vegetables, and more wine than I should have drunk. I thought everybody would be tense but me, but the inverse was actually true. The first hour was conversational "foreplay": I could have been a place mat.
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I had nothing to say. This didn't bother me, though -- I reassured myself that the two hopeful receptacles of my miracle goo were just softening up Carol so they could get what they needed. But it was not bean mulch. Then and there, I easily could have made the decision never to have kids of my own.
'There comes a time in your lesbian life when your brother offers to impregnate your girlfriend …'
The decree that parenting carries even the smallest risk of accidental poo-eating should have knocked me off the fence like a great, turdular cannonball. Around the same time as poo-gate, a couple of other things happened. I inherited his unmanageable hair and thin upper lip that my mum always insisted was both full of character and quintessentially Jewish. Meanwhile, from my mum, I inherited ferocious premenstrual syndrome. Unceremoniously, I cropped my blob of a brother out of the photo when I posted it on Facebook next to one of me looking identical to her.
I, the disappointing 21st-century remake of the classic that was my mum, have clinical anxiety and a cat who gets an erection every time he cuddles up to me.
Without wanting to perpetuate boring stereotypes about millennials: Again, affordability is a huge, glaring issue. Maybe, in , 28 is way too young to start obsessing over whether I want children. This may be related to becoming an aunt when, four years ago, my sister had her first child. When I saw my weird, hairless puppy of a niece for the first time, I basically ovulated on the spot. Those bits in films and on TV where people give birth, then have a nervous breakdown over how perfect and beautiful their screeching blob is, started to make a bit of sense.
Then, on a cold November afternoon, my mum died. The thought of bringing a child into a world without her feral sort of love was unbearable. Meanwhile, my mum got more and more ill. She lost mobility and stopped laughing. She developed a strange, sour smell — the smell of cancer?
The smell of death?