Letting Go of Everything but Love

Today: Trying to live intentionally. Trying to fill my heart with love, forgiveness, compassion. Being overwhelmed with excitement about the life inside of me. Loving my friends. Loving myself. Setting new goals that have to do with love, and letting go of everything that isn't.

Past Due

I wanted to blog over the weekend, but my internet was down. I had planned to write about the fact that yesterday, February 24, was the due date from my first, miscarried, pregnancy. It's funny to think of that, because right now I can't imagine being ready to actually have a baby. You know, like one that's out of the womb and in the apartment. In my mind, the five months that stretch between now and my new due date are somewhat eternal, and hold endless possibility for the cleaning of closets, the acquisition of supplies, and the reading of all of those books that I keep requesting from the library.

In an interesting coincidence of timing, France's high court ruled today that parents have the right to official recognition of miscarried and stillborn fetuses, regardless of their stage of gestational development. This means that in France, someone who miscarries a pregnancy will now have the option of naming, registering, and burying the fetus. Proponents of the new law say that it will help families deal with the grief of pregnancy loss. Critics worry that assigning the fetus such rights will chip away the legal status of abortion.

Unfortunately, I think that both sides are correct. I've spent enough time in the world of intentional conception lately to know how pervasive and devastating the pain of pregnancy loss can be. I have no doubt that many women would indeed take comfort in a recognition that yes, they were pregnant, and the life that they had hoped to welcome into the world was lost to them. Knowing how important this is to many women, it's hard for me to argue the official recognition of such "lives." And yet, I remain committed to a world in which abortion is a safe, legal, accessible option for any woman who wants one.

Part of the problem is that the abortion-rights lobby, in the United States at least, has tied itself to the rhetorical strategy that life begins at birth. While this makes sense as a justification for the legality of abortion, it simply doesn't resonate with the experience of many women who have been pregnant. Anyone who has seen a ten-week ultrasound is shockingly aware of the striking resemblance the fetus bears to an actual person.

And so, my own position is somewhat less morally comfortable. There is no doubt in my mind that there is a life growing inside of me right now, a life that has been growing for the past 17 weeks. And similarly, there is no doubt in my mind that I should have the right, that any pregnant woman should have the right, to terminate such life.

It's a hard thing to write. It's a hard thing to say out loud. After all, so much of the language of choice avoids the issue of life, the issue of a living being. And perhaps that's simply a political necessity. But as I grapple with the messy edges of my own feminism, I feel like I have to acknowledge this contradiction, to own the uncomfortable space between my lived experience and the rhetoric of a movement I vehemently support.

Between Ellen Page and Jennifer Garner: Some Kind of Funny Single Parent

What with the Oscars coming up this weekend, I've been thinking a lot about the movie Juno again. I saw Juno a month or so ago, and, in spite of being occasionally annoyed by the preciousness of Ellen Page's character, I really liked it. Indeed, I was so moved by it that I was that crazy person who stayed sobbing in her seat after the movie had ended. Remember? You probably had to climb over me to get out of your row.

In trying to make sense of my emotional response to the film, I realized that my first point of identification had been with Ellen Page's character, the teenage Juno who finds herself unexpectedly pregnant and not sure what to do. Of course, I realize that I actually have far more in common with the Jennifer Garner character, Vanessa, a woman in her thirties who goes to great length and expense to become a parent. Her process was, like mine, quite intentional. As Vanessa ends up unexpectedly single by the end of the film, she becomes a single parent by choice with courage, grace, and determination.

And yet, even as I thought of all the ways in which we were alike, I couldn't help but feel that something was amiss in this comparison. After all, even as she ends up without a husband, Vanessa is the perfect parent-to-be. She owns a beautiful, spotlessly clean home, and a brand new, well-maintained SUV. The nursery is already well-stocked and painted in several complimentary shades of yellow. She has a successful career, a well-paying job, and enough maternity leave and savings to provide safe and loving care for her new child.

I, on the other hand, live in a beautiful but decrepit one-bedroom apartment, and am not sure that I could afford to rent a new one, let alone buy a home. I drive a ten-year-old Nissan Sentra with almost 150,000 miles on it. My baby stash is being accumulated from the hand-me-downs of others, and I live on a graduate student stipend. Now certainly I've got the cultural capital of a lot of high-end education (and hopefully soon, a PhD), but as we all know, cultural capital alone doesn't pay the bills. And so, even as I become a single parent by choice in one of the most intentional processes possible, I'm fully aware of all the ways in which I don't fit the "respectable" single parent mold.

Thus, some part of me still relates to Juno, even as I realize how vastly different our situations are. Though I'm 15 years older than her character, somewhere deep inside I secretly expect to be judged for getting "knocked up" without a partner. Or a job. Or a house in the suburbs. In becoming a parent in this non-traditional way, I have rejected a politics of respectability in favor of a new vision of family. Somedays, I worry about the backlash.

Parenting in this liminal space, with full intention but outside of the mainstream, is a challenge. I almost never see examples of families that look like mine. It also makes me critically aware of the ways in which queer family making, and indeed, queer love in general, is a radical political act. Having the courage, strength, and creativity to re-imagine our families, our communities, and our partnerships requires a particular type of bravery. I like to think that it also, potentially, can impact how others imagine the world, and its possibilities. As I prepare to raise my kid in a type of family that is barely visible, barely recognized, I can only hope that our presence, the tiny bit of space we carve out in the world, will create a little bit more space for someone else with a family that doesn't quite "fit." This is, after all, the radical potential of this queer new world...

Okay, now this is just ridiculous.

I'm sorry, someone upstairs clearly did not get my memo- I DON'T GET SICK! Which is why I was completely shocked to take my temperature last night and see that I was running a fever.

First of all, mad props are due to my friend E, who rummaged through her medicine cabinet and bravely risked the cold at midnight to drop off some Tylenol for me. Due to the aforementioned lack of goods in my own pharmacy stash, I was completely unprepared for this turn of events. And while my usual strategy is just to wait out a fever, apparently this is not so good for the baby. So thank you, E, for saving us from roast Fang, and, even more importantly, answering my desperate phone call in the middle of the night. Some days, I'm so grateful for my friends it makes me cry.

And speaking of crying... The onset of what can be termed an actual illness may help explain my extreme emotional state during my midwife's appointment yesterday. Thus far, I have managed to contain my breakup tears to relatively private spaces - alone in my apartment; while being comforted by friends; at my therapist's office. Yesterday, that all fell apart at my 16-week check up, which was supposed to be the first appointment that my ex attended with me. In a case of particularly bad timing, this was also the check up for which my physical was scheduled, and so, in the middle of my breast exam, I completely lost it. I don't mean a couple of tears. I mean full-on, body-shaking, snot-gushing sobs that probably had my midwife ready to call the crisis line.

It's funny, I have done so many things in my life by myself. As a small child, I took the public bus all around our city on my own. As an adult, I have traveled all around the world, often without company. For years I have cooked for myself, cared for myself, paid my own bills, managed the details of my own life. I like this independence. It's something I value in myself, and in others. But yesterday, sitting on that table in this sad-looking medical office, I just felt so, so alone.

Sick?!?

I never get sick. Unlike most of America, my medicine cabinet is not stocked with pain relievers, sinus remedies, cough and cold formulas, decongestants. In fact, secretly, I don't believe in the common cold. I've always thought it was just one one of those things other people made up in order to have something to complain about.

Ha ha. Joke's on me now.

My head is full of bricks. My nose is like a leaky faucet. I have a terrible, wracking cough that hurts. And my neck feels like it is being firmly squeezed by a boa constrictor. How did this happen?

I suppose it makes sense that pregnancy lowers your immune defenses. After all, with so much energy going to the little Fang, how could my poor old body defend itself against the ravages of germs, mucous, and boa constrictors? And of course, I can't imagine that a break up has ever done anything good for the immune system.

To top it all off, when I sat down last night to comfort myself with heating pad, tea, and some netflix, I discovered that the DVD I had been looking forward to all week was scratched, and thus, unplayable.

Please send sympathy, love, and chicken soup. And I promise never to make fun of your cold again.

The Truly Single Single-Mom

So, for me, one of the hardest and most complicated parts of becoming a single parent by choice is the fact that, until now, I haven't actually been single. Though I started thinking about having a baby when I was entirely unattached, in the year that it took me to make that idea a reality, I met someone I liked, started dating her, fell in love. By the time my first insemination rolled around, we had been dating six months. Our one year anniversary coincided with the beginning of this pregnancy. And thus, though this was always my idea, my project, my debt to the sperm bank, and, for now at least, my child, I was not, in some ways, becoming a parent alone.

Yesterday, we broke up.

The details of why and how and what didn't work are not ultimately so important here. We were two people who loved each other, who weren't meant to be partners. Certainly the fact that I am having a child played a role in that. But then, so did many other things.

The issue now is that, suddenly, at 16 weeks, I have finally become the single parent that, all those months ago, I thought I was choosing to be.

What I am losing here (aside, of course, from a person I loved) is not so much material support. Indeed, I have gone to most of my appointments alone. My friends have been at my side for inseminations and ultrasounds, and have committed to being there at my labor classes, and for the birth itself. My mother plans to move to my city in the summer, to help me care for my new child. I have plans in place for health insurance, day care, diapers. None of these are things for which I relied upon my ex.

But what I did get from dating her was that seductive sense of possibility, that dream that perhaps, just maybe, this could be the relationship that turned into a family. Being with her gave me this glimpse, this tiny taste, of what it might be like to do this with a partner. It allowed me to fantasize a world in which the person I loved, with whom I'd share my life, might also be the person squeezing my hand during labor, cooing at our newborn baby, and helping me through the wondrous messy joy of parenting.

Now, the reality is that she, although great in many ways, was never going to be that person. And somewhere deep down, I've known that for a long time. But of course, the challenge is to reconcile the head with the heart.

So today I am sad. Sad for the loss of someone with whom I shared so much, and sad for the loss of what never came to be.

And, I am scared. Scared of having a child alone. Scared of never meeting the right person. Scared that perhaps, I have made a huge mistake in becoming a single parent.

But, I am also hopeful. I know that in making these hard choices now, I am preparing myself to be an emotionally healthy, loving parent. And, I am grateful for my family and friends, and the amazing network of support that I have. Because as I've said before, I may be parenting without a partner, but I am certainly not doing this alone.

And so tonight, I grieve the loss of my ex. But, I am also full of love: for myself, for my child, for our future. In the midst of this sad, sad moment is an opening, a new beginning, a new sense of possibility. It's a whole new world today, and somewhere deep down, I believe that it's a good one.

Fighting the Power

Today, at the urging of a good friend, I testified at the State House before the House Corporations Committee on House Bill 7293, which would expand Rhode Island's infertility coverage to include lesbians and single women. Unlike many states in the country, infertility treatment is a state-mandated benefit in Rhode Island, which means that insurance companies must pay the costs of medical interventions necessary to treat infertility. If, that is, you are a heterosexually married woman.

Now, we have a lot of problems in the world, and in the grand scheme of things, access to fertility treatment is not at the top of the priority list. Quite frankly, I think that a lack of universal health care in this country is a much bigger problem. However, this issue of who is given access to reproductive technologies and who isn't lays bare the ways in which family-making has become a privilege of class and sexual orientation. The governor, in his veto of this bill last year, wrote:

This legislation, by removing the requirement that women be married, forces health insurance companies to subsidize out-of-wedlock births. As a matter of public policy, the state should be encouraging the birth of children to two-parent families, not the reverse.

Well thanks, Gov.

Now I approach our republican leadership with a healthy dose of cynicism, but it's hard not to feel stung by so clear an insult. What the governor is saying, in no uncertain terms, is that my family is not worth paying for. And of course, that makes me wonder what's next. Indeed, why provide maternity benefits at all for unmarried women? Indeed, maybe we should just allow the state to pay for their birth control and abortions. Oh, that's right, the governor doesn't believe in those things either. Well that's okay; why have sex outside of marriage anyway? Oops, you queers can't get married? Hmm, guess it's a life of celibacy after all...

What follows is my testimony before the House committee. I'm honestly not sure that it will make one bit of difference. But somewhere deep down I do still believe that telling our stories can change people's minds, people's hearts, and can ultimately make a change in the world. Here's hoping...

I am here today to support expanding infertility coverage for lesbian couples and single women. I am a lesbian, and am currently fourteen weeks pregnant with my first child. I want to tell you very briefly about my decision to become a parent. A year before I began trying to get pregnant, I started researching the process of donor insemination. I also began reading books on parenting and childhood development, began researching the best options for everything from diapers to pediatricians to day care centers, and engaged in a very serious process of thinking about what my future child’s family would look like. It was from this place of reflection and commitment to family that I decided that I was ready to become a parent. And I can tell you that before my first insemination, my child already had more god-parents in waiting than I could count on two hands, not to mention grandparents, aunts, uncles, babysitters – all eager to be a part of my expanding family.

When my baby is born this summer, he or she will have a safe and secure home. My baby will have a family that loves him or her very much. The only thing my child won’t have is the $6,600 I spent on getting pregnant. I don’t regret spending my savings and borrowing money to become a parent. And as you know, many single and lesbian women spend much, much more. It does make me sad, however, that we operate on an unequal playing field, and that when it comes to paying for childcare, buying the best food available, starting a college fund, my child will begin at a disadvantage. This inequality can be leveraged in part by changing our insurance laws to provide coverage to all women in our state.

Our governor has said that gays and lesbians won’t make good parents, won’t bring up their children in “normal” families. I don’t know if my family is “normal,” but I do know that it is filled with love, and that every child in this state would be lucky to
be so wanted and so loved. For the sake of the many other women who will make wonderful, loving parents, I urge you to support the expansion of this insurance coverage. Thank you.