38 weeks, 1 day

And no baby yet.

Let me say that once I got past the horrors of the first trimester, I've had a very easy pregnancy. I am very grateful for this, and I know that it's not an experience that everyone shares. However, now, in the final days, the tables have turned, and I'm not sure how much longer I can take this. Every part of my body hurts. I can't sleep at night. I feel nauseous and crampy and out of breath, constantly. Walking my dog around the block has come to seem like a monumental effort. And throughout it all I just keep thinking, dear god, how will I ever take care of a BABY???

So my friends, let us hope for an early delivery. You know, I'm free this weekend...

Alright, gratuitous complaint session over.

So, I've been very behind in my posts lately, and have wanted to respond to several comments that people have left about recent entries. While this blog, like everything else is my life, is always a work in progress (ie. incomplete), I wanted to at least briefly touch on a comment that was left in response to my post about our frustrating experiences at the airport. A reader wrote:

Yeah, I definitely can see how this would be exhausting. From the other side, though, I would recommend being less evasive. Just come out and explain the situation. "No, I was inseminated by a group of friends and so there is no father." Just explain it. It's personal, but it's not like you aren't revealing a lot of other personal things over the course of this conversation. But the evasiveness and exasperated glances give the impression that you are part of an "in" group and this baggage person is part of an "out" group. That tends to make people uncomfortable, and then defensive. So, even if he ends up being a bigot, try to give him the information up front that allows him a) to understand what you are doing, and b) feel happy for you, if that is his wish.

But I still get how constantly explaining is so difficult. We would get comments like "your baby is so small!" It was really hard for us to explain her illness and prematurity. Over and over again. I avoided public places until she was a "normal" sized baby.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately, particularly after spending a week in Provincetown where, for once, we just didn't have to explain anything. My response to this suggestion, that the best thing to do in this situation is to come out and explain my family's circumstances, is complicated. First of all, I should say, that in the vast majority of cases, that is exactly what I do, even though it is, even by the standards of queer families, a complicated story. ("Well yes, I was a queer semi-single parent by choice, with an ambivalent girlfriend in tow, who used anonymous donor sperm to get pregnant. Then, after my girlfriend and I broke up I started dating my transgendered boyfriend who will be parenting with me though we're not yet sure exactly how to define those roles.") I mean, lots of people are ready to accept, "Heather has two mommies," but my story doesn't even fit neatly into that trope. Which means that it's almost never a simple conversation. In addition to explaining what a sperm bank is and how it works, I often have to do a brief Trans 101 lesson. And usually, I do this. Because I do believe that there is a political impact and importance to the visibility of my family, and I take that responsibility seriously. As the commenter suggested, giving people information gives them the opportunity to expand the boundaries of their own thinking, and perhaps makes it easier for the next queer or non-traditional family that walks through the door. And so, I am one of the most "out" people I know about my sexuality, my family, and how we all fit together.

But. First of all, as anyone who lives outside the lines knows, constantly explaining yourself is really, really exhausting sometimes. One of my friends said the other day, in discussing his trangender status, "You know, I feel like I'm really patient and understanding the first 100 times I have to explain something. And then, I just get burnt out and feel like I have nothing left to offer, and that just makes me bitter and angry about having to explain things yet again." And I guess that's sort of how I start to feel some days, and certainly how it must feel to constantly explain having a sick or premature baby, a physical disability, a different socio-economic status, any number of things. And while I do think that part of the answer is for all of us to be patient educators, the other part of the answer is for people to take responsibility for educating themselves. I'm not actually the only person in the world who can explain queer family making. While I do understand that families like mine are not regularly profiled in the mainstream media, it doesn't seem so crazy to me that people might do a little bit of the work themselves here. Read a blog. Read a novel. At the very least, think for yourself about the fact that not all families have fathers. And then, if you want to ask me a question, do it from a somewhat reflective place.

The second issue here, though, is bigger than this, and highlights the difference between explaining a premature baby and explaining a queer/trans family. Though I am lucky in that I've never had to explain my child's illness or health problems, I would imagine that the most common response when one does so is sympathy. At worst, apathy. Coming out - or indeed, just being visible in the world - as queer or trans, is likewise often met with interest, enthusiasm, acceptance, or even relief from other queers and trannies. But sometimes, it is met with anger and violence. While I in no way mean to foster a culture of victimization here, it is statistically true that LGBTQ people, and trans people in particular, are far more likely to suffer at best discrimination and at worst heinous violence because of their sexualities and gender identities. So, this notion that coming out, explaining one's family, is always the best thing to do, just isn't valid to me. Do I think that we would have been attacked at the Northwest Airlines counter? No, I don't. However, do I think there's a chance we might not have gotten our luggage? Yes, absolutely. And do I think there's a chance that we would have received a lecture on not being "normal"? Yes, I do. And I'm just not sure how to balance all of those factors, all of the time. Particularly once the baby is actually here, on the outside, and my number one concern is making sure that it is safe and protected.

So I don't know. Maybe we should have explained ourselves more clearly. I acknowledge missing a teachable moment here. But I might also suggest that those of you who are in heterosexual relationships, the next time you're out alone with your kid and someone asks you where Dad is, or if Baby has Dad's eyes, that you take the opportunity to point out that just because you have a male partner, it doesn't mean that everyone does. And maybe, that will make things a little bit easier for my family the next time around.

Update from the Cape

First of all, I want to highly recommend spending as much of pregnancy as possible in the water. When at home, I do this by frequenting my gym, which has a lovely outdoor pool. I generally swim about a mile three or four times a week, and then laze around on a noodle in the shallow section, with the senior citizens who are all there for the Aqua Arthritis class. Here on beautiful Cape Cod, I have the pleasure of swimming and noodling (oh yes, I brought my own water noodle) in the ocean, and I have to tell you, it's pretty hard to beat.

What's also hard to beat is how nice it is to hang out on the beach at Herring Cove with all the gays in their various manifestations. Last year I had the pleasure of being here in Provincetown for Family Week. Unfortunately, this year Family Week coincided with my due date, so I'll be safely back home by then. However, even now, a few weeks early, the beach is dotted with queer families of all shapes and sizes. Gay dads. Pairs of lesbian moms. Butches with babies. Tranny couples and their kids. It almost makes me dizzy.

I'm not saying this is a queer communal utopia. It's not. Most of these parents are white. Most have achieved a reasonable level of economic privilege. The notion of diversity at play here is a narrow one.

And yet, I'm grateful for this week, grateful for this chance to be in a place where I am automatically read as a queer parent, and surrounded by people who get it. And of course, grateful always for a chance to float in P-town's lovely queer ocean.

36 Weeks!

The end, my friends, is in sight. If the baby were born today, they'd let me take it home from the hospital. Crazy, huh?

Most people, by this point in their pregnancies, have their lives, or at least, their houses, in some sort of order. Not so here at QBM headquarters, where I am frantically cleaning out closets, rearranging shelves, and throwing away duplicate jars from my spice collection. Yes, it's true. I am nesting. But, in typical fashion, I have waited until the last moment. Will the carseat be installed before the baby arrives? Will the co-sleeper be set up in the bedroom? Who can say...

The good news is that my mother has arrived to help, and has gamely taken on the assortment of crappy tasks that I keep throwing her way. (Mom, did I say "thank you" for vacuuming the mouse poop out of that drawer? Because I really am full of gratitude...) And, even more valiantly, J has thrown his heart and soul into helping me get the apartment cleaned and organized. Love is so many things, and I feel incredibly grateful to have a partner who is equally game for taking awesome pregnancy photos (see above), snuggling in bed while feeling the baby kick, and helping me reorganize the kitchen closets.

In other procrastination-based news, I finally filled out the hospital pre-admission paperwork (which had a notice printed across the top to be sure to return all paperwork to the hospital before 36 weeks...). In addition to sections about dietary and religious preferences, the form asked me to list any other "cultural considerations" of which the hospital staff ought to be aware. How to sum up one's weird-ass tranny birthing collective family in a couple of sentences? I'm not entirely sure. After agonizing for half an hour over three sentences (sadly, I've already mailed off the form, so I can't quote them for you), I talked to my friend K, who is a maternity nurse at the hospital where I'm delivering. Her response? "Oh, those forms? I don't think I've ever actually seen one filled out." So, who knows what will happen when Team QueerBabyMaking arrives at the hospital.

That's the news here. The QBM family will be heading out to Cape Cod at the end of the week for ten days of fun in the sun. Yes, that's right. I'm going on vacation while 37 weeks pregnant. Oh yeah, just try and stop me...