The doctor smiles at us across her desk. We have never met her before. She spends half an hour explaining what T’s bloodwork reveals about the fetus currently somersaulting within her uterus. The doctor repeatedly refers to the baby’s “gender” when she means its sex. As we rise to leave, she asks, “How did you decide which one of you would carry the baby?”
I hate this question. It’s one of the few moments of this pregnancy in which my body, not just T’s, is also under scrutiny from strangers. She experiences this form of invasion daily, while I’m lucky enough only to dabble in it. I feel momentary solidarity with her before the reality of our distance winds me, again. I cannot imagine having my body under constant surveillance like this. I cannot imagine not experiencing it as an invasion. I cannot imagine what it is like to want to be pregnant.
“I had no interest in carrying,” I say, as I always do, and T says, “And I really wanted to.”
“Well, that’s easy, then,” the doctor smiles. “But it’s nice to know you could switch if you needed to.”
I am, it seems, a mother-in-waiting. An available uterus. So convenient.
*
On other days, I appear to be a different creature entirely. When I’m alone, the fact that I am about to be a parent is entirely invisible. When I tell acquaintances – men especially – they say congratulations. They tell me to prepare for sleep loss. They tell me I can never repay T for what she’s going through (they’re right). They say it’s my job to take care of her. They say, both teasing and utterly serious, that I need to get a better job.
Does that make me a dad instead?
The preparing-for-childbirth books, even the not-too-lefty ones, have started saying “father or birth partner.” But they also warn you that tension emerges between couples during pregnancy because mothers want to start nesting, while fathers (or birth partners?) experience “provider panic.” It’s simple biology, they explain.
*
You see, there’s no such thing as a parent. We only have mothers and fathers.
Here’s what I don’t mean: I don’t mean that women and men are hardwired to parent differently. I don’t even mean that the social construction of gender is so overpowering that overcoming motherhood or fatherhood is difficult for individual parents. I mean the social category of parent just doesn’t seem to exist.
I say this despite the fact that my social world is filled with people who are deeply invested in egalitarian parenthood. I personally know inspirations in the realm of splitting reproductive labor. They are not doing it wrong.
But all the good people in the world making all the right decisions about sharing, pitching in, and helping each other out can’t fix the fact that every form you complete, every book you read, every law you face, every policy you confront has two categories: mothers and fathers.
I know kids with two moms. Those families confront challenges for a number of reasons, but at the end of the day, there are two moms, and that’s okay. There’s a concept for that. For two dads, too. My kid, though – my kid has a mom and a parent. She’s not talking yet, but I’m not sure what her words will be for that experience. What words do we have?
*
Over Thanksgiving dinner when I was thirteen, my family agreed I’d make a really good aunt. I couldn’t explain it then, but this assertion filled me with overwhelming pride and a sense of recognition. Sitting next to my grandmother, who insisted that wearing hiking sandals instead of high heels would give me “Fred Flintstone feet,” and across from my dad and uncle, whose boys-only political debates I ached to participate in, I felt like these folks were seeing me for the first time. An aunt. That was a category that made sense to them, to me.
There would be other words to complement “aunt” over time – “independent girl,” “not a girly-girl” – and questions that effectively asked what they didn’t want to put into words: “You’re not going to become a… vegan, are you?” Vegan. It’s Southern white folk speak for queer.
They were right. As a newly minted dyke, “aunt” took on a new coziness. The rich history of spinsters, crazy cat ladies, and mysterious middle-aged world travellers living comfortably with their “roommates” felt suddenly like my history. But it also felt like a fantasy, because I couldn’t imagine growing old as a woman. Most days, I couldn’t even stand to look in the mirror.
These categories – aunt, uncle, mother, father – continued to percolate as I grew older and tried to imagine a future, one in which I made sense. I wanted nothing to do with the categories, they felt stifling, but figuring out which title was mine also seemed urgently important. I kept avoiding mirrors and chalked up body dysphoria to internalized misogyny and fatphobia.
When, several years into our relationship, T and I began discussing whether we wanted kids, all this head-spinning became more difficult to sustain. I shocked myself when my answer, immediately, was yes. But then I took it back, because I couldn’t be a mom. There was no way I could be a mom. I had no idea what I meant by that, but I knew I couldn’t do it.
My go-to answer when people asked me about our decision to have kids was this: I had never wanted kids before, because I could only envision a life in which I was responsible for all of the reproductive labor. But when I met a person whom I trusted would share the work with me, I knew I wanted to do it. This story is true, but it isn’t complete. My decision to have kids also depended on having a partner who would let me not be a mom.
I left that part out of the story I started telling, because I couldn’t explain it, and it sounded, frankly, pretty fucked up. It sounded essentializing, like I thought there was some instinctive motherhood that men were incapable of performing. Or like I wanted to be the “fun” parent, the dad, who got to be the buddy while Mom did all the hard work of changing diapers, kissing scraped knees, and enforcing bedtime.
*
My second coming out, as genderqueer, emerged in sync with our discussions of having kids, and it was no coincidence. Thinking about becoming a parent required me to stare my gender in the face, in all its messy capaciousness, in a way no other big life decision had. Moving away from home had felt like something I had done, not like something a woman or a man had done. Adopting a cat, going to graduate school, even getting married – they didn’t make me adopt a new name, occupy a new category. (In part, I realize now, because I avoided the word wife in favor of spouse or partner.)
Parenthood involved a naming ceremony, a ritual of stitching a new identity that I would offer, with pride and nervousness and terror, to an eight-pound bundle of brand new flesh and muscle and nerves, for her to accept, reject, question – or, perhaps, never to question, because I was inventing her normal, her family of origin, a category of person against whom all new people would stand in comparison.
How to do this as a person who is not a man or a woman, not a mom or a dad? She will see all other mothers through the lens of her mother, her tree-climbing, silly song-writing, stubborn, kind, and thoughtful mom. I will be the other parent, neurotic, impatient, quiet, thoughtful, doting, snuggly, and clownish. But if I’m not a mom or a dad, what kind of template will I be for her? Will I be the goof against whom she compares her friends’ dads? Their moms? Their aunts?
The thing is, I’ve never wanted to be a template, a member of a category who serves a referential function for someone else. But as the grown kid of a mom and a dad, it’s hard for me to see what parenthood means if this is not a large part of it.
*
Is a mother a person who mothers, who does the nurturing labor of motherhood? Or is a mother a female person who is a parent? She can be both, but which is more essential?
This seems like an academic question, but it lies at the heart of the conundrum. Studies show that professional women’s careers suffer from having children, while professional men’s careers benefit. That seems like a simple scientific data point. Having children hurts professional women’s careers.
Science disagrees on why, though. Is it because women are still expected to take on more of the household labor, and therefore have less time to devote to work? Or is it because of biases against women in the workplace, where women who are mothers are perceived to be doing less work, or to be advancing more slowly, because of their childrearing responsibilities? Or both?
I’ve started asking, tongue in cheek, where this phenomenon will leave me. I’m a workaholic who wears suits. I did not give birth to my baby. I took parental leave, but I kept doing work during my “time off” (though I scaled back my hours drastically). My partner and I take great pains to split household labor equally. I do not devote more of my time to household labor than my partner does, and my workplace knows that I have a female partner, a mother to my child, at home. Will I get the benefits of being a working dad? The penalties of being a working mom? A little of both? Or something else entirely?
Even in these intensely important discussions about gendered divisions of labor and the gendered meanings of parenthood in which I am a participant – even here, motherhood and fatherhood are so embedded, so ingrained, that we do not have a way to talk about how gender works when it’s separated from sex.
*
My kid and I, we’re fine. She knows who I am, and for right now, she sees me more clearly than anyone I’ve ever known, because she doesn’t know yet what it’s supposed to mean to be a man or a woman, or a mom or a dad. She just knows me. She giggles when I tickle her. She reaches for me when she bumps her head. At nine months old, she gets misgendered a lot too.
But I see how people struggle to understand us, and soon she’ll notice that too. Then what?
When I was a burgeoning feminist seven year old, I used to inform adults with glee that “girls can do anything boys can do, except be a dad.” I’ve revised my position on this point. But it’s quite clear to me now why that was the obvious final frontier to me then. It’s hard to imagine a dad who’s not a boy, a mom who’s not a girl, or a parent who’s not one (and only one) of the two.
With your thoughtfulness, I am sure you will be part of an important new generation of “parents.” Your struggle will pave the way for future genderqueer parents, and you should be very proud.
This was wonderful. And I practically spat out my tea when I got to the “…vegan” bit.
My sister used to like to play the “would you still love me” game with my parents and I very vividly remember her asking my dad (while he was fixing the pipes under the sink):
“Would you still love me if I was a lesbian?”
“Of course, sweetie”
*pause* “Would you still love me if I became a vegetarian?”
“Hell no, that shit is expensive.”
I’m living in central VA, and I’ve discovered that the meaning of “vegan” will shift dramatically, depending on who I’m talking to. And, let’s be real, my reaction to this is “omg linguistics are cool.”
Thank you for writing this.
Thanks for writing this and sharing it here.
You might find the archives of this blog to be interesting. The author has a lot to say about navigating parenting from a genderqueer perspective. http://www.lesbiandad.net
This was fantastic, and so beautifully explored. Thank you for writing and sharing this with us.
Beautiful and thought-provoking.
I’m a ciswoman starting a professional career. My husband (also cis) and I have agreed that for many reasons – temperament, earning power – he will be the primary caretaker for any future kids. My own family structure was super traditional (nurturing self-sacrificing stay-at-home mom, fun workaholic disciplinarian dad). Sometimes I worry about all the things you wrote about here – templates and roles and work. This is such an important conversation and a genderqueer/nonbinary perspective is probably the most interesting and poignant.
oh, it’s me it’s me it’s me. except that I don’t really identify as genderqueer, except that I have some gender… feelings lately. and they all kind of stem from having a kid with my partner, who is a cis woman and the gestational parent. like this writer, I just never ever imagined myself having kids. but then… my love had always wanted them and if she was going to do the uterus work, then ok, I guess? but I can’t adopt “mother” for myself, it feels awkward and weird.
and then the gender feelings keep getting more complicated because I end up doing the dad/butch stuff. I don’t mind dealing with bugs, I can lift and carry heavy things, I’m the one with the license so I do all the car stuff. I wear skirts but I don’t care if they get messy, or if people can see my underwear, when I’m climbing trees and playgrounds with my kid while my partner keeps her clothes clean and properly on, her legs unscratched. She was always higher femme than me, but parenting, and I guess in general the growing domesticity of our lives, has made that divide seem wider.
I know you already know this, but this is just some reassurance that dealing with things like car stuff and carrying heavy things and not minding about getting messy doesn’t prevent you in any way from being female; none of those things are inherently gendered, even if society likes to say that they are. (Not that I want to dictate your gender; if feeling female is awkward, that’s totally legitimate! But none of the things you describe automatically make you any less female.)
As I was reading this I was thinking to myself “I hope headonist is reading this!”
you know me so well!
Becoming a parent really intensifies all these questions … I’m a totally straight/cis woman but becoming a mom makes everything seem … More so. And really awkward when you find yourself lumped into this ultra feminizing role and group and think wait a second, why am I here? Is this me? and also what am I shaping my child to be by the little things I do or don’t do – especially since I have a son and am pregnant with another boy, and their dad, while wonderful in many ways, is not the type to think much about or question gender roles. I’m not sure what to do with all this, but I will miss the toast. There aren’t enough of these conversations happening anywhere else in my life.
This is achingly beautiful. Parenting really messes with our identity, I think.
Oh man. Thanks for this. I didn’t start having “the genders” as one of my friends calls it, until my kid was already nine years old. Now I’m… I don’t know. Genderqueer, I guess. Maybe. In any case, I’m a female-bodied person who increasingly presents as androgynous or masculine. Gender and sexuality have always been frequent topics of conversation in my household, so my kid didn’t care when I started wearing ties, any more than she cares when her stepfather wears makeup. She did ask me if there was such a thing as a “drag king” the other day, and if that was what I was. I explained that there is, but that’s a performance thing, and this is an identity thing – did it bother her that I dress this way? She said no, but she is afraid I’m going to get beat up in a bathroom. So am I, kid. I hope that we’re making a better world though, B.A., and an amazing next generation, whatever we call ourselves.
I’m so sorry that your daughter’s learned to worry about that.
Thank you for writing this.
“But when I met a person whom I trusted would share the work with me, I knew I wanted to do it.”
I am not nearly in your position but this had the ring of solid gold truth in my heart and was soothing to hear.
This was wonderful and thought provoking and I am so glad you shared it!
This piece is lovely! As an urban planner who works for labor unions, I really wanna see more of your writing re: money, labor, and cities as mentioned in your bio. Where else can I find your work?
after my own heart! I’m trying to keep my personal and professional and writing separate for now, but if you post a way to private message you I’ll send some links. 🙂
That would be great! Is twitter okay? I’m TheDeanGenie there
Done!
You see, there’s no such thing as a parent. We only have mothers and fathers.
I was babysitting an eight-year-old once and said something about her parents. She looked confused: “But I don’t have a parent”. She had a mum and a dad and that was it. The binary is so entrenched. (And “parent” is a useful word, for so many reasons! When I helped out at Brownies I hated it so much when they were told things like “Tell your mum you need to be wearing sensible shoes when you come to Brownies”. “Parent” avoids so many unnecessary expectations. But no.)
I have two moms, who as far as I know, are cis, but I almost always refer to them as “my parents.” Sometimes I wonder if that’s because I’m trying to hide their queerness (in which case, wtf@me) or if it’s because they don’t feel like “moms” exactly but just–well, my parents, no gender attached. For what it’s worth, I don’t know what your kid will be calling you, but I have a friend who’s always called her parents by their first names and I think that’s removed a lot of whatever weird gendered parenting dynamic other people in our circle tend to get themselves into.
My wife has had a lot of anxiety about her future parenting role (and parent-name). Thank you for writing this.
Thank you for this–so thoughtful and complex and considerate. I think that becoming a parent can make feelings and philosophies around gender and feminism and care so much more complicated–richer, hopefully, but also more painful and confusing and unfamiliar. I am currently pregnant, and pregnancy has made me feel like my gender is an island on which I am marooned, or something. Thanks for being so articulate about the complexity of your situation. I hope that even as she grows older, your daughter will still see you as you, despite the inevitable complications of socialization. You seem like a great parent.
I loved this essay so much. it really resonated with me and my own tangled feelings about hypothetical parenthood, even as a cis woman in a het relationship (& I hope my appreciation of it doesn’t seem appropriative to anyone). it’s just…as someone who keeps getting deeper into her 30s while remaining ambivalent about having kids, I’m increasingly confronted with the idea of Motherhood as Identity & feel a corresponding sense that I’m failing at womanhood by continuing to opt out. & that persists even though I’m fully onboard with the fact that gender is a social construct, & even though of course I don’t actually believe that childrearing is a prerequisite for “being female” (whoever’s adopting that mantle or however it’s defined).
it’s a kind of creepy reminder how deeply ingrained some of these notions are–of what moms & dads “are,” of their supposedly distinct realms–that they infect the thinking of people who (like me) think they know better & who have every intention of rejecting outdated gender norms.
I don’t know how coherent any of this is, but it’s some distillation of the thoughts that have been kicking around my head since I read the essay last night. even as someone who will undoubtedly read as a “mom” to the rest of the world if I ever have kids, in many ways I think “parent” would suit me better.
pieces like this make me hopeful that our culture is moving, however slowly, away from restrictive notions of gender identity. while obviously they’re less actively oppressive for cis/het/etc. folks (I’m not trying to be like “we ALL struggle with gender tho!”), my point is, it’s bad for everyone if we live in a culture that makes people feel a disconnect between what they do & who they supposedly “are.”
This is great. Thanks.
you know me so well!
I didn't get the sense that headonist was feeling any less female with doing car stuff. As a cis butch-ID'd woman, I certainly don't feel any less female (albeit of a non-standard kind) while working on my 35-year-old car.
However, even as the aforementioned butch, I would feel discomfort myself in being pigeonholed into the "dad" role, and my partner into the "mum" role, even though my usual relationship paradigm is butch/femme. Despite the opinions of certain rad feminists of my early coming-out years, the point of butch/femme is generally not to "mimic heterosexual relationships". Far from it.
So that discomfort must be more jarring for people who aren't particularly invested in butch/femme as part of their identity. The kind of contortions people go through to place you in those mum/dad pigeonholes can be pretty amazing.