Mommy Mommy

Originally published 2-16-09

The first time my infant son uttered “mommy” my heart sank a little. My reaction was unexpected. He wasn’t calling for me; he was scampering hands and knees into the arms of my partner, Kira. While since before his birth I had referred to her as “Mommy K” and even gave her a Mother’s Day card, suddenly I was not so sure I wanted anyone but me to be “Mommy.”

All along, from conception to birth, I had anticipated all of the advantages of our alternative family: me as birth mother, Kira as the other mother and my gay friend, whom I’ll call Sperm Donor, as the biological baby-daddy-slash-uncle. Three devoted adults to shower Baby Stephen with love and attention. What I had not predicated was my emotional attachment to the moniker “Mommy” and all of the personal, social and legal ramifications of who was called what.

In the beginning I encountered shock and confusion when I introduced Sperm Donor as the baby’s biological father. Lesbian couples would correct me, “You mean the “donor?” I explained that Sperm Donor was the genetic father and would be welcome to visit the baby on occassion. Most lesbians expressed disapproval or concern that I was asking for trouble — custody battles and the like down the road. In contrast, straight folk were relieved that the baby would have a male figure in his life. When I would hear gay marriage foes talk about how every child deserves a mother and a father, I would smirk a little thinking, “I got your model family right here.”

Other aspects of our family dynamics were not so amusing. Bringing together three strong-minded people to agree on anything can be a challenge. Enter into that equation a tiny baby and everyone’s opinions on how that baby should be raised and the task is nearly impossible. So to head off impasses, Sperm Donor and I drafted an agreement before conception that made me queen.

Because I had the uterus and it was my way or the sperm bank and also because he did not want the responsibility of raising a child Sperm Donor conceded I had authority over matters of upbringing, from health and religion to schooling. Kira and I were not romantically involved at this stage so she had not been considered in the contract except for a generic reference to a possible future partner and the option of a third-party adoption.

Despite this written pact, complications and disagreements arose soon after I got pregnant and Kira and I had become a couple, which occurred about the same time. For starters, Cedars-Sinai Medical Center allowed only one person besides the birth mother to wear a bracelet giving him or her access to the nursery and only one other person could accompany me into surgery in the case of a C-section. Both Kira and Sperm Donor wanted to be the one. I felt torn, understanding both perspectives. So I wrote an elaborate birth plan laying out who did what when so that in the turmoil of labor and delivery we were not adlibbing these decisions.

According to Murphy’s Law the plan went awry, but that’s another column (see LezTalk, “Nothing as Planned: Labor and Delivery”). Everything was fine in the end, but we all had to compromise and accept that things do not happen as expected. This has been the case from the moment of Stephen’s first cries to his first birthday and beyond.

Mostly our family disagreements have been over the mundane, such as what to feed the baby and his nap schedule, but the discussion that got most heated was about what to call Kira. She preferred “Mommy.” Sperm Donor felt there should be just one mom and Kira should be called just “Kira;” and I was undecided… until Stephen called Kira “Mommy.”

I thought I would be okay with Kira as a second mother, which I am in practice, but not in name. I realize this is unfair to her, but nevertheless I can not help feeling I want to be acknowledged as the main female figure in Stephen’s life. I conceived him — literally and figuratively, carried him for 41 weeks and six days, had my belly cut open so that he could be brought into this world, nursed him for 14 months, and I pay for his major expenses, including nanny care.

Yet Kira rocks him to sleep; feeds him; dresses, diapers and bathes him; she plays with him and takes him to Mommy & Me classes. Her life, like mine, now revolves around this little person in our home. Sounds like a mother to me.

Bette and Tina on The L Word are Mommy and Mommy B, though little Angelica conveniently all but disappeared after season four. Jodie Foster’s brother alleges the children in his family called the other woman in their mom’s life Aunt Jo, for whom his famous sister is named. Friends we have met through Westside Families Like Us are Mommy and Momma, or Mummy and Mom — though one couple told us how they are struggling with names — and visitation — now that birth Mom has a new partner and an ex who both want to be called Mommy.

As if the issue were not emotionally charged and complicated enough, there are legal considerations. According to lesbian legal eagle Diane Goodman, who recently counseled gay parents at a Parenting with Pride conference in Los Angeles, if you do not have a written agreement, such as I do, and you hold out a person as mother or father, i.e., you treat them as a parent and call them “Mom” or “Dad,” then the courts may uphold that person’s rights as a parent, if ever contested.

Kira suggested we wait and let Stephen decide what to call her, so that is what we did. We never made a point of teaching him what to call either of us, though on occasion I would refer to myself saying things like, “Give the keys back to Mommy.” Then, out of the blue, one day he called Kira “Mommy.”

Politically correct lesbians say it does not matter who gave birth as both partners are equal parents, and I agree with them, politically. But my heart is not as progressive as my politics, and I am still picking my heart up off the floor, where it fell that day, next to Stephen’s building blocks and xylophone, where Kira sits night after night, playing with him, teaching him, singing to him, and holding in her arms until we finally lay him down to sleep in his crib beside our bed.