A Man and His Uterus: How the World Went Insane

So the story that’s apparently making everyone’s head explode this week is Thomas Beatie’s pregnancy.

The blogs I’ve read have made me alternately think, chuckle, cringe and absolutely recoil.  They’ve run the gamut from unconditional support to name calling to “There outta be a law”.  What’s obvious is that this topic has struck something inside many people.  And they’re talking about it.

Some people have shouted that Thomas shouldn’t be allowed to be seen pregnant in public because it will inflict damage on children who see him.  Others have said he and his wife shouldn’t be allowed to have children and they aren’t fit parents.  Some people are throwing derogatory slurs at them and their unborn child.

I say this.  To parents with children who will see coverage or hear about the story, what upsets you most?  Are you truly upset because you fear this will cause your child irreparable harm?  Or is it because you may be forced to come face to face with a situation that you don’t fully understand; one that may make you uncomfortable, and because you may not be able to give your child an immediate, scripted answer and may actually need to think on your feet to provide your child with straight-forward, age-appropriate information on how people and families are different?

Families aren’t simple.  That’s a fact.  But maybe you could try taking a deep breath and include some of the following phrases in your chats with your kids:  “There are lots of different kinds of families…We’re not all the same, and that’s okay…Some families have a mommy and a daddy…Some families have just a mommy or a daddy…Some families have two daddies or two mommies…”.  These are just conversation starters.  The parenting is really your job.

The list goes on and on.  And that’s just for the types of families and all their possible combinations.  I didn’t even begin to account for foster families, step-parent families, adoption, extended nuclear family units, or my own family (get ready) that is a gay, trans-racial, adoptive family with two dads.  And I beg anyone to debate our qualifications as parents, or our ability to raise our children in a healthy, loving and nurturing environment.  See?  Families aren’t simple.  And that’s just family structures at their basic level.

However, the larger and hopefully simpler point is that the world is made up of many different kinds of families that are started in a number of different ways.  It truly doesn’t matter what I think about Thomas and Nancy Beatie’s pregnancy.  The fact is, assuming the rest of the pregnancy goes smoothly, they’re on their way to having a healthy baby girl.  Are they fit parents?  I honestly don’t know.  I don’t know them personally.  Nancy has grown children of her own from a previous relationship.  The couple interviews well.  But who am I to judge?  And furthermore, who are you?

The sooner people accept that there are others that exist outside the confines of their own homes (or minds), the better off they, their children, and MY children will be as a result.  You don’t have to agree with everything that happens in the world, but you do have to accept the fact that the outside world, does in fact exist.

If you let your children believe it’s a perfect world out there, or worse, that the things in the world that different from your point of view are bad, evil, or must be destroyed, your children are either going to be in for a huge shock as they mature, or they will simply continue to breed hate and bigotry as a family value to future generations at your behest.  Then, after it’s too late, you can look back and see exactly who has inflicted damage onto your children.  And when you do, you’d best have a full-length mirror handy to take a good, long, hard stare.

It’s about damned time we all grow up, take responsibility for ourselves, our own actions and our own children.  The world is a big place where family, friends and neighbors can and do work together.  And yes, we’re all entitled to our beliefs and opinions.  But this world is not big enough to tolerate bigotry and hate.  Come on, people.  To hate someone you don’t know based on something you don’t understand or because someone else told you to has got to be the most ridiculous thing I’ve never understood.  And never will. 

For fuck’s sake.  Let’s get real.

Then and Now

It was a year ago our twins came home.  They seemed so tiny and fragile.  Meeting them for the first time, we stared awestruck at our daughter and son, one arm around each other, choking our hellos as we each grasped one of their tiny hands.  I’m laughing at myself for the tears rolling down my face as I write this.

When we got The Call, we didn’t have so much as a bottle in the house.  Our “two week pregnancy” was surreal.  We shopped, redecorated the nursery, shopped some more, finished up projects at work to prepare for family leave, did some more shopping, spent countless hours on the phone with the adoption agency, our attorney, our pediatrician, signed, notarized, faxed and FedExed more documents than I’d seen at our mortgage closing.  Amazingly, by the time placement day arrived, we had everything in place. 

Everything happened so fast, we never had a moment to let it all soak in.  Suddenly it was here.  We were Daddies.  Right here, right now.  It was one of the most incredible days of my life.  It took a long time for me to stop waking up every day feeling completely shocked, saying, “Oh my god.  We’re fathers.  We have babies.  We have TWO babies. We have twins!  Oh my god!”  I still do that sometimes, but not as often.

Our twins were born severely premature.  Other than being born at an extremely low birth weight, they’ve not experienced any complications or developmental delays outside their adjusted birth date.  We realize prematurity is a long road of watch and see, but we are thankful every day for their health.

Now they’re both well over 20 pounds, growing out of all their clothes, laughing, loving, fighting like brother and sister and eating us out of house and home.  When Preston shrieks breathlessly from laughter, or Ava bolts across the room to throw her arms around my neck, it’s difficult to picture those tiny babies with Preemie diapers up to their armpits who ate two ounces of formula every 2 hours.