
And now we present, the Domestic Enemies of the Gay Mom(s):
Who’s Yer daddy?
There’s an amazing amount of shameless busybodies who, once they realize that my partner and I are both called Mom by our children, immediately begin questioning HOW our children were conceived (none of their business), and WHO the participants were (really none of their business). [See also: Which one of you is the mom? No, I mean which one of you is the REAL mom? Which one of you HAD the baby??] And then there’s the Daddy questions. “Who is he?” they ask with one eyebrow raised, while scrutinizing the kids’ faces 'cause maybe they recognize that nose from somewhere.

When our daughter was a baby we had fun with these questions (and when we were foster parents of babies of different races we really had fun with them). But there comes a time when our little big-eared darlings don’t need to hear me tell the IHOP waitress that we had the tests done, but we’re waiting for our Maury Povich taping next week to hear the results.
So please, don’t make me pull out that line again until all of the children are at least 12 and I can enjoy the inevitable mortification it would cause, because I am already forced to have the weekly awkward conversation where I interpret whatever strange story Dear Daughter has decided to divulge during Sunday School without adding THAT to the mix.
Das Authorityski
If you’ve ever had your authority as a parent questioned by anyone, it is an express train ride to The Rage. And if your kids are present when it happens, it’s kicked up a few notches to Hungry Mama Bear on a Bad Spring Day.
But it is a common occurrence for at least one half of our parenting team. Only one of us is allowed to be listed on the birth certificate because it would cause some pin-headed bureaucrat's head to explode if we crossed out Father and put Parent on the form (see Forms below). Which leaves one of us with all of the parental legal authority as a 15 year old babysitter, but with less pay.
Enter here our well paid and friendly attorney, who drafts reams of legal documents that no one understands (not even me, and I’m an attorney), giving the Non-Legal Parent "approximate parental rights". This is all fine and good, but those rights only exist on paper and our diaper bag does not have a waterproof compartment large enough to carry the equivalent of Shakespeare’s complete works unabridged.
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The TSA is awesome. Everyone knows that. |
The ticketing agent stands up straighter and with glee in her eye says ”Oh, so you’re not really his parent?” Minutes later Non-Legal Parent is given a matching pair of pretty silver bracelets and taken into a secluded backroom for some some 'enhanced' questioning about her attempts to take a minor across state lines. (Okay, that last sentence isn’t true, but try talking yourself out of that situation in a way that doesn’t make you sound like a bungling kidnapper).
The Freaking Forms
I touched on this a bit in the prior section, but every mother-lovin' form in existence helpfully has information lines for a Mother and a Father, and Maude help you if you cross out the words that were printed on the page and insert a generic Parent #1 and Parent #2.
Want to have fun the next time you are filling out papers at a new doctor’s office/school/hospital/job? Where it says Marital Status and has boxes for Married, Widowed, Divorced, Never Married ... draw your own box at the bottom and write None of the Above. See how that works out for you.
Or, failing that, just put a big smear of peanut butter across that part. Marital Status? We're just Skippy, thanks...
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