I will never forget the day I was propositioned to
become a gay co-parent. I was 32 and had already been thinking
about the baby question, but was still single and fuzzy on the
details. So when David gingerly popped the question, "Would
you be interested in having a kid with me and Gregg?" I
thought the earth was moving underneath my car as we drove
through the Castro district in San Francisco.
David
and I met a few years earlier at Congregation Sha'ar Zahav,
the local gay and lesbian synagogue. I had recently arrived in
town to start a new chapter in life after finishing research
in Jerusalem for a Ph.D. Newly out of the closet and eager to
connect with the gay Jewish community, I signed up as a
part-time Hebrew school teacher. David had returned from his
graduate school research in Moscow with his husband Gregg, to
resume his post as head of the synagogue's school. We hit it
off immediately, so much so that we started writing the first
of our three books together.
Two years later, my
would-be gay dads had moved to Denver for David's teaching gig
at a university. I was still living in San Francisco, and we
were still talking about co-parenting. But now the weekly
conversations became complicated by distance. How would an
overeducated, nice Jewish girl from Chicago make such a
life-altering decision? I decided to develop a Powerpoint
presentation analyzing all the pros and cons of all the
various options.
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Did I want to be a single lesbian mom by choice in
San Francisco and have either David or Gregg act as the sperm
donor and "special uncle?" Certainly not, given Bay Area real
estate prices, and no viable partner on the horizon to help
with diapers and a mortgage. Did I want to act as a surrogate
for David and Gregg to have and raise a baby in Denver? That
idea seemed even more unappealing. If I moved to Denver, would
I ever find a suitable girlfriend, instead of the revolving
door of Jewish recovering alcoholics and emotionally needy
cat-lovers I had been dating in San Francisco? Could I
consider living in a state without a Trader Joe's? Clearly,
the stakes were higher than I thought.
I spent a year
exploring a move to Denver. It was a gamble to leave behind a
well-paying job, my beloved city, and a seemingly endless
supply of inappropriate lesbian dating choices. I reasoned
that we would either figure it out or not, and if the whole
plan didn't work, I could always move back to California and
learn to love cats.
While debating a move, I put my
research skills to work. From my contacts at the synagogue, I
interviewed lesbian moms and gay dads who were doing this
already. "Just make sure you have all your agreements in
writing in case people split up!" intoned one solemn lesbian
mom who was battling her ex-wife in court. "Try to find a
duplex to make daily logistics easier," advised a happy gay
dad who lived with his partner next to his lesbian co-parent
and kid in the Castro.
Fast forward another year. I
moved to Denver, and rented an attic owned by a lovely gay
couple who applauded my moxie and family plans. David and
Gregg and I began to spend a lot of time together, essentially
weaving ourselves into a family even without the presence of a
kid. After six months of intense conversation, we decided to
seal the deal, with a contract, of course.
We had
worked through all the usual things that straight couples
negotiate (except the sex), like values, money, and which
families we'd visit for Rosh Hashanah and Passover. We also
considered our legal options, given that Colorado law doesn't
really know how to handle a family with three parents. I think
we all felt giddy about the prospect of trying to get
pregnant, and our plan was to start inseminating at the
beginning of the school year. All our parents began buying
baby clothes as soon as they heard the news. Life was ripe
with possibility.
On our second try, a great miracle
happened. I got pregnant. Who knew it would be so easy? In
retrospect, I wouldn't have chosen to experience the insomnia
and hormonal lunacy of pregnancy as a single person. But in a
sense, I wasn't really single. I had the support of not one,
but two excited future dads who watched with fascination and
awe at the growing blob in my belly that waved and gurgled on
the ultrasound machine at the OB's office. Nine months later,
I showed up at the hospital with my birth ball, doula, and two
dads. The nurses didn't know what to make of us, but I was too
engrossed by the crazy things that were happening to my body
to care much by that point. And even though I don't consider
myself religious, the first words out of my mouth after our
daughter Sasha arrived were "Baruch Hashem!" (Blessed is God!)
Fast forward another two years. It's been almost a
decade since I first met my gay dads. We often simply watch
with delight as our daughter Sasha happily runs around after
David and Gregg's two dogs. It gives me indescribable pleasure
to watch Sasha laugh, dance to Shir-La-La (outrageously hip
Jewish kiddie rock), and get excited at the prospect of
lighting candles for Shabbat.
Many straight folks,
when they hear about my family, earnestly ask me how we do it.
I often get questions like, "Does Sasha get confused about who
her parents are?"
I've learned to answer these
questions graciously, reminding myself that it's a learning
opportunity for people to expand their understanding of the
word "family." In other words, I have lots of chances to act
as a poster child for the gay rights/gay family movement, and
I take that responsibility seriously. Here's what I tell
people: "Think of a divorced family in two houses, except in
our case, there's no acrimony, just lots and lots of love."
Their eyes light up with this analogy, but in many ways, the
shorthand is completely wrong.
Unlike divorced
families, we intentionally created this family structure,
without any legal recognition, and without any of the rupture
and pain that often accompanies divorce. Clearly, we need to
find better and more illuminating explanations. But perhaps it
would be better if we gay folks simply stopped relying on
straight analogies altogether to describe our families.
I know that this kind of co-parenting isn't for
everyone. And I know that some people reading this will
probably cringe out of fear for our child's future and bemoan
what is happening to the Jewish people. That's okay.
What I do know is that for me, my gay dads, and
hopefully for our daughter Sasha, the big fat gay Jewish
family we've chosen to create makes perfect sense. And at the
end of the day, that's all that matters.
Caryn Aviv
is a lecturer at the University of Denver and the author of
'New Jews: The End of the Jewish Diaspora'
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