Let me start by saying that never, not in a million years, did I think that I’d be a mom. Growing up, I never played with baby dolls – crying, wetting, nursing dolls – way to messy for me. The only doll that interested me was Barbie. Barbie had breasts. Barbie drove a Corvette convertible. Barbie lived in a Dream House. Barbie’s best friend was Skipper. Skipper had breasts too. Barbie and Skipper spent their time at the Dream House, sitting around the pool on chaise lounges, reading trashy novels and rubbing suntan oil on each other’s backs. At 4:00 Ken would appear with blender drinks on a tray. Then he’d go back into the Dream House kitchen and start making dinner. After setting the table and lighting the candles he’d leave discreetly by the backdoor. I didn’t know where Ken went at night – I didn’t care because Barbie was with Skipper. Barbie and Skipper didn’t have children; and neither did any other lesbian couple that I knew.
Then something happened. Something so radical, so unexpect that my Barbie based world was turned upside down – queer couples started having babies. Not just famous rock star queers with enough money to hire Mary Poppins. No, ordinary, every day queers, queers that we knew, starting having kids. First it was Mark & Charles, then it was Amy & Rosie, then Meg & Meg and Lucy & June. National news magazines noticed the phenomenon. So did my wife. “What do you think?” She asked. “Sure. Why not?” I answered, as if having children was like taking a trip to Europe.
So we did it. We went and got ourselves two of our own little bobble-heads. But it’s ok. Really. Because the day is coming, I know it is, when they’ll show up poolside with a blender drinks on a tray.