Being "Heard"

I came out as queer at a very "young age"...  I was 14 to be exact... and was met with a resounding chorus (from most) that this must just be a phase... because how do you know something of that nature when you aren't even old enough to drive a car..  Friends, my parents, and even the guy who did my first tattoo questioned how I could know for sure.  Some shouted "attention seeking" and others just logically couldn't get down with the fact that at a ripe 14 years young I could have a better handle on my identity than they did.

You know the end of a mystery movie when you find out "whodunit" and then there is a quick retrospective of all the clues that you missed that should have clued you in to who the culprit was.  That's how "coming out" to myself was.  Lots of little clues I missed, adding up to an inevitable truth.  It was February 9th, 1998 (I know this because I drew a little rainbow on that date on the Beatles Calendar that I kept on my room).  I was watching the Real World thought...  "Oh Man!  That girl is hot!!!  Oh Shit!  Oh....  That explains a lot..."  If anything...  "being straight" was a phase for me.  And once I figured it all out, I felt so liberated!  But as I heard more and more people say "it's just a phase", "you are too young to know that" or "you just haven't met the right guy" the more I felt silenced.

Senior Potrait- 2002.  I was the gayest
High Schooler EVER.

The funny thing about silence, is the more you are silenced, the more you are likely to stop using your voice.   It was easy to feel like I was wrong, about myself; and a truth that was so simple

and apparent to me.  So I fell silent.  I spent my freshman year of high school scared and silent.  Until I realized my silence was paralyzing me...  And I promised to never be silent again.  People may say I was "out and proud" but I like to think I was just "out and Chris".  I just started talking about being gay like it was "normal"... because to me it was.  And people responded.  That's when I realized people are more likely to talk about you, when you are unwilling to talk about yourself.  If you give them all the information that they need... they won't need to fill in the gaps, and you become uninteresting... but alas, I digress.

If coming out as "gay" was hard...  coming out as trans is like climbing a mountain.  And it certainly isn't wrapped up in a nice "fable"-type package where the good guy (that's me) learns a tidy message  It is a process and is in now way complete.

There are many contributing factors as to why its hard to come out as a transmasculine genderqueer boi (that's what I choose for a gender today), but it is mostly steeped in the fact that our society believes in "2 and 2 only" genders.  Most people believe that you are born with a penis and you are male, or a vagina will make you female, end of sentence, no variations.  People with a more evolved view of sex and gender may understand that there are people who are born with one set of organs, but their identity indicates the opposite sex (ex. a person born with a penis who is actually a female).  But there are few who can dig deep enough to understand there are those of us who live in the middle of the two...

When I have tried to explain to people that I am neither male nor female, I am usually met with a blank stare (at best) or the denial that being neither M nor F, Adam nor Eve, Romeo nor Juliette isn't even a valid identity.  Similar to "its only a phase", after a while being repetitively told that your identity isn't real makes it hard for you to feel like you have a place.  The more times people tell you your identity doesn't exist, the more you feel like you aren't doing your own "identity" incorrectly and you begin to ware at the corners, and assimilate into molds where it is "easier" to be understood.

This is from the portion of my life when I lived by myself
and dressed up like Kid Rock for fun (before he turned into
a dick).  Also... just a note, that is a fake goatee and my
real goatee now is far more lush.

When I became pregnant, I wanted to do it on my own terms.  It was imperative that my identity as a trans-identified pregnant person was understood and respected, especially by our care team.  There is so much vulnerability in a birthing situation for ALL people, but with my discomfort with my body, I feel like I was more vulnerable than most.  I have certainly had my fair share of being made to feel uncomfortable in my own skin by people in medical professionals...  Once, when discussing how I felt like I was never fully female with a THERAPIST,  she asked, "But you don't want to HAVE a penis, DO YOU?!?"... not that I will be discussing with you Madame Therapist...

These types of experiences over a lifetime left me weary that anyone would/could ever "get" me.  I had become conditioned to be misunderstood, or doubted.  This was not the experience I got from those who we chose to work with for our birth.  For the first time in my life, I felt like I could talk about who I was without being shut down, dismissed or silenced.  Our midwife group, our doula, and our lactation consultant all took special care to make sure that they were sensitive to this special caveat of my identity. ( I find it very sad that only after 31 years of life do I feel like I was respected as a whole person in a medical situation.)  What is even more interesting, is the more my gender identity was validated, the less it made a damn bit of difference.  For the first time I really feel like I really was existing in a space that was free from the rules of male and female...  Where I could just be myself free from the constraints of societal pressures to do or be anything.  When we gave birth at OSU hospital, with a full goatee and a buzzed head, you would have thought that everyone who had ever given birth there was a transmaculine guy with a wife who was planning on doing the breastfeeding...

Really being  "heard" has finally made it easier to "speak" about who I am.  All the "its just a phases" and "you have to choose male or female" have faded away a bit.  Obviously, my work to continue to speak my truth has just begun, but I after having the experience of validation, I can no longer be complacent in silence.

Well.... This Makes More Sense Now...

I was just a little boy.... until
I wasn't.

 Puberty was probably the worst thing that ever happened to me.  Before that, I was free to be who I wanted to be and navigated in a world that was just little humans.  Sure, we played at being male or female, but for the most part, I was accepted as one of the guys.  Most of my friends were guys.... I played on a girl's soccer team, but we could play with boys and were physically still even... I raced with boys on the playground, and sat with them at their lunch tables.  And then 7th grade happened.  Girls got boobs, and periods.... and boys got deeper voices and bigger egos.  This is when my whole life changed.

Puberty is confusing for most...
I just got a bonus.

I wasn't accepted as one of the guys anymore.  I wasn't invited to watch baseball games, and athletic boys started to get muscles, and I started to feel more and more self conscious.  I was so embarrassed when I started my period for the first time, I didn't tell anyone.  I threw the underpants of shame into the back of my closet, and pretended it was all a nightmare and ignored it as long as I could.  My body changed, it was harder and harder to pass as male, and I generally just felt crummy.  I tried to fit into a girl body.  I bought tighter sweaters, and felt like garbage.  I tried to wear a tie on a field trip where we had to dress up, and the school didn't allow me to go.  It was all very confusing.  One day I had a great handle on who I was, and who my friends were, and an influx of hormones later, I was more confused than I ever had been.

Oh god...  A book fair raccoon
poster, and a tight shirt.  I am
not sure there is a more
embarrassing photo of me!

Now, no ones likes a period (unless you are hoping to not be pregnant, in an instance where you weren't as careful as possible) but I really despised them.  I reiterate that I never planned on being pregnant, so a period to me was just a monthly reminder that I was "yep, still female."  There seemed to be no purpose to it... the scarlet letter of womanhood that I could no more escape than ignore.  But every month... like clockwork, there it was.

I use to believe that everything happens for a reason.  But after a long road to getting pregnant, nearly bankrupting ourselves in the process, falling into a depression because of it and losing our first pregnancy, I can no longer say that I believe that.  I do believe, now that the dust has settled, I can find reason in the things that have happened...

This body makes sense now... it has a purpose, and a function.  For that I am sincerely grateful.  I have spent the last 18 years feeling like I was stuck in a prison...  It feels less like a prison now.  This journey through pregnancy (and now to the beyond of parenthood) has given me back something that I had lost in puberty... and that was the ability to choose who I was going to be. 

Through this process I have learned to use my voice like I have never before.  I think this was the most empowering thing about our birth experience.  I was able to use my voice, because for the first time in my life, I feel as if people were really listening.  When I said I wanted to use the pronoun "he", people tried their best to do that.... when I came into L & D with a well manicured goatee, no one batted an eye.  I was given the confidence to be perfectly, and comfortably me.  Now it is my responsibility to take that confidence out into the world and continue to allow myself to live openly and honestly.

 It seems ironic that to find my truest gender identity, I had to go through something that is seen to be at one very far end of the gender spectrum.  But when it comes down to it...  having a baby has little (or nothing really) to do with gender, and everything to do with biological sex.  If you have functioning reproductive organs, you can have a baby.  When we first started talking about me carrying our child, I remember thinking of many wonderful men I knew who would have gladly carried a baby for their family (my father-in-law being chief amongst them).  I am one lucky guy to have gone through this...  and many women I have talked to with cis-gendered husbands have remarked how they wish they could have shared the load.  Like any person who desperately wanted a child, I would have sacrificed anything to make it happen, and luckily for me it doesn't matter if I wear pants, dresses, sarongs, lederhosen, dashikis or anything else.  So, this body no longer feels like a prison... it feels the opportunity we needed to help our family grow.

An Awkward Place for a Awkward Question

So, like any new family, there are a great many things that we need to have for a new baby that we didn't know that we needed.  My Mom recently asked us if the people in the baby section at Target knew us by name yet... and the answer is probably. 

Amy carries babe in the Moby

We are getting used to strangers oogling at our cute little one.  I mean... lets face it, babies are cute, and ours is certainly no exception.  It has been interesting, because I am not used to being approached in public.  Amy usually wears Hayden in the Moby wrap, and many people ask us what she has in there, and want to see the cherub like face of our newborn.  We are proud parents and are happy to oblige.  A considerable amount of people who want to see Hayden's little face are old... and it seems like their likelihood to just assume I am the father of the baby is directly proportional to their age.  Old people, people in the deep south, foreign people and children are the most likely to assume I am male.  I think this is because they have a more black and white view of gender, and therefore the shade of grey where I live is mistaken for the more masculine of the two (because I perform male, I am assumed male.)

On a recent trip to a big baby box store, for cloth diapers (we didn't know that our one size fits all wouldn't fit an infant) we had a very interesting encounter with the lady in the checkout lane...  Of course it started off as many conversations do, with a "Hello Ladies" that I let slide (no need for a lengthy dialogue when I just want to get home to my rocking chair and baby snuggles).  Then the usual baby fawning, "Oh, my goodness, how old?"... and then the kicker, she looked directly at Amy and said, "Well I am assuming you carried?".....  SCREEEEEECHHH.... WIZZA WHAT?  Before I could say anything Amy exclaimed, "Yep!" and we finished out our transaction, and headed to the car.

I was shocked by the question, not the assumption.  We know everyone assumed Amy would be the carrier, and that is totally fine by me.  I certainly don't need any medals or trophies (okay, I love trophies, and a trophy would be nice, but I wouldn't ever show it to anyone...).  We especially knew once the baby was born everyone would think that Amy was the biological parent...  But I am not sure what the checkout lady was gaining by the knowledge of who carried. 

Me on the left circa 1983, H on the right.  Resemblance?

Now let me clarify...  her question doesn't make me mad.  I love people's natural curiosity, and think they are curious because it human nature.  What I am more interested in is what factors in our society make it an appropriate question (or make it an inappropriate questions.)  Part of me thinks that this was the clerks way of saying, "I recognize you as a couple, and am comfortable with your family enough to ask questions, rainbow power and see you at Pride."  This being the case, perhaps there were other things that she could have said to act in affirmation, but I can get down with that.  Then there is also the possibility, that she is a checkout clerk and has to find something to talk about... and that is something that people immediately wonder. 

I think the phrasing of the question is also interesting to me...  she didn't ask which one of us carried, she openly admits that she is assuming.  In a perfect world, maybe I would have pressed a little bit more and asked why that was her assumption...  but honestly, I know why, but it would have been interesting to hear it from her point of view.  We all learn about making assumptions... don't judge a book by its cover and all that, but assumptions are an important way to processing knowledge that we cannot know completely.  Without assumptions, we would be over run with details. 

Hayden agrees that is doesn't
matter.  She loves us just the same.

But more importantly, this exchange really affirmed for me how unimportant it is, who carried Hayden.  When Amy said, "Yup" I thought... yup.  She later told me, it wasn't lying... she does carry her.  She carries her around the house, and up and down the steps, and in and out of stores... so technically she does and did carry her.  But  more importantly, I don't feel a special connection to Hayden because she grew in my belly.  (I would be lying if I didn't acknowledge the fact that there was a fear that Amy and I would have different connections to her based on my biology... but it has been quite the opposite.)  Amy is her Mama, through and through.  Amy nurses her to sleep, and I find it just as wonderful to watch her snuggle with Amy, than to snuggle her myself.  I can't imagine Amy or myself loving her any more, or any less based on who was her biological parent.  So I don't care what people assume... because it doesn't matter.  The store clerk may as well have asked us what our favorite Chinese food was, or if we had ever been in a hot air balloon, because both of those questions are as relevant as the one she asked.  So, from this awkward exchange, we found something really powerful.  So thank you check-out clerk, your assumption led to our revelation.

The Non-Birth Story of Hayden Frances

Last shot of pregnant me... Taken at home
before heading to the hospital

For four days I have been obsessing over writing Hayden's birth story.  I have spent multiple hours alone in the office in my house...  writing and re-writing... re-reading, second guessing, checking, re-checking and fumbling with writers block, and self-consciousness.  I would walk away upset, frustrated, sad and confused.  Amy kept telling me to give myself a break, and stop over analyzing things.  But I was like a man possessed... trying to process and re-process and make sure that everything was coming out correctly.  Different phrasings would go over and over in my head, even when I wasn't at the computer.  Each time I came up with a the words to describe a moment of the story, the next moment I would be second guess the phrasing.  Don't get me wrong... I got a good portion of the narrative complete.  The beginning of the draft is a full 4 pages... and I barely made it past the point of us arriving at the hospital and being in triage.  The draft is unwieldy and long on details, which as I read back just seem so mundane... which is not how I remember the experience.  It was certainly anything other than mundane...

Thats when it I realized that this is not a story that I can share.  The details are too personal and complex.   The story of Hayden's birth is not about the details...  the time of day, the medications, the medical gauges of readiness for birth, what happened, and what didn't happen... the important parts of the stories are in the feelings evoked, and the obstacles overcome.  So here is the long and short of it...

I was in labor for over 24 hours...  I spent a lot of that in denial that it was actually happening.  I was afraid that acknoweldging it was actually happening would make it stop.  We had waited long enough for our baby, and to be honest my patience was shot...  I always thought that 24 hours wouldn't be that long to be in labor.  I was, afterall, a camp professional and had worked many many 24 hours days in my time.  However, this kind of 24 hours was a whole other world. 

Badass Midwife Pat after Hayden's
arrival

When our baby was born, I was surrounded by the perfect collection of people...  We worked with the most amazing group of midwives throughout our pregnancy.  Each one of them were impressive in their own ways, but there was one that I feel like I really gravitated towards (because of my need for bad-ass strong women to get my through tough times), and was so relieve to find out that it was Pat who on call when I went into labor.  The midwives work on a rotation, and although I really would have been really happy if ANY of them had been the one on call that night, I liked Pat the most from the very first time we met. She is the kind of lady that commands attention and respect, with a strength that you only find from an old soul. It is this type of personality that I need when faced with a challenge that seems insurmountable.  Someone who can show some tough love, but can be equally calming and gentle. Furthermore, I feel like we shared a lot of our journey with Pat. She was the first one that we breeched the trans-subject with in the Midwives office, and although she openly admitted that it wasn't something that she had an understanding of on a personal/emotional level, I feel like she was always open to making sure i felt as comfortable as possible...  and she was funny, in a slightly salty, slightly innappropriate grandma type of way, and if there is one thing that can make ANY situation better it is a good sense of humor and well timed joke.


Sharon (aka Mother Birth) with
Mama and Baba

I don't know how anyone gives birth without a doula.  I really don't.  Our Doula, Sharon, had become so much more than part of our birth, she was part of our journey, starting when we first met her in June.  When we were laboring at home, I felt such relief when Sharon arrived.  I have come to call her “Mother Birth” (only in my own head) because she embodies all the strength of a mother taking care of a scared child... without the part of a mother who cries for herself when her child is in pain.  I looked to her for strength and calmness and confidence, and each time was met with exactly what I needed.  We had found Sharon on the suggestion of multiple friends, and she helped us in many more ways than we could have ever expected. Sharon helped me let go of a lot of fear that I had pent up not only around birthing, but around who I was as a person, and how I was perceived in the world.


These two are just meant to be

And of course Amy was there...  There is no other person on this planet that I would have wanted to take on this trip with me.  Amy exuded strength when I couldn't and acted like my own private cheering section when I needed it.  She held my hand, until I almost broke hers, and bore witness to my fear in a way that calmed and comforted me moment by moment.  When I was tapped out, and thought I couldn't take anymore, I would look straight into her eyes and without words I would be ready to give it just a little bit more.  Obviously, every part of me wanted this baby, but when I thought about our birth, the most motivating force was the moment that Amy got to hold our baby for the first time.  I couldn't wait to give her that gift... and this image gave me the strength to continue, in the face of fear and exhaustion.

Bringing our baby into this world was the hardest thing I have ever done... physically, spiritually and emotionally, and there were a great many things that surprised me about the process.  I was surprised to find that I had very little concern surrounding my gender identity during birthing.  I feel like I went to a place where my body became very functional...  it was there to do a job (a very impotant, job...) and it didn't matter if I identified as male, female, neither, a snowman, a unicorn or anything else.  The body, carrying out a vital function of creating life, had taken over, and anything other than the functions of that process seemed tertiary and unimportant.  There was something so primal and natural about it that it completely superceeded any necessity for me to feel male or female or anywhere in between.  (Now that being said, I was lucky to have had an amazing hospital experience, where everyone was understanding of my feelings, did their damnedest to use my preferred pronouns and worked hard to make us feel comfortable.) 

I was also surprised at the physicality of giving birth.  I consider myself a pretty decent athlete... I mean, I did survive Division 1 Soccer Pre-Season in the 100 degree heat of a South Carolina summer... and have completed 2 half marathons in recent history...  But there is no physical event I have EVER participated in that even holds a candle to giving birth.  I pushed for two and a half hours (which is coincidentally exactly how long it takes me to run a half marathon, and part of me thinks that if it had been any longer than that I would have just refused to continue.)  We listened to my favorite running playlist (and I distinctly remeber being worried that there was cussing in some of the songs, and maybe it would offend someone in the room...  legitimate worry ama right?)  There were certainly moments I was glad that I had done squats throughout my pregnancy, because those muscles came in handy.  At some point, it was decided that I would hold one end of sheet, while someone would hold the other side of a sheet, and when pushing I would pull as hard as I could on my end, and the person on the other end would do the same (you know like tug-a-war). I think this really helped me focus my energy.  Of all of the many body parts I planned on being sore the day after giving birth, my deltoids were not on the list.  But when I woke up the next morning it felt like I had done multiple sets of dumbell lateral raises, with weights that were way out of my class.  (Sharon, who ended up at the other end of the sheet, said she was also very sore, so I must have done my job quite well.) 

But of everything that happened, I was surprised at how strong I felt afterwards.  Because I never had planned to get pregnant or give birth, I had given very little thought to what my "magical birth" would be like.  I certainly didn't plan for this process to affect me the way it did.  When Amy and I decided I would carry our first child, it was a decision made out of necessity.  So when I thought about our "magical birth" it would be one that, simply put, ended in us having a baby.  But if I had dreamed up my version of a "magical birth" this would have been it.  I have to admit, I spent the last hour of pushing convinced that it just wasn't going to happen.  I was scared, I wanted to stop, and I was convinced that I couldn't do it.  I was reassured by everyone present, that I indeed could do it.  Trying to look tough, or macho, or even "under control" was completely out the window.  I think for once in my life, letting myself be completely vulnerable brought me more strength than I ever imagined.


Kind of similiar to the first
view I had of our baby girl

By the end, I was so exhausted that I could hardly stay awake. Between contractions, I would close my eyes... I can't say that I was sleeping, but I certainly wasn't alert or awake.  As we neared the point of Hayden actually making her appearance, someone asked if I wanted to watch in the mirror.  Having contemplated this when writing our birth plan, I had thought...  "GROSS... YUCK... WEIRD... NO WAY!" but in that moment, in that state of really being witness to myself and the present, I did want to watch.... and I have to say it was one of the most amazing things I have ever seen.  I mean, for someone who still routinely uses the term "downstairs" when talking about their private parts and for 28 years having disregarded anything downstairs related, this was a pretty big deal.  Again, I think it was this willingness to be vulnerable that stayed my hand and got me through those final moments.  Also, seeing Hayden's head get closer and closer to its final emergence was a pretty amazing motivator.

I do wish I could share more details from the moment that Hayden finally came into the world... but it was such a blur of emotion that I am not at all sure what happened.  I know she was immediately put on my chest... and I remember screaming out of excitement that our baby had finally come and this wasn't all just a dream, and also out of relief that I had done it  (now when I say screaming I mean like really screaming... like going down the first hill of a rollercoaster screaming)!  But beside my primordial Xena Warrior Princess yelling, the rest of this memory is gone.  I told Amy I like to think that maybe my mind has saved the memory for if there is ever a time that I need a really powerful memory to give me strength... maybe then I will be able to recall it in full detail.


Hayden... working on "pinking up"

Everything was happening so fast. My next memory was them taking Hayden away because she wasn't crying. Amy later told me she was born with a double nuchal cord. I remember looking over at Amy, and all the sudden there were several people in the room. Amy looked scared, and that made me scared. Sharon kept telling us that it would be okay. Eventually I remember there being crying, and someone saying she had pinked up. What a weird phrase.... But it meant that she was okay, and for that I was greatful.  Then all the gratuitous scrub clad people left the room, as quickly as they came, and Amy was able to sit in the rocker with Hayden tucked snuggly into her sweatshirt, and it was every bit as beautiful as I could have ever imagined.

Although I don't remember what that whole series of events really looked like, I do remember the feeling of it.  I felt strength, exhaustion, disbelief that it had actually happened and an overwhelming feeling of love.  People say the first moment you see your child you will feel a love like nothing you have ever felt.  I have felt a lot of love in my life, and I can't say it was a better love than anything I have ever felt... but it was a different love.  The kind of love that you know is worth sacrificing everything for.  Everything we had worked for, and everything we had longed for, and all the nights we cried ourselves to sleep hoping for a baby that we felt  would never come, in that moment it all made sense.  All of the loss, and the hardship was worth it.  It was a completeness that I had never known.

So there you have it...  The moment that our lives changed forever...  Now the next part of our journey begins... and I for one, cannot wait to see what happens.

 

Working Backwards

Hayden 1 day old.

Spoiler alert: Hayden is here!!!  But... I really want to revisit this project.  There are so many reasons that I stepped away from this blog: I had a really hard time putting my emotions into words, and was struggling to process.  BUT moreover than that, I couldn't find the time, because boi, girl, or otherwise, PREGNANT PEOPLE NEED NAPS!

But I have more time now, and although my point of reference has kind of changed a bit, I still feel like I have important things to add to the conversation about being trans and carrying a child.  Obviously, I cannot speak for every other trans person who has taken on this life changing task, but it feels unfair, to myself, to not share

some of my favorite truths that I picked up along the way.

Not to jump the gun, and I want to go more into the meat and potatoes of

my feelings and experiences... But I feel amazing about this journey.  Although it wasn't our vision of the way we would get our baby, it is the way we did, and because of that, we wouldn't change it.

 

Just two stinkers.  Hangin' out

Our child is amazing.  She is beautiful beyond what we could have imagined, and I don't mean magazine attractive.  I mean, I look at her and see love, and happiness, and hope.  I see a world that is better with her in it... And I see her Mom in her (we are quickly learning how little relevance genetics have in our feelings about our baby).  They already have a special

bond that is beyond measure.  Amy is Hayden's Mom...  and it is pretty clear that she is going to be a Momma's girl.  And my heart skips a beat thinking about that.

I just sit and look at her...  And I think this is the most amazing thing I have ever done (and I have always believed myself to have led a pretty exciting life.)  It was one of the hardest, most humbling experiences I have ever had...  And I am not the same as I was before.  We took risks, and we made sacrifices, and we were pushed to our limits.  We learned about patience, and perseverance in ways that can only be taught through experiences that are made to test the very fiber of who you we were as people.  I am not saying we didn't come away with scars, because we certainly did, but when all is said and done, those scars are a small price to pay for our eventual reward.

Throughout this journey I feared that being pregnant would cause me to lose parts of who I was...  But in the end, I lost nothing.  I gained pieces of myself that I never knew I had...  I can't wait to share that with you.  So now we start at the end.... and work our way back.

 

The Guy in Khakis in the Hot Topic

So... I took a long break.  I had lots of feelings and emotions, and honestly, they were a bit much to handle.... and I didn't feel like I could process them in a way that would be healthy for blogging, so I have been a little silent lately.  Good news is, I feel great now.  I want to try and process some of the feelings I have had in writing over the next couple of weeks, but wanted to get something down quickly to rekindle my enjoyment of writing this blog.

So without further adieu....

So here is my a little comparison for the day.  Imagine it is 1999... and you are a punk kid (JNCOS, dog chain, studded belt and ringer tee included.)  All of your friends are also punk kids.... BUT, you also have a job at the mall that has a strict khaki and polo dress code.  One day on your 15 minute break from the Sunglass Hut, you walk down to the Hot Topic...  as soon as you walk in you feel out of place.  The guy behind the counter looks at you strangely, as if you aren't in the right place (also, you are not sure if this look is real or imagined).  You know in other social circumstances you may share a great moment of bonding listening to Blink 182's, "All the Small Things" but in this moment, in this situation, the guy with the spiked dog collar couldn't think he was more different than you.

You press on anyways.  You know what you are there for... and you know that even though it doesn't look like it is a place where you should be, you know you have the proper equipment, it is just hidden under your polo/khaki costume.  So you proceed to the chained wallet section (because for the 2nd time this year you have broken the piece that snaps onto your belt loop).  You choose one that suits you (probably red with sparkles like a 50s dinner seat) and you proceed to check-out.  All the sudden the guy behind the counter realizes you DO belong there.  You obviously had a desire for something in the shop, and although on the surface it doesn't look like this is your place, it is somewhere you had to go to get something that was necessary.

That's what going to the midwives office feels like.  Foreign and strange... not because I don't belong there, but because it looks like I don't belong there.  So maybe chain wallets and babies aren't the same, but I think you get the picture.

So... I'm Not the Only One....

I think I pass a little bit better than you,
Mr. Seahorse...

I have a new favorite animal.... It is the seahorse...  and here is why:

From:  Male Seahorses Are Nature's Mr. Mom, Researchers Say (although I find this title totally offensive, the article is still fascinating, if you leave out the heteronormativity...)

"When seahorses mate, the female inserts her ovipositor into the male's brood pouch (an external structure that grows on the body of the male) and deposits her unfertilized eggs into the pouch. The male then releases sperm into the pouch to fertilize the eggs. "It wouldn't be that interesting if the brood pouch were just a flap of skin where the females put regular fish eggs and they developed in the bag instead of on the sea floor," Jones said. "But the male pregnancy in some species of seahorses and pipefish is physiologically much more complex than that."

After the female deposits her unfertilized eggs into the male, the outer shell of the eggs breaks down, and tissue from the male grows up around the eggs in the pouch. After fertilizing the eggs, the male closely controls the prenatal environment of the embryos in his pouch. The male keeps blood flowing around the embryos, controls the salt concentrations in the pouch, and provides oxygen and nutrition to the developing offspring through a placenta-like structure until he gives birth."

So... I am going to start thinking of myself as a sea horse...  perhaps this will help with visualization during birth.  I was just REALLY excited to find this little fact out and needed people to know about this immediately. 

Becoming Baba

Here I am with our niece... Although I
had planned to  be her "Ancle", she had
 different plans and lovingly refers
to me as Didis, or Didi. 
(Taken at 6 months pregnant)

So... when it came to names I wanted to be called by my child... I was at a loss.  For a long time, I thought I would be a Doodah... which was a made-up name that I am can't even remember the roots of (although, I do know we had a dog name Doodah and one point in my childhood, and I know for a fact that the dog and the name for parent I had chosen were unrelated in any way.)  We have two feisty Jack Russell mixes and when they are misbehaving/being annoying/needing fed, Amy still tells them to "Go see your Doodah...", So I imagine I will remain a Doodah to our two fur-kids for evermore....

But then, my friend Paisley, sent me this fascinating article about Baba's: 

Why Hart Doesn’t Have Two Mommies

And I was going to write about my self-discovery and how I had chosen to adopt this name, etc. etc. etc., until I went back a re-read the article and although, our circumstances are different I felt like the author did a great job of describing their rationale....  But here are some highlights if you don't get around to reading the hole article...

1.  I have never been interested in being a Mom, or Mommy, or Mama.  Those words just don't feel right to me.... And like the author states, being a "Dad or Papa" felt like to much of a "project".  Reclaiming the masculine form of parent, seems like a huge undertaking and not something I imagine being ready for, while trying to juggle diaper changes, sleep deprivation, and all the other things that come along with parenthood.  After a while, explaining to people why I had chose Dad would become "BECAUSE I SAID SO"... which does no good for anyone.

2.  Baba has roots in different languages around the world... some where it is a masculine term, and other's where it was feminine.  I love this, because I love trivia... and because I feel like there are roots there.  Its like the universe gave us this excellent word, and I intend to make good use of it!

3.   I don't want to be the only gender queer parent in the world...  Because I have done enough of feeling like I don't belong.  There is a fine line to not feeling like you have a place, and changing yourself to be in a place that doesn't fit you.  I have learned this lesson repeatedly...  I like that there is a word for it, because I feel like that gives it power.  Knowing there are other Baba's out there makes me feel like I am not alone in this...

4.  A bit like/unlike the author... I, too, hope that people assumed that Amy carried the baby.  However, unlike the author, I am carrying the baby.  So... if I had my wish... they would assume Amy carried the baby... but they won't say it out loud, because it isn't important enough to do so...

So...  I will start out as Baba... and if our little one takes to that name, I will gladly accept it.  If she chooses something else, and I feel comfortable with that, I may roll with that as well...  I just want to be her parent...  And I want her to know that we have a very special bond regardless of what I am called.

Pregnant Boi in Blue and Pink Zones

In our 7th month of pregnancy, in Minneapolis,
with Mary Tyler Moore! 

For the majority of my life, I have spent time living as close to the "middle" as possible...  Which is damn near impossible when it comes to gender, because our society has given us very little middle ground.  So I have at least tried to choose what I wanted to choose, because I wanted to choose it... not because it was specifically male or female.  So I guess, this would  be an introduction to the difference between gender neutral (a space where gender one attempts to live in the middle of two genders) and gender open (a space where one picks and chooses from options regardless of what gender the typically, or stereotypically "belong" to). 

Anyways... pregnacy has forced me into a great many spaces that are typically "Pink" zones... ladies only.  And somedays I feel like a great pioneer.  And some days, I just want to be myself, without explaining, or discovering new ground, or planting flags, or manifesting destiny, or any other pioneering tropes...  So, I feel like by being forced into overtly female spaces, because of the law of averages I have subconcsiouly drifted more towards male "things".  I don't know how I feel about that, or really what it means, but it has definitely been interesting.

I would say the hardest Blue and Pink Zones, which I have navigated my whole life are bathrooms.  Just as a bonus, when in the 7th month of pregnancy, not only does your body start to rapidly change, you have no chance at doing the things you are normally physically capable of, and your feet are a constant reminder that you have "met your limits" for the day... you also have to go to the bathroom... a lot.  There was at time in my younger life where I would consume only the very smallest amount of water s that I never had to use the restrooms in public... and specifically in my rural/suburby high school, where kids were less than supportive of "difference".  But now, I am told drink, drink, drink.. and if I don't drink water, I feel crappy.... but if I do I have to go to the bathroom multiple times on out of house excursions.  Here are some strategies I have developed:

As you can see here, anyone who wears dresses, or doesn't,
or is a child, or little person (or maybe the small person is
average height and the two larger people are giants)
or you are in a wheelchair can use this bathroom.

1.  Dear God, let there be a family restroom:  I have read on some blogs that trans people are don't feel like they should use family restrooms,  because they have been set aside for a specific purpose.  I choose to ignore the word "family" if the sign includes it, and just think that the stupid sign, with the broad shouldered man AND the lady in the skirt, and imagine I fall somewhere in between those two things and therfore, the bathroom is intended for me (just as much as a male or female restroom would be intended for me.)  I certainly don't spend much time in there anyways...  On average it only takes me a minute to go, and then I am out!

2.  Duck and Roll:  There is a certain cadence of walking I have adopted when entering an all female restroom.  Peek around the corner, and eye up the scene.  Tuck the head, making eye contact with no one and approach the nearest stall.  I feel like, if I know what I am doing in there no one will ask me to leave, and if I walk fast enough, no one will have the chance to stop me.  Once safetly nestled in the stall, I do my business and listen very carefully until the coast is clear and I can make a clean get-a-way.  Amy is excellent help in this strategy and has also played the offensive line to my quarterback, allowing me to get in unnoticed.

3.  Belly out Chest Out:  Not my favorite strategy, but sometimes it is necessary when there is heavy traffic restrooms... like at our recent airport encounter.  This one is simple... look as pregnant as possible.  Remove hat (if wearing one), push bump out, and remove oversized outer garments.  Put hand in the small of the back and walk slowly in and look as tired as possible.  If there are any other pregnany steretypes that you see in the movies, now would be the time to use these tricks.  For ythe most part, Hollywood has designed pregnancy anyways, and somedays you just have to capitalize on that.  This one is hard, because it seems to be such a performance of pregnancy and femaleness, because thats what it is.  All morals and Theory aside, somedays this is the one that gets me through...  So this is for one of those "non-Lewis and Clark" days when I want to be a person first and an advocate later.

This list is not exhaustive...  nor is it perfect.  And bathroom situations will continue to be uncomfortable for the rest of my pregnancy, and probably the rest of my life.  But they are, unfortunately, a necessary evil.

Pregnant Boi and the TSA:
We recently spent some time travelling to Minnesota for a wedding.  And on our way back, I was just too tired to opt out of the body scan (sorry Paisley).  Like any other traveller, I took my shoes off, my jacket off, all of my belongings were removed from the pockets, etc. This left me in brown maternity pants, and an Old Navy V-Neck shirt.  Now again, I must mention, I am in my seventh month of pregnancy, and my body has changed drastically in the chest and stomach area...  But I stepped into the scanner, got into the arms up position, got scanned, and then waited... and waited, and waited, and then waited.  The agents whispered to each other, and looked confused, and then more whispering.  Eventually, after a long time, they asked me to step out, showed me that there were some places on my body were they had made some questionable discoveries, showing me the diagram, of a person, on a blue background with questionable areas over their chest, and belly.  They awkwardly asked if they could do the scan again.... and I agreed.  Second time: no discussion, no problem.  I stepped out... and the screen  reflected a person on a pink backgrond, with an "Okay" stamp....
Amy then explained to me (she had gone through security first and had watched the whole "show"). The first time they had scanned me as a male and shockingly found extra fluid in my pregnant stomache, and chest... but don't worry, as a female, I am no threat to national security.
There are so many thing I can say about this experience, and I am not sure how I feel about all of them, but I guess it is at least a little bit exciting that I am still passing, even if it is to a 70 year old TSA man.

A Different Kind of Passing...

When I was a kid there was a Double A hockey team that played out of Louisville, Kentucky, where I grew up.  My Dad being from New York, insisted we have season tickets.  So multiple times a week from October to March, we would head out to Broadbent Arena, sit in section 232, and cheer on the Louisville Ice Hawks!  After each game, we would go to the greet the team as they came of the ice, at which time if any of the players had broken a stick they would hand it over the little barrier to some deserving kid.  I noticed pretty quickly that that "deserving kid" usually turned out to be a boy... and, well, I wanted one of those sticks.  So, for the first time, I started to "pass".  I slicked back my hair, wore a cap, loose jeans, and a big black Ice Hawks t-shirt.  It kinds of became my uniform.  Now, trying to "pass" for this reason (to gain a privilege that your current gender doesn't allow) has many cultural implications about privilege and assimilation, but I will leave that to the academic theorist; for purposes of this story, I was a kid, who wanted a broken hockey stick, and in doing so found a more comfortable identity.

Robin Hood..  I think may Mom may have
curled my hair to offset the mustache

I can't say that's where it all started.  I was never a "girl"...  but it was at that point that I really grasped that dressing up like a boy was freeing to me AND as a bonus the "doing it to get a hockey stick" line, kept my parents at bay at least for a little while.  So, I started to dress-up like a boy when I had an excuse...  I went as Robin Hood the next year for Halloween.  And when we went through the local Fire Station Haunted House, a volunteer grabbed by Mom's foot and I felt brave enough to say "Get Off of my Mommy!"... you see Robin Hood was portrayed as brave in the Disney Cartoons, where all the princesses were busy being saved.  (Of course I have learned now that girls can be just as brave as boys, but my 9 year old brain only had Disney paradigms to work off of.)  Dressing like a boy made me feel like the best version of me.

Summer uniform: Polo and shorts

Fast forward...  So now I dress "like a boy" all the time.  Current daily uniform: khaki cargo shorts and polos.  In the winter: khaki style pants, and V-neck sweaters.  It is pretty simple.  I wear vests and ties when I have to dress up.  But as I got older, I stopped "passing".  I don't know if it is because my face no longer looks like a 12 year old boys, or what, but unless the person is in kindergarten (I insist that children have a better handle on gender than adults do), people barely ever recognize that I am not female.

So I have had an obsession with "passing" as a not pregnant person for as long as can.  It is not that I am not proud to be carrying our baby... because I am.  It is important work, and I get that.  But, to me, it is an interesting social experiment, as well as a way for me to bow out of the "Mommy" culture, where people are constantly reminding you to not pick-up heavy things, and take sit down breaks as often as possible.  Obviously, our close family and friends know that I am the "belly parent", as well as anyone reading this...  But I want to maintain as much anonymity at work as possible.  I work in an environment where as work policy dictates, a biological child, would be treated differently than a non-biological child, and so it is important to me to keep both of those words (bio v non-bio, which I DETEST anyway) out of people's brains.  If I could move to the mountains and never let anyone know who carried this child, that would be my druthers.  But we don't live in a vacuum, and so I have decided to be open with those people I am hoping will be understanding, and just maintain some belly parent ambiguity for those I don't feel comfortable engaging in conversation on the subject.

So here is the interesting thing... I have no idea if it is working.  We are currently 21 week, 6 days along, and I am certainly different shaped than I was 5 months ago.  But larger polo shirts do wonders.  I am aware of the ways that I stand that make things more obvious...  Amy and I currently play a game called "chubby guy/pregnant guy", where I stand in different ways and Amy tells me if I just look like I have just gained weight, or if I look pregnant.  I am still in that stage, where I feel like I just look like I have a beer gut, and no one wants to ask someone if they are pregnant, when it might be that they have just been indulging in a not so healthy food regimen.  I also think my masculinity will keep me in the clear for a while as well... because most people's brains don't process the gray area between male and female, and so being "male-ish" is not compatible with "baby carrying".  I am depending on people's ignorance in this respect, and maybe I will be surprised.

And I know it is just going to get harder.  This little bit is going to keep growing (I have been reminded), and at some point, I will probably no longer be able to hide it.  So my plan is to stop hiding the baby from people, and just start hiding from people altogether.  Luckily, I work in an office of 2-3... and I am thinking I can find creative ways to not need to go to our main office for large gatherings... where people may feel the need oogle.

My other current "passing" trick... I am growing a beard... and a nice one at that.  I grow facial hair naturally; when we were trying to get pregnant, I had my hormones tested left and right because the Doc was SURE I had too much testosterone that was causing me to grow such nice facial hair ("such nice facial hair" are my words, not her's)...  turns out I am just an anomaly.  Ever since I was about twelve, I would sneak into my Dad's bathroom and use his shaving cream and razor... I don't know if that promoted hair growth, or I willed it to grow with my mind.  But it is a nice thick dark little goatee.  It is my theory that people will be so caught up looking at my beard, that they will completely forget to notice anything else.  If that doesn't work, well, at least I think it looks good.

One Year Ago Today...

On this day, a year ago, Amy and I took an irreversible step on our journey to parenthood.  After many discussions, meditations, prayers, and even silences, we had come to the conclusion that she would be handing the baby holding reigns over to me.  It was a huge sacrifice on her part, and I will always be grateful to her.
So on this day last year, we went to the Doctor's office, and long story short, we made the first attempt at getting my body pregnant.  I will never forget how scared I was...  Because I am a member of what some may call in lesbian-speak (again, not a lesbian... but down with the jargon) in the gold-star club.  So in simple, biological terms this means that I was officially a sperm-free zone... and that was about to change.  I had also spent a very long time ignoring that I had biologically female sex organs, and up until about 7 days before had never been to the OBGYN... by the time the 23rd rolled around, I had been pap-smeared, poked, prodded and probed,  and given a shot in the butt to get ovulation timing correctly.  So I was beginning to feel like my "girl parts" had become a side-show (this particular office was an on-call office, meaning you saw who was there... so 3 appointments, meant 3 different audiences to my downstairs...)
Due to some unfortunate work circumstances, immediately after the appointment (yeah, the one I was sure would be traumatizing and need several hours of debrief), I had to drive for 2 hours to do a 2 night overnight work trip.  I don't know if it has come through in previous posts, but Amy and I are VERY close...  maybe some would say unhealthy close.  Some days, it is really hard to get out of bed to go to work because the snuggles are JUST. THAT. GOOD.  Anyways, she is my safe space, and my home, and I never like being away from her, but I figured this would be excruciating.  I went to sleep away camp my whole childhood (starting in 2nd grade) and never felt homesickness until the first business trip I took away from my wife (lame... I know.) 

This is my rainbow.... as I rode out of town.  I have
often wondered if it showed up, just because it
made a great plot device in a story....

So anyways, as I am riding out of Columbus, after the world's most uncomfortable appointment, in which I feel like I had crossed an irreversible line that I never planned on crossing, and then had to leave the only person that felt like a safe space, there was a perfect rainbow.  (Please see footnote about rainbows... are blogs supposed to have foot notes?  Well.. this one does)
 Now, this blog is certainly not about religion... but let me tell you, in that moment, I knew that in someway, someday, everything was going to work out.  Now... I wish it had been an omen for that moment, and that attempt...  and of course it wasn't, because then we would already have a baby.
So here we are, one year later, almost 5 months pregnant, planning doula appointments, thinking about registries, knitting blankets (well... I don't knit, but Amy does) and reflecting on how we got here.  The world is so strange, and scary... but some days it just makes sense.  In that moment, with that rainbow, there was a certain amount of clarity... although completely muddied by own expectations.




Rainbow Footnote:  I love rainbows...  I love them because they are a naturally occurring bit of magic.  There is not other perfect color scheme where one color leads to perfectly into another with blending and shades in between!  They are also scientifically amazing (I teach kids about rainbows, so I know a thing or two about refraction and prisms)...  But the whole gay pride rainbow has REALLY gotten in the way of my love of rainbows.  NOT EVERY RAINBOW IS ABOUT BEING GAY!!  Sometimes I want kids to make a rainbow craft, because it is, AGAIN, the most wonderful color scheme, and then I have to second guess myself, because I don't want people to think that I am trying to trick their kids into queerness by a slip of the spectrum into one project or another.
So... I love that rainbows are a sign of pride, but I hate that I feel like I can't use them everywhere I want because it may get me into trouble!

Coming Out as Pregnant... Or Trans... Or Both....

Telling people you are pregnant is really exciting... Especially the people who didn't see it coming!  But every time we tell someone, there is a bit of a fear of the reaction....  Not all of these responses have happened directly to us, BUT, just because they haven't happened, doesn't mean we don't have a fear that they will....

So lets discuss...

1.  Who is the Mom?, Who's having the baby? and Who's knocked up?
More often than not people are asking who is pregnant...  which is not what all of these questions represent to us as queer parents. 

Who is the Mom? can be answered with: Amy is the Mom.  She has chosen Mommy, Mama, Momma to be her parental moniker... I have chosen something else, which I will discuss is a later blog entry:  Becoming Baba. 

Who's having the baby?  This doesn't mean what it seems either.  Because AMY AND I are having a baby.  We have been on the same page about this since day 1, we have both been at every appointment, we make joint decisions, etc.  So the answer to this is WE are having the baby.

Who's knocked up?  I just wanted to add this one because I find this phrase so offensive...  No one should be using the phrase knocked up.  A quick search of etymology reveals that this term comes from brothels in the 16th century, which were called "Knocking Houses".  Yuck.... Not the same as my experience friends... not the same.  Want more info? Click here.

But the fundamental issue with all of these questions:  Who is pregnant? is a deep and emotional one.

Well... if you must know...  I am carrying the baby.  But I am okay with saying WE are pregnant.  Amy has done just as much work as I have.  When I am sick, she is taking over my household responsibilities... When I am tired, she is there to make sure I am comfortable... When I need a Snickers Bar and a Gatorade, she will happily retrieve them.  So while I may be the "acting baby house" for 9 months, that in no way makes me more of a parent.  If anything, Amy has taken on way more responsibility than I have.  I mean, puking certainly isn't comfortable, but I would rather puke for 15 minutes than do all the laundry, all the house work, make the bed, do the dishes, etc...  And I get to take more naps than usual...  So I definitely don't feel like I should be given any more medals than my wife, for what I am doing.

Of course people are going to be curious about this.... and maybe I am more guarded about it because I don't want there to be any doubt that Amy is as much of this kiddos parents as I am.  We live in a shitty time (although getting quickly less shitty) and all these questions about being biological related on top of living in a state (and working for an organization) that doesn't appropriately recognize our family structure makes it really hard to want to be forthcoming about who the biological parent is.  This makes it very hard to swallow when this is one of the first questions we are asked.  We are open to answering this... with the right timing, and the right audience.  But, I don't feel the need to discuss who's "knocked up" with the person that I sat in front of in biology class, who cheated off my tests and chewed tobacco during lectures.

2.  How did THAT happen?

Okay... I get it.  You have questions...  Well I do to.  Remember: the way we make our babies is very different from the majority of the population BUT I have just as many questions of my friends who make their babies in the privacy of their home.  I think making babies by having sex is weird.  That is weird to me... BECAUSE that is not my life experience.  You may think making a baby in a Doctor's office, or with a needless syringe after visiting the sperm bank is weird... BECAUSE that is not YOUR life experience. 

Lets just face it... making babies and growing them in our bodies is weird.  Of course it is natural... but so is people who can flip up their eye-lids. And there are people out there who don't think it weird, and I respect that totally!  I just think it is bizarre (and not bizarre gross, but bizarre fascinating!). 

The point being... lets celebrate first... and then I would be happy to talk to you (in whatever detail I am comfortable with) about our baby making experience.  My first question to a bio male/ bio female couple would never be: so, was this planned or an accident?  Was there foreplay?  That's inappropriate... And you asking me about any and all procedures involving our private parts is inappropriate as well.

3.  Who is the Dad?

YIKES!!!!!!  Simple mistake... you are asking (hopefully) about the donor.  If you took High School Biology, you should know, it takes vital ingredients to make a baby... and in our household, we only have one.  So OF COURSE we had to acquire said missing ingredient.  This is not always the most comfortable thing to talk about it either... because it means that one of us, will not be biologically related to our child... and, that kids, is a fact of life.  No way around it (for now...)  But we know this, and have dealt with it, and talked it through, and gotten to a place of mutual understanding.  But when the capital D(ad) word comes up... it stings a little. 

We will answer questions about the donor for close friends and family... but to the general public, just know that we picked a great person from an EBay like menu, and are happy with our choice... AND YES, they have been screened for diseases...

4.  Is this really a good time?

This is not one we have heard... but it is one that I fear.  It is never a good time to have a child...  I mean, if someone said: would you like something that cuts your income in half, keeps you up at night, could possibly turn out poorly if you do something wrong AND poops on itself?  The answer would be a resounding no.  There is never enough time or money to be a parent... until you are one.  Just because we got to (or "had to" as I see it) plan out when we would try to have kids, doesn't mean that anyone gets to judge our decision.

THE ULTIMATE NO-NO

I think there are many pregnant people that would agree... they don't want people touching them... especially in a growing belly that isn't always comfortable.  I generally don't like to be touched AT ALL and as my body grows and changes, I think this will become even more important.  If I want you to touch my baby gut, I assure you, you will be invited to do so.  Until you are invited, please stay out.

But this problem is deeper than that.  Amy is very feminine...  She likes skirts, dresses, makeup and (what I would call) unreasonable shoes.  So in the paradigm of procreating people, she is the pregnant one, right?   I mean... I wear the ties and the pants (not the metaphorical pants, the real ones) so it is fairly obvious that the more feminine of the two of us is carrying the child.   And we are aware that this will be the assumption, and once the baby is here, I am more than happy for people to think that Amy carried the little munchkin.  Its cute when people ask Amy how she is feeling, and she gets to say "I feel great, but Chris spends most mornings draped over the toilet."  What is not cute is when that assumption turns into an inappropriate belly pat on my non-physically pregnant wife's tummy.  Its like a bad episode of "Let's Make a Deal" where you have CLEARLY chosen poorly as to which curtain you should look behind.

So my overall advice, keep the belly pats to yourself, unless invited... and ESPECIALLY if you aren't sure which belly the baby is in.

MY INTENTIONS...

So like I have already covered... it was never my intention to be pregnant... and then it was not my intention for anyone to know that I was carrying the baby (which I would still like to maintain a shred of amniotic anonymity).  There is an awful lot of biological parent privilege... or "Mommy privilege" that I just don't want.  I don't need the comfiest chair, I don't need the first helping of food, and I certainly don't need anyone telling me to not pick up anything that weighs more than 15 pounds (I have done my research and our midwives have told us nothing over 50 pounds... which is not something I pick up on a routine basis anyways)... and I don't want people to assume that I am any more of the parent to this child than Amy....

Then I decided I did want to share my journey, with a select audience...  People who may be interested, people who are thinking about possibly being in our position someday, or people who maybe have an understanding of some of the issues that have arisen and will continue to arise throughout this process.  I have put together a very carefully crafted group on Facebook to share the journey with... (so that means if you see this in a status update, that you were specifically chosen... congrats!). 

So, I am finally ready to come out as a Pregnant Boi...  I am the one who is currently acting as the baby's housing unit.  And I am not a woman.  I don't want to be called Mama (I have yet to find the perfect way to address this with people, especially medical personnel.), and I don't want to be treated like I am breakable.  I just want to keep being me, and not be shoved into a whole other category of people that I don't necessarily feel I belong with.

Pregnant Boi's Pregnant Introduction

Here is my last picture before becoming the pregnant boi.  I don't know why I snapped this on the way to the
Docs office that day, but I think it is kind of special.

Hello,
I am the pregnant boi.   Or in people first language, the boi who is pregnant...  but most people call me Chris.  There are a lot of different ways that I could describe how we got to this point, but it is a long and complicated story, with lots of plot twists, anti-climaxes, semi-climaxes and other types of plot driven narrative devices... But alas, this specific blog isn't about BECOMING a pregnant boi, as much as it is BEING a pregnant boi.  But since becoming pregnant is an important part of being pregnant, I will outline the important facts of the matter in a bulleted list.

• I have a wonderful wife, Amy, who supports me and loves me and wants nothing more than to raise a family together.  We started plotting how to have kids before our second official date... and not in a lesbian joke punch line type of way (which wouldn't really fit because neither of us identify as lesbians... again, another story entirely...), but in a "we fit together well enough that we could imagine bringing up a small portion of the next generation together" way.  I must also mention that we had known each other for a total of 4 years before that second date.  Kind of like two puzzle pieces that have always gone together, but were stuck at opposite ends of the puzzle table, and then when you put them next to each other, it is obvious they should have been together all along...  I could go on and say more romantic stuff all day, but I will spare you...  Long story short... no one really had to convince us that having kids was for us... it was kind of inevitable.
• Being pregnant was never in the plan for me.  I may spend some of my time explaining more about this... but simply put, I never had an overwhelming desire to carry a child.  Maybe gender politics had something to do with it, or the fact that child birth never seemed like something I could (or wanted) to handle...  But anyways, through our process of BECOMING pregnant, there were different things that popped up that led us in this direction...  Amy will carry a child some day... it IS something that she has always wanted.  But because of circumstances beyond our control (dumb insurance policies, poor doctors communications, maternity leave issues, among other things that could lead me into a full on soap-box rant, etc.) I ended up in the saddle, or maybe I should say stirrups....
• It took us a long time to get pregnant.  We wanted to be that couple who visited a doctor once, and took a home pregnancy test, and never looked back, but that wasn't in the cards.  It took us 10 tries over the course of 1 year and a quarter, which is draining physically, emotionally, financially, spiritually and many other -ally's.  The process vastly changed my outlook on life, and what sacrifice really means.  It also means that this baby will always be one that was fought for.  Throughout the whole process, there was one thing that didn't change... and that the fact that, no matter, we would be parents.
• But what this blog is really about is, I'm not a woman, or a man, or boy or girl.  I have adopted the title of Boi, because that feels most comfortable.  Obviously, to become pregnant one has to have female sexual organs: and that I do.  But that is one of the only things that is uncomplicatedly female about me.  I love who I am, and it has taken me a long time to get here.  I feel like I have finally reached a place in my life, where I can just be me and do what I want without someone telling me I can or can't do that because I am a boy or a girl.  In political terms, I would say, I am an independent, but usually caucus with the males.  Practical examples:  Showers (baby, bridal or otherwise) are not my thing... so we have a tradition that during these events I go to hang out with the boys.  However, I am also a sucker for pedicures, shopping and interior design (now on the stereotypes scales these could make me female, or a gay male...) and my love for color and flamboyance often has me thrown in with dandies.  So to sum it all up... I am just me... (except for the parts of me that, not unlike any other human being, wants to fit in, which we will also discuss ad nauseum.)

Loving this book.  You should read it too! 

So...  I am sure I am forgetting something... and will fill in the cracks later.  I just needed to start writing, or it was never going to happen.  When I first decided to become a pregnant boi, I looked all over for information about what this "condition" was really like...  My searches mostly turned up blanks...  You can find tons of articles on how to keep wearing high heels throughout your pregnancy, but there wasn't a lot of information on how to avoid switching out my fruit of the loom tighty whities for maternity underwear (which I didn't even know was a thing...).  I did find a great comic book called "Pregnant Butch" by AK Summers and I am currently winding my way through that amazing piece of literature.... and I am sure I could find something academically written somewhere about the queering of pregnancy, this and that.... but I am not looking for academics here.  I am looking for real language that pertains to real people that is accessible to and for the regular Joe, Jane, Joe-Jane  and Jamie Schmo's of the world. 

I guess I am inviting you on my journey.  I don't know what all I will talk about, but I think for the good of my sanity, I need this project.  If there are others pregnant bois, or pregnant bois to be out there in the world, or anyone really who draws any insight or comfort from my experience that is a complete bonus.