Tuesday, 1 July 2014

Lippy Kids

Last week, my oldest and best friend got married.
I popped over to England to serve my duties as a bridesmaid and experience my first wedding as an adult, which I must say is far more fun, on account of all the alcohol.

Out of all 6 bridesmaids I was the only gay, and I forgot how out of place I feel being surrounded by straight girls who were chatting about semi-permanent makeup tattooing and eyelash extensions.


So while they were still applying foundation and gossiping about the groomsmen, I was already finished. Dress, make up, hair, everything. So I pottered around for the next hour while everyone else finished up.

The ceremony was beautiful, and although I always scoffed at people crying at weddings, I admit my eyes got a little damp. The whole thing was lovely.

And then I realised.

I could have all this too.

And it hit me how far the gay rights movement has come from back in the day where our most pressing problem was being arrested for having sex. But now? We can delight in all the same problems as the Straights.

Marriage. Kids. In-laws. Shared pensions and joint bank accounts.

I can have all that…if I want it.

So now the important question....Do I?

Completely ignoring for the moment that I am lesbian in her mid-20s, who will soon be working as a waitress and about to move in with her sister and finance… do I want marriage? Do I want kids?

There are so many possibilities open to us Lezzers nowadays, it’s almost baffling. From adoption to IVF, we can create our own little families complete with babies wearing the cute little “I love my Mommies” onsies.

I like the idea of marriage and that kind of commitment to another person, but when it comes to kids, my mind is a little less clear.

So although the NHS is a bit of a lottery when it comes to lesbian rights and how what you’re entitled to depends almost entirely on which county you happen to live in, it’s still an option .

For the best part of the past year I’ve been working with 3 very cute and Arian looking German kids from ages 4-13. And it has seriously made me reconsider my “wanting-children” stance.

Aside from the usual complaints of having children; the costs and the sacrifices and the lack of drinking for 9 months, I have some really shitty genetics going on in my family tree.

As has R come to think of it.

So any offspring of mine could look forward to being predisposed towards depression and enjoy high cancer risks. Girls can follow the last 3 generations of women by developing glaucoma, not forgetting a whole heap of lovely allergies as well as a healthy dose of schizophrenia.

So far, my biological clock is ticking very quietly, in fact I seem to have hit the snooze button. I realise one day it might all change, I’ll wake up with nothing on my mind but little, cute, fat babies and a white picket fence.

However, in the mean time I have to deal with people constantly insisting that of course I will change my mind and educating me by saying that just because I’m  gay doesn’t mean I can’t have a family of my own.

Wasn’t it so much easier being repressed?  When your only choice was to quietly settle down with your “friend” and die a “spinster” while being part of a heavily underground LGBT community.

I am so totally in awe of parents who can put up with children. Gay and straight alike. To have a baby throw up on you and coo. To have a child finally piss in the toilet and want to tell the world. I always thought parents were crazy when a child would show them a shitty drawing or how high they could jump, and the parents would just fall over themselves with pride.

But then…a couple of months ago, the youngest boy I look after, F, who is 4, finally got the verbs the right way round in English.

Finally, finally asking,
“Can you please help me?”

And not,
“Can you please me help?”

And it happened.

I was so proud.

I was a beaming, crazy, proud “parent”, who very loudly replied, “OF COURSE I WILL HELP YOU, F!” in the middle of the playground, much to his embarrassment.

So do I want kids?

Probably not.

Do I want to give up my freedom to travel? To spend a hefty portion of my income on caring for a small human who will spend the first few years of its life puking and peeing on me? Do I want to potentially destroy my vagina? To put huge amounts of stress on my relationship? To spend my evenings at PTA meetings pretending to like the other Mothers?

Not really.

But luckily, it’s hardly something I have to worry about right now.


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