Being lesbians immediately excludes us from the set of those lucky enough to become accidentally “knocked up”.

Knocked up.

I find that term hilarious by the way. It conjures images of recklessness and unfortunate bobble-heading, peppered with some Seinfeld “little kicks” rhythmics.

Regardless, unsexy any way you look at it.

My own mother got “knocked up”, and had the stereotypical shotgun wedding. I did the math when I was in grade 1, and being the typically overly mature and insightful daughter of neglectful parents, I wasn’t surprised that I was unplanned.

In fact, this realization brought more clarity to my strong suspicions that my parents resented having to be parents.

My father was (and still believes that he is), a playboy. His narcissism led him to have many extramarital romances, which essentially turned my mother into what I believe to be a very dense ball of resentment.

Even nearing 60, she is unable to unclench her hypertrophic grip on the past, and I believe that as a result, is cutting off her nose in spite of her face.

This manifests itself in many additional ways that have always and continue to hurt my sister and I.

Recently, I had a conversation with my mother about my darling wife and I beginning the process of trying to conceive. Despite my obvious excitement, her response was a mere “Okay.”


What the eff!?!

A flood of emotions came over me, and I was both deeply hurt and horribly angry. I am less angry now, but still incredibly hurt.

It makes me feel unloved, unsupported, and reminds me that I was unwanted.

I try to put myself in her shoes, which makes me realize that the smoke of her past is so thick, that it blinds her from seeing the future. It prevents her from dreaming of the love of her future grandchildren. A love that can heal her…

… the antidote that I can never be, because I am his spitting image. I am the poison transformed, with an undeniable resemblance.

I am the scar left after the wound heals, except that in her case, it has yet to heal.