March 16, 2011
My two moms
I was made by my mom and a donor. A donor is someone who will give up something they have, specifically medical, for someone else who needs it; in this case, my mom needed sperm to make me. Canterbury Elementary was my school, and that was the place where it all started. In the first couple of years of my life, I thought I was either adopted or something much more complicated and hard to think about. In the end, I was right about the complicated part when I found out. My friends always thought that I was lucky to have two moms, but they were never right. My friends used to make up stories that I was an abandoned princess or an orphan, but they were wrong.
Have you ever gone camping or fishing with your dad, or just had some good quality time with him? I’ll never have that chance. My moms are great, but on the down side, having the extra mom means one less dad, or a male role model in my life. As a toddler, I didn’t understand much about my family. I didn’t actually find out how I was born into my family until much later. I was abnormal, like an experiment gone wrong.
“Mommy, are you ok?”I asked, seeing an unusual look on her face.
“Yes, Hannah, just thinking,” she replied, as if deep in thought.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, baby, you ask and I will answer.”
“Am I adopted?” I asked, immediately wanting to take back what I said.
“Oh, Hannah, no! I’m your mother! I went into labor with you for 33 hours, waiting for you to be born! You are MINE and I love you very much!” she screamed.
“Oh, ok, I love you too!” and I left to play with my Barbie.
As I grew older, the more I understood, but wanted a normal, in my opinion, family. I knew my family was different, but not in a bad way, still. I could never get over being abnormal. I started feeling alone, like I had nobody. Like a baby, I would cry, the warm salty tears rolling down my cheeks when I got home from school, and even at school. I was the only one in my class with two moms. Correction, only one in the school. Nobody could relate to what I was going through. I pushed away friends and sat in the darkest corners I could find.
My parents had no idea how I felt, and they knew they didn’t. Later, they decided I had anger issues and needed some “help.” I disagreed, but they didn’t care. I went to therapy, with other children who were way different than me, such as having a fear of stairs or afraid of getting a fail on any project. In the cold, white room, the door seemed to be calling my name, “Hannah, come open me and go home, you know you want to!” I literally fought myself to not run out screaming, saying I didn’t have problems, but I didn’t want to embarrass myself. Every Friday, I went to that horrible place, two more months. I finally convinced my mom let me stop.
“Bang!!!” I broke the window with absolute precision. Glass pieces went everywhere. I felt a glass piece under my skin and winced in pain, frightened.
“I never meant to break anything. I just threw my shoe to let out my anger!”
My parents would never understand, so I thought. I didn’t know how to handle it, and my anger took over.
I kept seeing my grandma, Judith, who died the day before my brother was born. I had a flashback of me playing with the needlepoint train, with her watching me over my shoulder. I would smell her ancient perfume, but loved it so much. She was the only one I could talk to, and would understand.
“Why are you angry occasionally, Hannah? What is the reason?”
“Nobody understands how I feel, Dr. Feinfeld. I’m all alone.”
“You can and will get through this, I know it.”
Suddenly, like a light bulb turning on, shining a bright light, I adjusted myself. I faced bullies, specifically Cori Mallory, a.k.a. the “Queen Bee of Mean,” and stood up for my parents and myself. When someone came up to me saying that their parents voted Yes on Proposition 8, I responded back, in a polite way, that it’s great that they voted at all and are good citizens. I surprised them with a good attitude and went along with it. I am who I am, and no one can change me.
Bullies and other obstacles along the way made it hard to overcome this conflict, but it was definitely worth it. I have met other people who have bi or homosexual parents and they felt the exact same way as I did. Some people finally understand. Soon after, I moved to a new school and made many new friends. All of them love my moms, and I have nothing to hide.
I accept my family for who they are and you should too. Both my moms are different, but as the famous saying states, “opposites attract.” Mothers are important in a family, and it turns out that I have two.
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