Part four of a six-part series of excerpts from “Confessions of a Lesbian Dad,” originally published in Confessions of the Other Mother: Non-biological Lesbian Moms Tell All (Ed. Harlyn Aizley. Boston: Beacon, 2006).
[Series intro and backstory here.]
Happy as a clam was I, when I went to my first LGBT Pride Celebration as a soon-to-be Baba with my now-pregnant sweetie. I was, I dare say, prouder at that Pride than I’d been since I went to my first one more than twenty years back. And there have been some doozies. New York’s twentieth anniversary of Stonewall. DC’s twenty-fifth. Dyke Marches in three — no, make that four cities. One of which I helped lead, unpermitted, through city streets (in fact, that’s how I snagged the mother of my child, but that’s a story for another day). Now here I was, erstwhile lesbo rabble-rouser turned soon-to-be-lesbo dad. I had me a name: Baba. We had us a peanut in Jennifer’s belly, and she was starting to show.