Family

Family is a complicated word, to me. Depending on what I'm saying, it can be my mom and stepdad and I, or the three of us plus their four kids, or the kids and them. It can also be my dad and stepmom. Or them plus my three brothers. And two sisters-in-law. And two nephews and a niece. It could be V's parents, brother, and sister-in-law. It could be V and I with our kitties. It could even be Patrick and Lilly's family.

Usually, which definition I mean depends on whom I'm talking to. I expect them to figure it out. Even so, I frequently find myself clarifying - "We went to visit my family last weekend, I mean, my dad and stepmom, and we saw my brothers..." It is, to say the least, obnoxious.

My parents separated when I was two; the only idea of family that I remember is this disjointed, non-overlapping one. When I was younger, I swore I would never get divorced. I didn't want my kid to have to deal with shuttling between houses, or overhearing arguments, or feeling like she was the only reason her parents couldn't just move on with their separate lives. On top of that idea, I wanted my child to have a "normal" family.

Granted, two moms wasn't exactly what I was planning. Any semblance of normal is pretty much out the window. But right now, more than anything, I want our baby to be able to say "this is my family," and have it mean us. Always. No explaining, no clarifying, no shifting definition.

I want to provide a family. I want to raise a child, or more, in a family. It won't be the family of my younger imaginings, but it will have what I so desperately wanted: stability and security. It's been mentioned before that LGBT parents are so dedicated because they have to work so hard to have kids. It's true. I was a complete accident; my mother supposedly cried on her bed with the pregnancy test. Sure, she fell in love with me at birth (she hastily added), but it doesn't change the beginning.

Our child will be yearned for, beloved, and welcomed into our family with tears of joy.

This post is part of the 7th annual Blogging for LGBT Families Day. To read everyone else's thoughts, visit Mombian.

Play

As I mentioned in my last post, I'm pretty hands-off at the playground. I think kids, especially my two, can generally manage for themselves. When it comes to the ideas of free range parenting, I have to backpedal some: I don't live in an area where I'd be comfortable letting my child wander, and, besides, they're only three and a half.

However, I'm not going to hold their hands through life, and the easiest application of this is the playground. Sometimes it really bugs them, too. They want me standing under the ladder as they climb it; they want my hands holding theirs while they cross the bridge. But in my book, if you can't do it by yourself, you're not big enough, and you shouldn't be doing it.

In a way, it actually requires more trust in the kids: trust that they'll recognize when something is beyond their capability. It means that when Patrick got stuck on the twirly thing at the playground yesterday, and Lilly came running to get me, I helped him get unstuck and then told him I was going back to sit down. He pouted, for a long time, about the fact that I wouldn't help him do it again.

The playground also has a climbing wall, sort of. It's more like a red tower with little steps and handholds, plenty wide enough for a foot turned sideways. Last summer, the kids learned how to climb it. Yesterday, I watched them both scale to the top, and then look down. I stifled the urge to tell them not to do that: it was unlikely that they would fall, given how tightly they were holding on, and, really, they aren't allowed to look over a "precipice"?

Lilly decided to climb back down. She put a foot on the little step near the top, and paused. She considered. She pulled her foot back up; she put it back down. She tried to twist. She stood at the top, turned around, and put her foot down backwards. She moved the other one down. She slid her hand from the bar at the top to a handhold. She made her way all the way down, climbing down as if a ladder. As soon as she reached the bottom, I went over to tell her how awesome it was that she figured out a way to get down.

A few minutes earlier, she'd been having trouble getting up. I was sitting about fifteen feet away, half paying attention to her. There were, of course, a bunch of moms clustered around the playset itself. Lilly made it up about three feet, and then fell. Flat on her bottom. Clean fall, with a little bounce thanks to the springy ground.

One of the moms darted toward her. She didn't quite reach her, but she was ready - and she was looking around for someone to care. Lilly looked over to where I knew she was; I smiled and waved. She got up, looked up at the tower, and climbed it perfectly.

Over a year ago, I wrote about the playground mentality of caretakers looking out for all the kids. I love it still. I love that that mom was aware that a child had fallen. Much as I knew she didn't need to go help Lilly, I appreciate the community: when we all look out for each other's kids, all children are freer to explore all of the world. Even if, for right now, that world is just a playground.

For a shorter and more eloquent take on this same idea of free-range playgrounds, check out Helicopter Parenting Just Isn't My Style.

Free

I've realized something unusual about myself, when the twins and I are at a playground. I generally find myself a shady bench or table, pull out a crossword book, and absorb myself. I'll glance up to see the kids, every now and then, but I just let them do their thing. It's easier with twins, too; they definitely interact with each other a ton.

In much the same way that "feminism is the radical idea that women are equal to men" (attributed to Rebecca West, among others), free range parenting is the radical idea that children aren't idiots. It's realizing that they need to learn through experience. It's not a term I'd heard until recently; in fact, when I first heard about it, I was flatly against it. The idea of not knowing where my kids are? Terrifying.

But wait. I started having childhood flashbacks to following my brothers into the woods, not coming out until my stepmom rang the giant cast iron bell inherited from her grandmother's farm. I remembered the whole neighborhood, ages fifteen and under, dividing up into teams for flashlight capture the flag in the summer. I remember walking to the bookstore half a mile away, in my early teens, and telling my mom I'd be back in a few hours.

Maybe this idea isn't so radical after all. The more I think about my childhood (which really wasn't that long ago!), the more it seems I - and everyone else my age - was "free-ranged."

Thanks to this article by Libby Anne for making me think through this again. I'm interested to see how it affects my future child-rearing ideas!

I'll come back to the twins and I at the playground tomorrow, and write about the Incident that got this stuck in my brain. Though it really wasn't big enough to warrant a capital I.

Join

I'm not sure what I'll write yet, but in some form or another, I'll be participating. I only heard about this last year (and barely had time to throw up a few sentences), but I loved reading all the entries. Sometimes that reminder of community is all we need.

Blogging for LGBT Families
(because I'm not cool enough to know how to link images)

Comfort

V is so much more comfortable with my family now. It's a different dynamic from the last few visits, and I love how much more relaxed we all are. I can go to the bathroom without anxiety for leaving her alone!

Plus, my cousin, whom we stayed with last night, is awesome.
This is being a really good trip.
I am so glad.

Radio

Radio silence.
V and I are traveling over the long weekend, and won't be back until late on Monday. Expect not to hear from me.
Enjoy the weekend!

Times

There's a teeny photo, from behind, of V and I, in the Styles section of today's New York Times. Our photographer contacted us a couple weeks ago, saying that she'd been contacted to see if the paper could use some of her pictures. While all three of us had grandiose visions of a spread paired with an inspirational article on love, we'll take a small picture headlining a fashion piece. It means there's still room to go up.

Seriously, though, "fame" - though totally not connected to our names - is bizarre. Our picture is in the NYT. The flickr album of our wedding has almost 30,000 views. Tumblr keeps spitting out new pictures, each with over a thousand likes, comments, and reposts. What's a girl to think?

I'll give you a hint: it goes to my head, a little bit. I've never wanted to be traditionally famous, but there's a high that comes from seeing your image so adored. It's a high that I want again and again. It's dangerous.

So, does the BBC want to do a special on us, yet?