Making Babies the Lesbian Way. And why it might be good for your STRAIGHT marriage.

First things first, I should be very clear that lesbians (and trans men) get pregnant in a variety of ways. They might have sex with cisgender men or use anonymous/known donor sperm via a sperm donor clinic. They might use fertility treatments, including but not limited to, IVF. And that's not even touching on the options of surrogacy, and adoption, and children created in prior relationships. Others, like me, use a known donor to donate fresh sperm and do at home inseminations. But "Making Babies (one of the) Lesbian Way(s)" is sort of a weird title for a blog post.

So, anyway, where am I going with this? I have a friend. I'm going to call her Khaleesi because I just read that there are now more babies named Khaleesi than Betsy or Nadine in the U.S. and that totally blows my mind. But that's not her real name. She doesn't want her sex life broadcasted on the internet. I know, weird right? I mean, my wife doesn't want that either, but I can't really give her the same pseudonym treatment as Khaleesi without confusing everyone. Sorry Tracy.

So, a little while ago, Khaleesi sends me a message asking for specific details regarding our artichoke jar inseminations.  This throws me off guard as I know that she is happily married to a cisgender man. But sometimes people send me messages asking for information for their sister, coworker, hairdresser's cousin's BFF, etc. So I give her my standard reply with a few specifics and point her to The New Essential Guide to Lesbian Conception, Pregnancy, and Birth** which was basically my bible during my trying to conceive process.

A few days later she sends me a long response thanking me for the information and tells me that she and her husband have been trying to get pregnant, without success, for 10 months now. They have two more months to try to conceive "naturally" before their doctor will give them a referral to a fertility clinic. And in the meantime their marriage is really suffering. Sex has become a chore and they are both frustrated, grumpy, and on edge. Khaleesi is taking her temperature each morning in an attempt to predict her most fertile period. This is called charting your basal body temperature and it's awesome for seeing patterns overtime to predict when one is going to ovulate (in addition to identifying some cycle issues that may be impairing fertility). But, in general, it tells you when you have ovulated rather than when you are about to ovulate so there is still some guess work to be done.** And Khaleesi and Dothraki (also not his name but, hey, I figured I'd grab another Game of Thrones word and google gave me that one) are sick of the guessing game. Dothraki is really frustrated with the scheduled sex-on-demand that their attempts at baby-making are producing. And both of them were longing for the days when sex was spontaneous and fun.

To make matters worse, their work schedules don't line-up. She often gets home from work when he is sleeping and sometimes he needs to leave for work before she is awake. So, not only are they having sex that neither of them is enjoying, at least one of them is missing precious sleep to do it.

Enter - making babies the lesbian way. After my detailed explanation of how to insert "donated" sperm Khaleesi and Dothraki now have a system in place that is working much better for both of them.  During their fertile window Duthraki gently nudges Khaleesi awake and hands her a jar of fresh sperm and then heads out to work. She inseminates herself and then falls easily back to sleep.

"This is seriously life changing." She admitted to me recently. "We do this really wacky thing now where we have sex WHEN WE FEEL LIKE IT and it feels like so much pressure has been lifted off of our shoulders. There's no more fake moaning to try and speed him up so that I can get back to sleep before I'm totally awake. Lesbians have the best ideas. God, make sure you change my name if you blog about this."

Of course, I am not saying that using this method of insemination is going to increase a straight couple's chances of getting pregnant. But if you are frustrated with your current attempts, and open to trying something new, this might help to take a bit of the pressure off. The general understanding is that inseminations done with fresh donor sperm are about as likely to result in pregnancy as heterosexual intercourse.

Curious about how to do it yourself? Keep reading.

What you will need (other then your bodies).
- a jar, bowl, or something with a lid to catch the sperm
- a needle-less syringe (most jokes about lesbian conception involve a turkey baster but a needle-less syringe is actually easier to use). The best size to use is 3-cc or 5-cc.

What to do:
Make sure the jar you are using is clean and dry. Encourage your partner to take his time producing the sperm. The more turned on he is the greater the volume of ejaculation will be. Decide how you want to do the hand-off. Is it less awkward if he leaves it on the counter for you? There's no right or wrong way as long as the sperm stays warm. Some people also think that sperm can be a bit sensitive to air and light so tell him to put the lid on the jar and dim the lights when he is done. When we did our inseminations Tracy took the jar of sperm from Andy and then kept it warm in her sports bra until we were ready to inseminate.

I haven't been able to find a definitive amount of time that fresh sperm is "good" for. In The New Essential Guide to Lesbian Conception, Pregnancy, and Birth Stephanie Brill suggests one hour (p.288) but other sources have said thirty minutes, ninety minutes, and even up to 24 hours. I am no expert so I can't give solid answer.

Make sure the cap is off your syringe, that there is no needle in it, and that you have pushed all the air out. Put the tip of the syringe in the sperm and pull the plunger part back (there's probably a word for that part of a syringe - I'm sure someone will chime in) so that the sperm is pulled up into body of the syringe. Lie on your back and insert the syringe deep inside your vagina. Slowly push the plunger part so that the sperm enters your vagina. When you are done, slowly pull the syringe out. Doing this slowly will help the sperm to not fall out. At this point you would do all the things that you would regularly do after intercourse. Some women like to lie with their hips up for twenty minutes. Others like to spend a few minutes on their back, stomach, and each side to help the sperm move around and find the cervix.

And that, my friends, is it. I want to be very clear that I am not a doctor, midwife, or in any way trained on matters of fertility whatsoever. So please don't take anything you read here as definitive. There are links to a few REALLY GOOD books below. Read those and talk to your own health care providers!

Good Luck!



__________________________
If you are interested in the books or products mentioned in this post please click on the links below. They are affiliate links which means that should you make a purchase I will receive a small fee.

**


***
If you are a longtime reader you may remember that when I was trying to get pregnant I used the Ovacue Fertility Monitor. This little gadget does a pretty awesome job of actually predicting your fertile period.



If you are looking for a good book on how to chart cycles and understand fertility this is the standard recommendation.

One

It took three attempts to make our Mac. Three awkward airport pick-ups of Mac's dad. "How was security?" I would ask him and he would laugh. Officials start to become a bit suspicious when you cross borders, leaving the city that never sleeps to come to the city that's never warm every 28 days. There's no declaring sperm at the border.

I rushed through the unease of it all. Rushing to catch that egg. Wanting so badly for the next part to start. But still, if I had known I'd only do it once I might have savoured it more. I might have taken a moment in the middle of that social discomfort to remember how it all was. What it means to meet a stranger and make him family. To relish in the excitement of what was to come.

Three attempts. Twelve artichoke jars of sperm. And eighteen pregnancy tests. Until the one. The one where the second line emerged. Strong and beautiful. And I knew there was a baby in me. Well, there were cells that would one day, with luck and magic, transform into a baby. Our baby.

And I walked around my city. Proud like a peacock. A secret growing inside me and it took everything in me not to tell every detail to the woman cutting my hair and the man selling me carrots. The happiness of those moments shone like moonlight. Illuminating our blessings. And yet paling in comparison to the brightness of the sun and what was to come. The round belly. The birth. The baby. But still, if I had known - if I had known it would be the last time I peed on a stick and cried with gratitude I might have held that stick a little longer. I always thought there would be a next time.

Nine months of throwing up. In public and in private. On the side of the road and in a garbage can in the middle of the shopping mall. Nine months of people offering me crackers like I was part parrot. That's what I think of when I remember being pregnant. The damn crackers. The memories of curling up in a rocking chair so that my legs wrapped around my belly and rubbing the bundle of countless possible dreams yet to be lived are harder to hold onto. They slip through my fingers even as I write them down. A permanent record can still be forgotten. Next time, maybe I won't be so sick I thought to myself. But if I had it to do again I'd know what it's like to love like your heart could explode. And that would be enough to get me through it.

Twenty-something hours of pain so unimaginable to me I shudder when I remember it. His tiny bum crushing my sciatic nerve like an elephant on a peanut shell sending waves of excruciation through my leg and out my toes. Contractions four minutes a part lasting a minute. We should have been much farther along. But instead we stayed at 4 centimetres for an eternity.

I clung to the plan I had for his birth. Laminated pages of ideas already tattooed on my heart. I stared straight ahead at the robot onesie hanging on the wall. I imagined his little body turning the cotton fabric from 2D art to 3D perfection. But he had other plans. And so did the doctors and nurses. I negotiated with them like a child resisting bedtime. Just one more hour. Please. Just let me do this on my own for one more hour. Just leave me in this tub with this jet positioned right here where it can penetrate my flesh and apply pressure right to that nerve doling out pain every four minutes. 

And then his heart rate was dropping and there was no more waiting. There was a vacuum and a team of people ready to take his grey body from me. I didn't get to put him on my chest. I didn't get to let the rest of the world disappear. I just waited an eternity until he cried. And on that first night as I stayed wide awake from the adrenaline rush I imagined all the things I would do differently next time.

Nine months of bliss. He needed constant bouncing and rocking and breastfeeding. He cried a lot and needed a lot. But I loved it. I loved the smell of him. So distinct I'm fairly sure you could blindfold me and put me in a room of babies and I would sniff out mine like a drug trained hound. In those moments I thought I would get to do it again. That it wouldn't be the last three month birthday celebration I toasted.

Six months of Hell. And another six months of aftershock. Postpartum depression was the worst experience of my life. I woke up one day underwater. Unable to move. Unable to decide. On anything. The simple choice of breakfast would leave me in tears. So unaccustomed to these feelings I turned to medication expecting it to make me happy. But instead it just numbed me. And so I kept upping and upping the dosage until there was no where left to go but down. And with each new milligram I became more and more numb. Fifty pounds gained in the span of six months. One perfect marriage nearly destroyed. We work hard to patch those cracks. But the scars remain. We plaster and paint but the weak spots have been identified. They won't withstand another tidal wave.

And I know I can only survive that once.

One baby. One perfect baby. One amazing child. One love of our lives to hold our hearts in his hands and do with what he chooses. There will only be one child in this house. And while it's not how I always imagined it to be, I know how blessed I am.

"My Dad"

This new acquisition of language is the coolest thing to watch. The nouns are the easy part. He learned them quickly and only needs to hear a new person, place, or thing once before it is committed to memory. The verbs and the adjectives are following quickly behind.  It's not the kind of thing you teach, really. You just talk and hope that some of it sinks in but you never really know when it will. Until it has. And that's such a cool moment.

Mac lives in Ottawa with my wife and me but his dad lives in New York City. At two and half years old he has seen his Dad a dozen times or so. For the last year he has understood Dad as a noun. That guy who comes to visit every few months, the one with the scruffy face and the phone filled with videos of cats and horses on demand, his name is Dad. And to my toddler he's a pretty stellar guy. His visits produce donuts. And he lies on the floor to play. He looks for opportunities to wear matching outfits and Ma (that's me) takes a lot of photos when he's around.

It's early on Saturday morning and Mac is perched on his knees at the kitchen table. My wife and I, bleary-eyed, are curled into the couch drinking luke warm coffee. Andy is at the table with Mac, alternating between bites of fruit and crackers and moving trains and horses back and forth.

Andy holds Mac's attention with the proficiency of a six foot tall purple dinosaur. My wife and I take those moments to let our son's other parent do the parenting. My head rests on her shoulder as the boys chatter across the room.

Unaccustomed to our cold Canadian winters, Andy excuses himself from toddler play and heads to his room for a sweatshirt. Mac looks up from what he's doing and scans the room.

"Where my dad go Ma?" His squeaky little voice registers genuine concern.

"What did you say Mac?"

"Where my dad go?"

"Is that your dad Mac?"

He smiles a proud smile. He's figured out the possessive pronoun. That guy in the other room, the one with the scruffy face and the phone filled with videos of cats and horses on demand, he is not just any old dad, he is Mac's Dad.

Just two little letters that fall out of his mouth but they imply so much more.

My dad.

And he is.

Bringing the Barter Back

There are a lot of reasons why having a wife instead of a husband is super awesome. My friend Erin recently flew across the country, with one baby and two small children, by herself (I know! she's such a show off) only to get to the airport and realize that her husband had taken the stroller out of their vehicle and not returned it. She's convinced that this wouldn't have happened with a wife. I couldn't really get past the fact that she was travelling across the country, with a layover, with three children, by herself, to begin with, so I'm not really sure about the whole stroller thing.

Anyway, I was in the middle of writing this post and wasn't really sure what the other good reasons for having a wife instead of a husband were so I asked Facebook. Here are some of the highlights (click over to read the rest):

As it turns out we really don't have much of an advantage on our straight counterparts. Tracy can rock a man cold like nobody's business. And she is incapable of seeing anything that is not directly in front of her face. Also, it's a pretty rare day when my clothes make it to the hamper before the floor. But nobody leaves the toilet seat up. So there's that.

Nonetheless, we're pretty happy in lesbian-run domicile. But there are a few times when it would be totally rad to have a husband. Tracy and I suck at opening jars. I once knocked on my neighbour's door and asked him to open a jar of salsa after all the run under hot water, hit with a knife, pray to the salsa-Gods, tricks didn't work. His super sweet mother-in-law then purchased us one of these:

They totally work. And since I'm stealing their image I should probably tell you that Williams Food Equipment has them on sale today (they didn't pay me to say that). 

So, with the jar opening problem taken care of, we were mostly getting along fine husband-less until two of our faucets broke at once. 

***The truth is that I know plenty of lesbians who could have easily fixed these faucets. I know a few straight girls too. And some of my straight friends told me that their husbands couldn't fix a faucet either. But telling it this way makes for a better story so can we just live blindly in a world of stereotypical indulgence for a moment until we get to the end of this post? Thanks for that. ***

So we were about ready to call a plumber to replace them when an episode of Barter Kings came on and it occurred to me that maybe some handy husband/wife/single person would want to exchange a family photo shoot for some faucet installation. 

I put the call out and got quite a few bites right away. Which was super neat. Erica volunteered her works-in-an-office-but-loves-being-handy husband. 

That Friday evening they arrived and in no time Mark was taking off his plaid shirt and rooting around under our sink while we stood back and watched.  All damsel-in-distress like. Except for Tracy. She really can't pull that look off. 

Lots of banging and some power tools... 

And then.... 

... there was water!

And we all jumped up and down and screamed. OK, we didn't do that. We just thanked the kind strangers who came to our house. 

Many thanks to Erica and Mark for coming to our house, fixing our faucets, and letting me paparazzi the whole thing. I can't wait for your photo session! 

And now.... what else can I barter for? Suggestions?

www.mondayswithmacphotography.com

Breath

He already has a virus. Croup we suspect. So we're watching him. Listening to breaths and looking at snot. The job of a parent is immensely glamourous. Under the weather and under the covers. We spend the day snuggled on the couch watching Barney on endless repeat. Sick baby days were easier when I still had control over the remote. We're big and little and short and tall. Some are in the middle some are very small. Are you big or little Mac? I ask him. Big Mac. He responds with pride.

And then his breath changes. We don't know if this is a serious development or not. Sometimes I worry that in this two mom family we jump to the worst possibilities first. But we head to CHEO (The Children's Hospital of Eastern Ontario) anyway.

And so begins one of the scariest days of my parenting experience thus far. One nurse listens to his breath and calls a second nurse. There seems to be a correlation between how many medical professionals enter the room and how bad the situation is. One nurse, two nurse, red nurse, blue nurse. They talk to each other but not to us. A now quite lethargic Mac is slumped over my shoulder whining but I try to hear what they are saying over his mumbles.

Dual symptoms.
I don't hear air on the left side. 

The worst part about ER visits is the wait. Hours in a room with coughing, sneezy, and oozing kids and their tired and stressed out parents. One hour, two hours, seven hours. You should bring a charger for your iPhone. You are going to be there a while. But this time is different. We skip the wait and head directly to an isolation room. Turns out that the wait is not the worst part.

"Does the nurse think this is serious or does she just have bitchy resting face?" Tracy whispers to me. I'm not sure either.

In our private room Mac is clingy and unhappy. They show us how to administer Ventolin which means that one of us holds him down while the other tortures him. He holds us equally responsible.  Then prednisone. And more Ventolin. We need to do it every 20 minutes, and then every hour, and then every 2 hours.

No more puffs. No nice. Mac whimpers on repeat. 

The probable diagnosis is asthma but he's too little for the official test. The doctor is nice and reassuring. He asks if there is a family history of asthma and Tracy begins to tell him that she had a puffer as a child too. I give her a quizzical look and realize that she has forgotten her lack of a biological connection to our child. We all laugh. I forget sometimes too.

He needs to make it to two hours without needing Ventolin to be allowed to go home. As much as we want him to be better we both admit that we'd prefer the security of the hospital. But as we wait we talk about the parents we know that do this wait-and-see dance far too regularly. Children with special needs and serious illnesses who have spent more time in hospital rooms than any one person should. It becomes easier to put our day in perspective.

Eventually it is discharge time and we are uneasy. Tracy asks the kind doctor questions about risks and time frames. With each question the fear in her voice increases. The doctor can see her face flush red and he finds the words she needs to hear.  He turns to her and says that in the last 15 years not a single person under the age of 18 has died from asthma for not getting to hospital fast enough. Tears stream down her face with relief and she thanks him profusely.

At home we continue with the Ventolin and the prednisone. I stay awake and listen to him breath. In and out in and out in and out. Two days pass and the scary part is over. Tracy is calm and begins to return to normal. But, as is my way, I've deferred the anxiety. I did the same thing when I was 22 weeks pregnant and we nearly lost our boy. I was eerily calm through the ordeal as my wife panicked enough for both of us. Mama instincts took over. I kept calm for him. But anxiety deferred is not erased. It comes eventually.

The second day comes to an end and I'm a wreck. I call my mom and ask if she can come. She doesn't ask why. She and my dad are here 16 hours later. And we are all breathing better.

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Anatomy of an Apology: An open letter to Aaryn Gries

An apology can be forced or freely given. It can be genuine or insincere. It can disarm the receiver or fuel her anger. And on rare occasions, when it is done right, with a certain amount of finesse and introspection, it can be art.  It's a skill that far too few of us learn. Instead of receiving criticism and taking a moment to reflect on the validity of the accusation we immediately lash back. And sometimes there's a moment in that fight where we realize our own shortcomings but rather than back down and embrace the (sometimes hard) lessons being thrown our way we continue to fight. The competitive spirit takes over and we attempt to win. Or to save face. But even if we hold our ground, steadfast, until the other person surrenders or simply recedes in exasperation, there is no victory to be found in false-righteousness.

Aaryn, I imagine that you had hoped that your stint on Big Brother would afford you a brief 15 minutes of fame and perhaps provide a jump start to your modelling career. Instead, what has happened is that your racist and homophobic comments have been broadcasted around the world. Small clips of hate-filled words pieced together and shared on youtube, Facebook, and Twitter. You've become the runner-up poster girl for Southern racism. Succeeded only by Paula Dean. But if you continue on this path you may just succeed her by the end of the summer. If you manage to not get voted out that is. And that modelling career you've been working towards? Well, you will be very shocked to hear that your agency has responded to your comments by dropping you from their roster.




You entered the Big Brother house as a young, pretty, white girl. You were likely living a charmed life. But you will leave the house facing an intense wall of hate directed at you. My guess is that you will have no frame of reference for how to deal with this outcome. And that's what I'm going to try and help you with now.

On last night's episode you offered up a pretty insincere apology to Candice.

"Candice, I'm sorry. Anybody that knows me knows that just because I'm Southern, and I say things that are probably aren't appropriate all the time. I have nothing against any other race. And if I make a comment that seems like I do, I don't want it to be taken that way, and I don't want to offend you." 


And then later, in the diary room, you added:

"I don't want her to be thinking that I'm that type of person and I also don't want her to be using that against me or spreading something about me that's not true." 

I think we all need to be clear that being Southern does not make one racist nor justify it. While you have been locked up in Big Brother isolation your Southern contemporary, Paula Dean, has attempted to use the same justification. It hasn't worked for her either. 

There are a few key ways that this apology fails. First, it's all about you. Your comments have hurt and offended another person but instead of focussing on her feelings you have turned all of the attention back to the consequences that you may be subjected to. Your reaction isn't entirely surprising. Human beings are narcissistic creatures. But if you could take a moment to step back from the situation, examine why Candice (and countless other people) have been offended by your remarks, and do some serious and genuine introspection, you would be much more likely to receive an accepted apology and respect from the rest of us watching you on screen. 

I'd like to take a moment now to give you an example of apology as art. This apology, from Jason Alexander (Seinfeld's George Costanza) is so good that it bears repeating in full. 

A message of amends.

Last week, I made an appearance on the Craig Ferguson show – a wonderfully unstructured, truly spontaneous conversation show. No matter what anecdotes I think will be discussed, I have yet to find that Craig and I ever touch those subjects. Rather we head off onto one unplanned, loony topic after another. It’s great fun trying to keep up with him and I enjoy Craig immensely.

During the last appearance, we somehow wandered onto the topic of offbeat sports and he suddenly mentioned something about soccer and cricket. Now, I am not a stand-up comic. Stand up comics have volumes of time-tested material for every and all occasions. I, unfortunately, do not. However, I’ve done a far amount of public speaking and emceeing over the years so I do have a scattered bit, here and there. 

Years ago, I was hosting comics in a touring show in Australia and one of the bits I did was talking about their sports versus American sports. I joked about how their rugby football made our football pale by comparison because it is a brutal, no holds barred sport played virtually without any pads, helmets or protection. And then I followed that with a bit about how, by comparison, their other big sport of cricket seemed so delicate and I used the phrase, “ a bit gay”. Well, it was all a laugh in Australia where it was seen as a joke about how little I understood cricket, which in fact is a very, very athletic sport. The routine was received well but, seeing as their isn’t much talk of cricket here in America, it hasn’t come up in years. 

Until last week. When Craig mentioned cricket I thought, “oh, goody – I have a comic bit about cricket I can do. Won’t that be entertaining?”. And so I did a chunk of this old routine and again referred to cricket as kind of “gay” – talking about the all white uniforms that never seem to get soiled; the break they take for tea time with a formal tea cart rolled onto the field, etc. I also did an exaggerated demonstration of the rather unusual way they pitch the cricket ball which is very dance-like with a rather unusual and exaggerated arm gesture. Again, the routine seemed to play very well and I thought it had been a good appearance.

Shortly after that however, a few of my Twitter followers made me aware that they were both gay and offended by the joke. And truthfully, I could not understand why. I do know that humor always points to the peccadillos or absurdities or glaring generalities of some kind of group or another – short, fat, bald, blonde, ethnic, smart, dumb, rich, poor, etc. It is hard to tell any kind of joke that couldn’t be seen as offensive to someone. But I truly did not understand why a gay person would be particularly offended by this routine.

However, troubled by the reaction of some, I asked a few of my gay friends about it. And at first, even they couldn’t quite find the offense in the bit. But as we explored it, we began to realize what was implied under the humor. I was basing my use of the word “gay” on the silly generalization that real men don’t do gentile, refined things and that my portrayal of the cricket pitch was pointedly effeminate , thereby suggesting that effeminate and gay were synonymous. 

But what we really got down to is quite serious. It is not that we can’t laugh at and with each other. It is not a question of oversensitivity. The problem is that today, as I write this, young men and women whose behaviors, choices or attitudes are not deemed “man enough” or “normal” are being subjected to all kinds of abuse from verbal to physical to societal. They are being demeaned and threatened because they don’t fit the group’s idea of what a “real man” or a “real woman” are supposed to look like, act like and feel like. 

For these people, my building a joke upon the premise I did added to the pejorative stereotype that they are forced to deal with everyday. It is at the very heart of this whole ugly world of bullying that has been getting rightful and overdue attention in the media. And with my well-intentioned comedy bit, I played right into those hurtful assumptions and diminishments.

And the worst part is – I should know better. My daily life is filled with gay men and women, both socially and professionally. I am profoundly aware of the challenges these friends of mine face and I have openly advocated on their behalf. Plus, in my own small way, I have lived some of their experience. Growing up in the ‘70’s in a town that revered it’s school sports and athletes, I was quite the outsider listening to my musical theater albums, studying voice and dance and spending all my free time on the stage. Many of the same taunts and jeers and attitudes leveled at young gay men and women were thrown at me and on occasion I too was met with violence or the threat of violence. 

So one might think that all these years later I might be able to intuit that my little cricket routine could make some person who has already been made to feel alien and outcast feel even worse or add to the conditions that create their alienation. But in this instance, I did not make the connection. I didn’t get it. 

So, I would like to say – I now get it. And to the extent that these jokes made anyone feel even more isolated or misunderstood or just plain hurt – please know that was not my intention, at all or ever. I hope we will someday live in a society where we are so accepting of each other that we can all laugh at jokes like these and know that there is no malice or diminishment intended.

But we are not there yet. 

So, I can only apologize and I do. In comedy, timing is everything. And when a group of people are still fighting so hard for understanding, acceptance, dignity and essential rights – the time for some kinds of laughs has not yet come. I hope my realization brings some comfort. 

Thanks,
Jason

Do you see what he did there? He did not focus on how his comment was misconstrued or taken out of context. He didn't focus on how the backlash affected him. He took the time to listen to the complaints people made. He investigated them. He investigated himself. And when he had that lightbulb moment, the one where he realized he was on the wrong side of the debate, he didn't continue to fight anyway. He admitted his wrong doings. And he asked for forgiveness. And you know what happened? The gay people he offended felt heard and respected. They thanked Jason Alexander. Instead of the villain in the fight for gay rights he was recast as a hero. He got it. 

Aaryn, I don't offer you this advice to excuse or condone what you have said and done while on camera in the Big Brother house. I'm writing this in hopes that you'll own it. I hope that you can take the hate that is about to come your way as you exit the bubble you've been living in and use it for good.  Take the time to watch yourself on video. Watch the reactions of your housemates. Talk to other people, of various races, ethnicities, and sexualities and truly try to understand their reactions to your comments. Grow. And when you are ready, when you truly do "get it" (and only then because an insincere apology is as bad as none) apologize. Be a role model for young white people growing up in a culture that has weaved systemic racism into the fabric of its existence. 

The first few days after your Big Brother exit are going to be very hard. Try to understand that you've earned that. But also understand that you are in a unique position to invoke change. Much needed change that could come on the heels of a nation divided after a summer that has shown the ugliness of white supremacy alive and well. You don't know it yet, but this week George Zimmerman was found not guilty of murdering Trayvon Martin. Trayvon was a seventeen year old, unarmed, Black man. And people are furious. The system that validates the idea that certain lives, especially young Black male lives, are worth less than their counterparts has been brutally exposed. And that skeleton will not be going back in the closet. But, if you choose to do so, you have the opportunity to offer some small comfort to the people who are grieving and incensed. While perhaps an unpleasant position to inhabit it is nonetheless a very powerful one. 

My guess is that you will issue a public apology full of denial, righteousness and external blame. But instead of saying "Ask any of my friends and family, they will tell you that there isn't a racist bone in my body. I may sometimes say inappropriate things because that's how I was raised and those are the kind of things I am used to. But I was only joking around and my words and their meaning were taken out of context. I apologize if I've hurt anyone." Perhaps you could say something like "I'm deeply sorry for the hurt and anger my words and actions have caused. I was raised in a racist culture and it took my hate-filled words being broadcast on television for me to truly understand my part in the continual reproduction of race-based stereotypes and persecution. In the time since I have left the house I have done a lot of conversing, soul searching and introspection. And I can honestly say that I did not like what I saw. The legacy of slavery and institutionalized racism in our country is more complex than I ever understood. I will never be able to fully understand what it means to live in this world as a gay man, or a black woman, but I am ready to listen to these experiences. And I am grateful that my eyes have been opened. I cannot unsay the things I said. But I can apologize for them. And I can learn from them."

Now is your opportunity. What are you going to do with it? 

Edited to add:
It meant so much to me that Jason Alexander took the time to reply to this post. 

DOMA Down (a post from Mac's Dad Andy)

Same sex marriage has been federally legal here in Canada for nearly a decade. When I chose to marry my wife we were able to do so with all the legal rights and responsibilities of our heterosexual counterparts. But we knew that was not a universal right. When our son's dad married his husband this past year he did so in a state that recognized his union in a country that did not. But last week that changed. DOMA was struck down by the supreme court and it made a substantial, pragmatic, difference in Andy and Raf's life. The fight isn't over by any means. Most states still don't allow same sex marriage. But it was a victory. And we need to take moments out to celebrate them when they come. So please join me in welcoming our favourite "special guest star" to Mondays with Mac this week! Congratulations boys! We love you so so much! 

Oh, but before I turn the blog over to Andy I just thought I'd mention, you know, in case you were wondering, that today is my birthday. And you have the opportunity to buy me the absolute best present in the world! If you follow me on social media or regularly read this blog you will know that Paige Johnson's story has grabbed ahold of my heart and held on tight. As a mother, as a lesbian, and as a human being it has rarely been out of my mind for more than a few minutes. Paige has 58 days of incarceration left. We are doing pretty well at collecting enough money for her to make a phone call home to her mother every day from now until then. Each phone call costs $6. So, if you can swing it, sending her mother Jackie a $6 donation would make THE BEST BIRTHDAY PRESENT TO ME EVER. The donation can be sent via paypal or snail mail (message me for addresses at kristin@mondayswithmac.com). Generous people have been making donations already and we now only have 42 days left to collect money for [UPDATE: Since posting 4 more people have donated. We are now down to 38!]. Can we get to zero before my birthday ends?

If a cash donation isn't possible you can also send Paige a letter. These connections to the outside have meant so much to her these last few weeks! 

OK, back to Andy now... 

How does the striking down of DOMA (Defense of Marriage Act from the 90s) affect me?

The short answer: Goosebumps. What a wonderful feeling when the world goes your way!

I ran into my boss in the elevator that morning, a long-time New Yorker who came of age in the gay era just ahead of mine. (In Diva Terms, his diva is Donna Summer, while mine is Madonna. Rafael's are the ones still on the radio: Rihanna and Britney).

"Tell me something good," he said, obviously meaning something about the account I work on.

"I'm so happy," I replied, work being the furthest thing from my mind. It took a moment, but then, oh yeah, he realized what I meant.

"I saw it break on the news and I got kind of choked up," he said, a little surprised at the emotion of his own reaction.

And I totally knew what he meant.

At face value, the decisions make an immediate and concrete difference for couples like Raff and me. New York is now a viable option – I can sponsor Rafael for a visa, and he can pursue his career and studies in New York, if he wants to. (I love my husband for innumerable reasons, one of them being that he feels no need to jump when the US Supreme Court says jump.)

But in that quick chat with my boss, I realized that something else was going on here, something bigger and more mysterious than Neil Patrick Harris' wedding plans. This was not just a win for couples juggling the logistics of "settling down." This is a big, emotional win for us all.

Thinking back to those Madonna years – I'm talking Paleolithic Madonna, like "Like a Prayer" and "Vogue" – there wasn't a whole lot about being gay to feel "so happy" about.

There were big depressing things, like the AIDS epidemic. There were little annoying things, like the police showing up to tow cars from the Pride Celebration. And there was this forlorn, prevailing sentiment – one shared by British indie bands and Midwestern moms alike – that being gay meant, at best, a life destined for loneliness and alcoholism.

Things changed, of course. Little by little. And yesterday, in a wave of goose bumps, they changed a lot.

So to hear my young friends at dinner ­last night – ready to propose now that marriage is "a real thing," looking forward to being on the Old Navy float at the Pride March this Sunday, tweeting about their celebrity boyfriends' latest successes – to feel the world going our way – it just makes me so happy.

The First Haircut

As a toddler my brother had a floppy mop of adorable blonde curls that grew down towards his shoulders while my mother couldn't bear to cut them. One day my dad decided to get his hair cut without her knowledge. I don't think he meant to upset her. He just thought his son needed a haircut so he got him one. I don't think my mother has forgiven him nearly 30 years later.

Mac, on the other hand, has very little hair. But it grows in weird ways. Longer in some parts than others. So I make an appointment at MelonHead because they have cars, and trains, and airplanes for the little ones to sit in and I think he will love that. And he does.

We show up early to the appointment. And of course Tammy, Mac's Auntie Tata, comes along as well. The first haircut for a boy with the equivalent of three mothers is apparently a very big deal.

"Mac do you want to sit in the ChooChoo?"

"Mac do you want to sit in the airplane?"

"Ooohh Mac do you want to drive the car?"

Each of us focuses on a different vehicular choice and the poor kid is overwhelmed by all the mother-hen-ish estrogen. He gives us a look that is the equivalent of a toddler eye-roll and points to the plane. His stylist doesn't seem to bat an eye at the three women nervously bustling around the boy who is the centre of our universes.

I take the backpack off my shoulders and pull out my large pro-level camera and lens. I attach a flash. My wife has already warned me not to set up external flashes for this event. Tammy is waving at Mac from behind her iPhone and snapping pictures of her own.

Tracy is busy explaining her vision of Mac's hair to the stylist. To her credit, the stylist entertains my wife's long list of directives while casually joking that he has such a small amount of hair that she could probably blow on it to dry it. 

I'm still snapping away. Different angles. Smile Mac! Hey Mac! Macaroni! Mac? Hey Mac! Brrrrmmm Brrrrmmm are you flying? Macadoodle! Macadoodle Do!! 

The whole thing takes about 118 seconds and then it's over. But we need a little more photo documentation. 

Also, note to self, that hair dye made your hair much more orange than you think it did. 

The stylist pulls out her point and shoot camera. In its entirety it is smaller than my flash. Part of the MelonHead experience is a photo, certificate, and a cut lock of his hair. I feel a bit silly with my camera by comparison. Like I brought a gun to a knife fight. Or some other comparison that is less violent and more appropriate for a post my about kid's first haircut. 

She takes her picture and prints it off. She attaches the picture to a certificate with a tiny bag containing his cut hair. I pass the whole package onto Auntie Tata. She's much more pack-rat-ish than we are. She stuffs it into her oversized purse trying not to bend it. 

It has been ten minutes and everything is over and done with. Mac struts a little. Proud of his new do. His moms and his Auntie Tata follow behind. Six hands smooth his shirt, tug at his hair, and snap more camera phone pictures. 

And suddenly I smile a little to myself and feel a wave of sympathy for whatever girl or boy shows up at our house for his first prom. Good luck future prom date! Try not to be blinded by the flash. 

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A Quick Update - Back from Cincinnati

We have just arrived home from a fantastic weekend (horrendous travel stories aside) with Andy's family in Cincinnati Ohio.  A better post will come later in the week but I thought maybe you'd like a little preview of the cuteness.

Mac had so much fun puttering in the back yard with Andy's Dad Tom. Or, as Mac calls him, Bopa.

Uh, Dad? This is not how the cool kids wear their jeans. You are totally embarrassing me.