Yes, I can sometimes actually be helpful and a little bit famous.

In my wanderings around the big World Wide Web, I came across this really great resource for people just like me, and maybe just like you, who want to have children but don’t know where to start. It’s a Web site called: It’s Conceivable. And it’s full of stories and ideas. And now it’s full of a little bit of me and my family.



You can read Our profile that just posted today, and be inspired or horrified or both. Because that’s how I feel about our story. Enjoy.

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OK, I was a little surprised, too, to see that Salt Lake City is the gay parenting capitol.

There was shock and awe last week around the world, when it was revealed that Salt Lake City is the gayest city in the U.S. when it comes to being a gay parent. Yes, I was a little surprised, too. But then I thought about it for 2 minutes.

Everyone thinks of Salt Lake City as Mormon. And that is when they are actually thinking about Salt Lake City, which is probably not very often. And it is. Kind of. Approximately 50.27% of people who live there are Mormon. So half. And more importantly, Utah is the kid capital of the country. For real. There are more people having babies, taking care of babies and screaming up the stairs than any other state in the entire union. And it’s true. It’s not just the facts.

Have you been to Utah? This is the most kid-friendly place on earth, so I don’t blame the gays for making this our gay parenting capitol. These people invented bulk candy and Saturday matinees that cost $1. Everything to do with kids is super cheap. And everything has a drive through, so you don’t have to get out of the car to try to squeeze 5 children into one grocery basket.

People in Utah are so busy taking care of their kids that they are probably not even going to notice that the people down the street are lesbians. They probably just look like sister wives, whose husband never comes home.

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When faced with the problem of what to call someone, ask a two-year old. They always have the answer.

When our first child was born, we needed to pick two names. Actually, three. A first name and a middle name for the baby. And a new name for one parent. Or at least a new label. One of us was going to get Mom. And the other person was going to be???

We had no idea.

My first thought was maybe the baby would never learn to talk, so we wouldn’t have to deal with this issue. And then I remembered that she was related to me.

We had some friends that were Papa and Daddy. Good enough. Both respectable and easy enough to distinguish when pronounced by a toddler with a mouth full of graham crackers. We could go Mom and Mama — the Spanish version. Or Mom and Mum — the Canadian version, but those were all so much alike.

So we settled on Mom and Mum while I was pregnant. Pam would get Mom, in part because she was the adoptive parent, and I would get Mum — the Canadian moniker. But by the time our daughter, Wynn, was born we forgot about the whole thing because we were so busy feeding, swaddling and changing her diapers that I didn’t care what we called each other just as long as it wasn’t “fucking bitch.”

And then one day our daughter started talking. She spent all of her weekdays with Grandma, so she was getting lots of opportunities to learn English, a little bit of Spanish, and her vocabulary grew quickly. She also got in the habit (and still is) of patiently explaining to us what various words mean. Last night, she pointed to a piece of her toy kitchen and explained to me with authority and hand gestures that one of the pots was a scapulayla,and it was used for cooking.

So it should come as no surprise that eventually Wynn named me. Pam became Mommy. And I became Mima – the inverse pronunciation of the same word. Problem solved.

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One mom + another mom = Not much for Mother’s Day

I need a plan for Mother’s Day. I know what you’re thinking. It’s a little late. And it’s true. It’s a little late for this year. But c’mon people, when I plan ahead, I really plan ahead. What are you doing for Christmas 2015? What? You don’t know!

Actually, this is just my clever and defensive way of not dealing with the fact that I think I missed an opportunity here. Having two moms in our house caused this event to cancel itself out, sort of like Quaaludes and cocaine. Oooops, sorry, my 80s was showing. But Mother’s Day at our house was an oxymoron, when it should have been twice as much fun.

But if we want to get really truthy, I find Mother’s Day mildly irritating, partly because it comes on the heals of tons of other family holidays, and I’m actually sick of cake, which seems entirely implausible. But mostly I have ignored Mother’s Day because it’s sort of trapped in it’s gender identity. Mother’s Day has to be all nice and flowery and unobtrusive. It was so understated this year that I completely forgot about it until about three days before. C’mon Mother’s Day Lean In! You need to stand up with your protest sign, your loud voice and get your Hillary-Betty-Gloria on.

So what did we do? Not much. We went to grandma’s house, ate chili and beans and ran around in the sprinkler naked. I skipped the last part, in case you’re wondering. As did grandma. I looked up Mother’s Day on Wikipedia to see if there was any truth to the story that the day was started as a day of protest by mothers who didn’t want their sons to die in wars. It’s not. It’s a holiday “honoring mothers, and motherhood, maternal bonds, and the influence of mothers in society.”

You would think that would be good enough for me. And it is. I was honored in a nice, flowery and unobtrusive way, by just treating it like any other day that it was great to be alive and have a family in my own home at peace.


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Adhesive strips: The misunderstood medical device. They are for your heart and your funny bone, people.

When I was a child, my mother insisted that we shouldn’t “waste Band-Aids.” Thirty-five years later, I’m still not really sure what this means. But I’m fairly certain that I only insisted on a Band-Aid when there was something really wrong such as a little bit of skin hanging off my elbow. Or a knee that looked liked it had been French kissed by a cheese grater. I will admit that there probably wasn’t always blood. But close enough. And now that I have two toddlers, I am a bona-fide expert in minor cuts, bruises and abrasions, as well as adhesive strips. I’m also a klutz, so I continue to experience Band-Aid incidents first hand.

But here is my point: The value of a Band-Aid as a medical device is vastly overrated. The purpose of a Band-Aid, unless you have accidentally tried to sever a digit while chopping vegetables or cutting a bagel, is to make you feel better, not to stop the bleeding or protect the injury from infection. That shit is just made up by Johnson & Johnson to sell more Band-Aids. Adhesive strips calm the nerves and stop the tears. They are useless in protecting a real injury.

So with that in mind, here is my Band-Aid philosophy. Waste away! Knock yourself out. If you bumped into the wall, get a Band-Aid. If you stubbed your toe, you might need one for each of your phalanges. If you’re having a bad day, unwrap one and stick it anywhere.

With this in mind, I’ve made a point of getting better Band-Aids. And I don’t mean better quality. No, that is irrelevant. I mean cuter. We have Barbie Band-Aids. Sponge Bob. And best of all? Bacon and eggs. There is nothing like a little fried egg, sunny-side-up, on the back of your hand to raise your spirits. Or a small strip of fried, salted pig meat on your knee to make you feel good.

But this has led to just a bit of confusion at times. When we first got the Barbie Band-Aids, I did not clarify that they were for humans and not for Barbies. And here is what happened to the first box.


Now doesn’t that make you feel way better!

(Click on the pic to enlarge)


Do your parents mind if you are [fill in a word that means less than adequate here]?

I have a serious question (for a change). I hope you can help.

Every once in a while, someone asks me this question. “Do you parents mind that you are gay?” Sometimes it comes out like this: “Do you parents support your relationship?”

I never know what to say. First, because I don’t really have an answer. Yes, no, kind of. What does that look like, exactly? Parents supporting one’s relationship. I’m sure there are tons of straight people whose parents hate/dislike/are irritated by their child’s husband/wife/girlfriend/boyfriend/lover. Do they get asked this question? Maybe I should start asking people this question at cocktail parties, if the person indicates that they are married or coupled in some way.

But I also kind of get it. Maybe. Sometimes it seems like the asker is trying to show empathy about my current position in society. But it also seems like they are also reinforcing a homophobic stereotype — that every gay person’s parents are disappointed that they are gay. What about the gay parents? Are they disappointed when their kids turn out straight?

The person who asked me this last night and who shall remain anonymous to protect the innocent, had a legitimate reason for asking such a personal question. But once I was asked this question at a kegger. The guilty party was a former colleague who asks me if my parents “minded” if I was gay. Again, I didn’t know how to answer, but it did occur to me later to ask her if her parents minded that she was short and had red hair.

Do you have a good answer to this question?

Does the Cat in the Hat belong on the national sex offender registry?

parental advisory

Parental Advisory: Sacred imagery and childhood memories may be desecrated in this post.

I read books to my children every night before they go to bed. Or someone does. Yes. Thank you. You can hold your applause until the end of this post. So, I’m becoming intimately familiar with the Disney princess line-up, some Winnie the Pooh and a smattering of Dr. Seuss.

And I really like reading most of these books, especially because I’m learning something new almost every time we read together. For example, did you know that it’s not easy to be a princess? Because you have to work really hard delivering hand-sewn clothes (that your entourage of seamstresses make), books and baskets of food to orphanages. But mostly because it’s really hard to walk around in that huge dress and avoid hitting your enormous mass of bows and curled hair on door frames and the ceiling of the carriage.

But there is one book that I just can’t get over: The Cat in the Hat. Is it just me or is this a story about a pedophile? Let’s review.

catconvictThe book starts when a bad mother leaves her two children unattended in their house on a rainy day. Then, a large, mostly naked cat shows up and let’s himself in. He’s wearing nothing but a striped top hat and a bow tie, and he’s carrying an umbrella. Suspicious. But at least he’s not wearing a trench coat. Although given the rainy weather, this might actually make sense.

Then the Cat proceeds to balance all kinds of household items on the tip of his umbrella, including a teacup, some milk, a cake, three books, the Fish, a rake, a toy boat, a toy man and a red fan to engage the children. And they are afraid, but they say nothing and keep staring out the window. The only one who seems to have have a voice and any education about good touching and bad touching is the goldfish. But his protests are ignored. He is the lowest vertebrate in the group after all.

But here is the real kicker: Thing One and Thing Two. Small and fuzzy, they suddenly appear out of a box. Sally and the main character don’t know what to do, so they shake hands with them. And then the Things start running around the house. But the phallic symbol in the striped hat is still in charge and trying harder and harder to convince the children that they are having fun. And when their mother arrives, right after the house has been quickly put back in order and the animated genitals have left the scene, we are posed with an important question. Would you tell your mother if this happened to you?


And the answer is YES. You would tell your mother, both of them. And the police. And give the fish a job touring local schools to talk to children about speaking up when a perverted cat asks you to shake hands with his Thing.


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© Sarah Ann Gilbert and Seven Little Mexicans, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Sarah Ann Gilbert and Seven Little Mexicans with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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