Luke at 12 weeks

Patrick at 18 months

When I was pregnant with my newborn son Luke, now 12 weeks old, I broke the news to my sperm-donor-conceived son Patrick, age five, that the two of them may not look alike.

I explained that while his donor and I have blonde hair, blue eyes and pale skin, his adoptive Dad provided the sperm that made Luke, and his baby brother may have his Dad’s brown hair, brown eyes and darker skin. He understood, for his two brothers, ages 14 and 16, my husband’s biological children from his first marriage, have brown hair and brown eyes. But he said he wanted Luke to look not like Dad and his older brothers, but like him.

Luke, almost three months old, has brown hair, for sure. While Patrick was born with reddish-brown hair that fell out, with white-blonde hair replacing it, Luke’s hair, ultra-dark-brown at birth, has become light brown, but still brown.

Luke’s skin has a medium tone, while Patrick’s and my skin is so pale, it’s translucent, although both of us are able to tan.

And while Luke’s permanent eye color is yet to be determined, it will be some shade of brown. Patrick’s are absolutely blue.

So Patrick and Luke could not be more different as far as coloring. But my four brothers and I, all of whom have the same biological parents, have differing skin tones and hair colors, although all of us have blue eyes. My mother and uncle, who also share biological parents, are a pale-skinned brunette and a freckled redhead. Bottom line: Genetics don’t dictate that even full siblings resemble each other.

While I was a real blonde in my younger years, as I near age 42 my blonde is primarily artificial. But having a high-risk pregnancy and then a newborn, I’ve let myself go in a myriad of ways, and sadly I’d gotten used to the new, unkempt me—until last weekend, when my husband, sons and I were running errands, and I caught sight of myself in a full-length mirror as we walked to the back of a men’s clothing store: I noticed, for the first time, that I had a brown stripe down the middle of my head, along my hair’s part line.

Spurred to fix my reverse-skunk look, I made an appointment to have my hair cut and highlighted this afternoon. As my stylist asked me if I’d like highlights and lowlights, or if I’d rather just add blonde, I told her that all I want is to have Patrick’s white-blonde hair. Sitting in a chair across from us, playing games on my iPhone®, he grinned. His hair color is stunning, so he gets a lot of attention for it, including ample women proclaiming how much they’d absolutely die to have his hair.

Today Patrick got a haircut too, and as we talked in bed tonight, I told him that his hair looked handsome, then asked if he liked mine.

“Yes.”

“I look better blonde,” I said.

Patrick immediately asked, “Can we bleach Luke’s hair out?”

“No, sweetie.”

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Well, maybe when he’s older.”

Before I could intervene, he continued, “And his eyes…”

When he abruptly stopped, then remained silent, I asked, “What were you going to say about Luke’s eyes?”

“Well, we don’t know the color yet,” he stated. “But they’re dark. They look black. I was thinking we could change the color.”

Patrick was overtired tonight. We had a busy day, with dual eye appointments, dual hair appointments and a relative’s birthday dinner at a restaurant, at which he hit his Dad in anger. So tonight was not the night in which to explain anything, including that his baby brother looks perfect just the way he is, with his light-brown hair, dark eyes and dark skin.

And I need a night to think about how to explain that Luke is perfect just the way he is, yet I look better blonde.

Because I feel very emotional every Valentine’s Day about the two loves of my life, my husband and my son, I think this is the ideal day to share this.  Happy Valentine’s Day… 

MY SON’S FAMILY STORY 

Mama had always wanted to be a mother.  I felt like it was the role in life that I was most supposed to have.  But, by the time I turned thirty-five years old, I still hadn’t met the right person with whom to have a baby.

Because I was getting older, I decided to try to have a baby by myself.  I knew that I could always fall in love, but wouldn’t always be able to have children. 

Mama selected a donor, so I could have the sperm necessary for my egg to make a baby, and, starting in August 2004, a doctor and many nurses tried to help me become pregnant.  But there were problems:  The doctor said that it would be very difficult for Mama to ever have a baby.

Mama was very sad, but difficult doesn’t mean impossible, so the doctor and I continued to try.  After ten awful months without success, on May 11, 2004, Mama met a very nice man named D, and we really, really liked each other.

At almost thirty-six years old, I was still trying to have a baby by myself.  Although Mama and D cared for each other, it was way too soon to think about having a baby together.  So Mama was helped by a nurse again on May 20, nine days after meeting D, and, in what my doctor called “a miracle,” I got pregnant with you.

Over the nine months of my pregnancy, D and I got to know each other better, and he agreed to be my birth partner, giving me moral support at the ultrasound at which I found out you were a boy, going to the birthing classes with me and agreeing to help me in the delivery room when you were born.  I had complications during the pregnancy, having to be in the hospital twice and on bed rest, and he took such good care of me—and therefore you. 

I felt so lucky to have a miracle pregnancy and miracle of a boyfriend. 

On February 9, 2005, I went into labor, and D drove me to the hospital, helped me during my seventeen-and-a-half hours of labor, and cried with joy when you were born at 10:39 a.m. on Thursday, February 10, your due date.  He cut the umbilical cord that attached you to me, and he took the very first picture of you—being measured on a scale.

The doctors rushed you to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit because you were not breathing when you were born.  They quickly attached you to a breathing machine, called a ventilator.  And when we were first allowed to visit you in Intensive Care, all of the nurses told us what a cute baby you were, and D said, “Thanks,” just like any proud father would.

I was able to hold you for the first time in the wee hours of the following morning, while D slept on an uncomfortable couch in my hospital room.  When he woke up, I told him how wonderful it was to hold you and that he was going to love you so much when he was able to.  He said, “I already love him.”

In fact, he was so in love with you that he sat with you for hours when you were in Intensive Care, he helped me bring you home on Valentine’s Day—even giving you your first card—and he showed pictures of you to anyone who would look at them.  He displayed photos of you throughout his office.  And he talked about you constantly, bragging about how you rolled over at just two weeks old and all of your other accomplishments.

But Mama and D had only known each other for nine months, not a very long time, so we had to make sure that we wanted to be together forever before we made a decision about D’s long-term role in your life. 

You and I spent every single night and weekend with D.  He would snuggle with you on the couch every night.  He would try to calm you down when you wouldn’t stop crying.  And, when you were two-and-a-half months old, he told me that he wanted to be involved in your life as your father—forever.  From that day on, we referred to him as Daddy.

When Daddy asked Mama to marry him on November 23, 2005, she said, “Of course.”  He next said that he wanted to adopt you and for both you and me to take his last name.  I said yes!

Adoption is a complicated process.  A lawyer told Daddy that it would be easiest for him to adopt you after Mama and Daddy had gotten married, because then he would be my legal husband.  Knowing that we had made a legal commitment to each other would make a judge more likely to permit Daddy to adopt you as his son.

Two days after our December 16, 2006, wedding, the first day that businesses were open, he called the lawyer to start the process.  Six-and-a-half months later, on June 29, 2007, Daddy became your legal father and you his legal son.  And Daddy’s two sons, A and B, officially became your brothers, although in their eyes they’ve been your brothers all along. 

Daddy teases that, someday, you’re going to be really mad at him because you’d originally had such a great last name—Kennedy.  But having such a wonderful Daddy far outweighs the importance of a name.  And I think you will feel proud to have Daddy’s last name as your own, just as I am, because I changed my last name too.

I was first diagnosed with asthma/Reactive Airway Disease when I was pregnant with my son, now nearly 5.  Then, I only coughed and wheezed, and my symptoms immediately eased once I started using Flovent® and Albuteral® inhalers.

Five years ago, my doctor explained that pregnancy can exaggerate allergies, and I knew, simply from personal experience, that I am allergic to cats, but I love them so much that I had three.  I recognized that I was likely allergic to dust because I would become congested and become a serial sneezer every time I cleaned.  Yet, I have a high threshold for irritants:  I would just suffer for a month each time I adopted a new cat, until I was immune, and I would do the same, for a few hours, when I cleaned my condo.

It wasn’t until I was pregnant that my allergies became intolerable.

This time around, I have full knowledge of the myriad of “inescapables” to which I am allergic, and, where possible, I have eliminated the allergens.  I am officially allergic to cats, so, when each of my three passed on, I didn’t replace him or her.  I’m allergic to dust mites, so I have dust-mite covers on every mattress and pillow in the house.  I’m allergic to outdoor molds, so I keep our windows and doors closed at all times, regardless of the weather, to keep the molds where they belong.  I’m allergic to grasses and trees, which are omnipresent, yet having our house and cars closed off from the outside world helps shield me.

However, regardless of my new allergy knowledge and resulting protectants, my asthma is much more severe with this pregnancy.  I’m five years older, and I’m pregnant by my husband, rather than a sperm donor, this time around, but those differences might not be relevant.  It simply may be that the cliché, “Every pregnancy is different,” is a cliché for good reason:  It’s true.

I met with my allergist only yesterday, for his office was closed during the holiday season, the time period in which my asthma symptoms peaked.  The good news is that I am receiving enough oxygen, therefore my baby is too.  But, obviously, the chronic coughing, wheezing, and peeing—and occasional vomiting—aren’t acceptable.  Therefore, he prescribed Advair®, a twice-daily steroid inhaler that is safe for me to take, now that I’m almost in my 25^th week of pregnancy, plus told me to continue with the Ventolin® inhaler every four to six hours as needed.  He said that it may take three to four days for the Advair to kick in, but I can handle a few more days.

And, after hearing about hemorrhoids from several friends, I feel grateful.  Sure, my asthma symptoms are miserable, but life is all about perspective, and my suffering is mild compared to the horror of having hemorrhoids.  Thank you, thank you, thank you God, for not giving me hemorrhoids…

As outlined on the DSR website, www.donorsiblingregistry.com, “The focus of the Donor Sibling Registry is to assist individuals conceived as a result of sperm, egg or embryo donation who are seeking to make mutually desired contact with others with whom they share genetic ties. This may include:

• Their own or their child’s half-siblings, or
• their own or their child’s sperm or egg donor, or
• their own genetic offspring.”

Yesterday’s e-mail from Wendy, which includes links to three questionnaires designed for parents of donor-conceived children, is below.  If you are a parent of a donor-conceived child, please take the time to share your experiences with the DSR.  As the biological mother of a 4-year-old son conceived via insemination with anonymous-donor sperm, I filled out the relevant questionnaire yesterday.

E-MAIL FROM WENDY KRAMER, FOUNDER AND EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR OF THE DSR:

The three surveys for parents are ready!

1. Recipients of Donor Sperm (gestational moms)
2. Non-bio Parents of Sperm Donor Children (moms and dads)
3. Parents of Egg Donor Children (one or both parents together can take this survey)

We really struggled with trying to have just one survey for all parents, but there were so many different questions that just didn’t pertain to all parents, that it because apparent that breaking the surveys out by each of the three parent groups would be the best way to go.

To the best of our knowledge, this will be the most comprehensive survey ever offered for parents of donor offspring. For the first time, we will gather information about choosing donors and sperm banks, pregnancies and births, raising children, balance of rights and medical issues. Many of the questions included in the survey were formulated as a direct response to issues we found in the donor and offspring surveys.

We have an amazing opportunity to use our collective experiences to better educate the infertility industry so that their future policies might be more influenced by the needs of us–the donor families.

If you have a spouse/partner, please ask them to take the survey too.  We want to hear from the non-bio parents. I hope everyone will participate.

Because these surveys are a bit longer and because we know your spare time is precious, we will be offering a random drawing of 10 cash prizes of $100 (DSR members) and $50 (non-members) for those who complete the survey by January 31, 2010.

Survey for recipients of donor sperm:
http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/TS72J7N

Survey for non-bio parents of sperm donor children:
http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/8RZ6ZTX

Survey for parents of egg donor children:
http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/GFHTQN3

Wendy Kramer
www.donorsiblingregistry.com

To explain why each four-day Thanksgiving Break is particularly special to me, I need to start with a direct quote from a boyfriend on the one-year anniversary of our first date:  “Why fuck up a good relationship by getting married?”

This blunt boyfriend is now my husband, so obviously his heart and head led him, a divorced man, to have faith in our relationship, enough faith that he was willing to get married a second time. 

He asked me to marry him four years ago during Thanksgiving Break, just six months after our one-year anniversary.

And, when he asked me, down on one knee, ring in hand, on the beach, at sunset, I responded, “Of course!” 

He, expecting a simple “yes,” was thrown off, so he asked what my answer was. 

Crying, I repeated, “Of course!”  And, after swiftly placing that gorgeous engagement ring on my finger, I hugged him.

After reveling in how much we love each other and how happy we were to be engaged, we went to dinner at a local restaurant.  As soon as we sat down, my brand-new fiancé told me that he wanted to adopt my son.

We got married three years ago this December, and the Monday after our wedding, my husband started the adoption process.

Thanksgiving Break is so special to me, because every Thanksgiving Break I relive how powerful true love can be.  In my life, true love enabled my previously divorced husband to be 100% sure that he wanted to get married again because he wanted me to be his wife.  And, in my son’s life, true love enabled him, the child of an anonymous sperm donor, to have a Daddy, a Daddy who loves him just as much as he does his two biological sons. 

Thanksgiving Break is so special to me because it’s proof that love makes a family. 

Love makes a family, and I love mine.

I was curious because 5½ years ago, like Nadya, I was a single woman who used assisted reproductive technology and donor sperm in order to conceive, in order to become a “single mother by choice.”  However, in my case, I had one son.  Nadya kept going until she had 14 children, including the octuplets born this year.

I was impacted most by two sequences in the two-hour program.  The first was when the camera zoomed across the eight newborns lying in a row on a queen or king bed, all bawling.  I used to experience stress when my son, just one child, cried, so I couldn’t imagine coping with eight upset newborns, on top of six other young children, two of whom have special needs.  I felt anxiety just watching… 

Second, near the end of the program, I was stunned when one of Nadya’s sons, who looked to be around two years old, called her a bitch.  Where did he hear the word?  How did he know how to use it?  And, why is he so angry that he used it against his mother?

Well, tonight, I’m the bitch.

Yesterday afternoon, my son and I, plus the twins that we carpool with, drove to pick up my stepson for the weekend.  From the preschool to my husband’s ex-wife’s house, my son was preparing his friends to meet his brother.  The three of them talked about how they have brothers with the same name who also are the same age—13.  The twins’ other older brother is 11, so my son notified them that his other brother is 15, older than 11, and away at school.  And, his “other, other brother” is in my belly, not born yet.

Recognizing that the twins might be confused, I explained that my son’s dad was married before, so my son’s brothers have a different mother that they live with too, and we were picking my stepson up at his mother’s house.  I explained that I am my son’s mom, but his brothers have a different mom.

After all of this anticipation, once again my stepson wasn’t there.

My son was devastated—yet again.

During the 20-minute drive to drop the twins off at their house, they asked over and over, “Where is he?” and “Why didn’t he come out of the house?” and “Is he at CVS [pharmacy, which we passed by]?” and “Do we still get to meet him?”

My husband told his ex, via phone, to drop my stepson off last night.  She hung up and didn’t bring him over.

After my husband sent her an e-mail this morning, outlining that visitation interference is illegal, she dropped my stepson off, never admitting wrongdoing.

So, with my stepson finally here, my son has followed his brother around, spending most of the day watching him while he played video games.

My son isn’t allowed to play too.  During the one weekend about six months ago that he did learn to play a game called Jack, he became an addict, not even wanting to stop to eat.  So, I cut him off quickly—and completely.

Late this afternoon, I overheard my husband talking with my son and stepson about the Lego Star Wars video game. 

I yelled to him, “He’s not allowed to play video games, remember?”

My husband came into our bedroom and said, “Look, he’s just sitting in there, watching.  I want them to interact.  Let him play.”

Feeling guilty, I agreed.

Three hours of playing later, three hours interrupted only by dinner, I announced to my son that it was time for bed.   

It was 8:30 p.m., an hour past his norm, but we let him stay up because my stepson said that he won’t have free time to spend with my son tomorrow, that he has to dedicate himself to his homework.

So, overtired and already re-addicted to video games, my son said, “I don’t want to go to bed.  I just want to finish this game.  Please?”

“How long will it take to finish?”

“I don’t know.”

Trying to avoid an outburst by giving him time to prepare for the end of his playtime, I said, “Well, I’ll go brush my teeth and put on my pajamas, but then it’s time for bed.  It’s late.”

When I returned five minutes later, he refused.  He repeated, “I just want to finish my game.  Please?” 

I took the remote out of his hands, and he started crying.

I picked him up, the only way to get him out of my stepson’s bedroom, and carried him across the hall into his.

When I set him on his bed, he ran to its far corner.

He screeched, “I am NOT going to sleep.”

He refused to come to me to get changed.

I told him that if he didn’t behave, I’d take his new Star Wars lightsabers away, that he didn’t deserve to keep gifts, given for good behavior, if he continued to act like this.

He hit the side rail on his bed, before stomping over to me, fists clenched.

I said, “It’s OK to be mad, but you can’t hit things.”

“I am so mad at you,” he spit at me.

“Why are you so mad?”

“I don’t know.”

He pounded his fists against his thighs.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” I said.  “That’s not very smart.”

With his, he flung himself at me, throwing punches at my shoulders and chest.

“That’s it.  If this is how you act, no more video games.”

I backed up, turned off his light, and closed the door.

He started screeching again, high-pitched, horrific screaming…

Then, I heard, “You’re such a bitch.”

I know that he knows the word from his older brothers.  He first used it, to my complete shock, in early September, at a neighborhood party.  A 4-year-old girl was taunting him, and, from five feet away, I overheard him say, “You’re such a bitch.”

I stormed over, only to have the girl say, “He just called me a ditch.  He just called me a ditch.”

Pulling him aside, I asked, “Did you just call her a bitch?”

“Yes, but…”

“That’s a terrible word.  You never use that word.  We’re leaving.”

He loved our summer/fall Friday-night neighborhood parties, so I assumed that my extremely negative reaction, plus the punishment of an early departure, would have taught him a lesson.

Also, the next day, I talked to him at length about his language.  He didn’t know what the word “bitch” meant, but he knew how to use it, as he’d shown.  He promised me he’d never say the word again.

But he did the following week, when a friend wouldn’t play with him.  Once again, he blurted, “You’re such a bitch,” but this time to a boy.

We had another talk—and, to my knowledge, he hadn’t used the term since.

But, tonight, he wanted to stay with his brother.  He was feeling like such a big boy, being allowed to play the Star Wars video game with him.  And, he’s emotional and irrational every time we have visitation, desperate to have as much time with his brother or brothers, when both are here, as possible.

And, tonight, I took that away from him.  I was the bitch who insisted that he prematurely end his game, leave his beloved brother and go to bed.

I understand that he was angry.  And, I understand that he’s 4 years old and not in full control of his emotions, especially when he’s tired and feeling pressured to make the most of his limited time with his brothers. 

But, I’m simply not a bitch to my son.  I’m not perfect.  But I’m not a bitch.

This is why we decided to try to have another child.    

My husband is an adult who can adequately manage his emotions, the anguish of having lived with his sons full-time, then being relegated to every-other-weekend visits, rotating holidays and vacation periods.  He has suffered when both he and his sons have requested more time together, only to be shut down with statements such as, “I will not agree to what is not right,” as if it isn’t beneficial for sons to spend ample time with their father as they grow from children to teenagers to men.  He’s requested both private and court-ordered mediation, in which his sons expressed their desires to the mediators in front of both parents, to no avail.  Deciding that the trauma of going to court, his only alternative when mediation wasn’t successful, was not in his sons’ best interest, he has given up on increasing visitation time, but not without sadness and anger and guilt.

But, our 4-year-old can’t handle the loss of his brothers, whom he adores.  He’s a young child, with the associated level—or lack thereof—of emotional maturity.  He spends his brothers’ visitation time knocking on their bedroom door, asking, “Can I come in, please?”, then just sitting with them as they play video games, watch television or talk.  He follows them from room to room.  He begs them to play with him.  He mimics them, sometimes to negative responses from me, such as when he announces, “I’ve got to go take a dump,” or “Mama, this is a frickin’ huge ball.”

When they’re with us, he refuses to go to bed, stating emphatically, “But, Mama, I don’t get to see the boys very often.”  This sweet, normally well-behaved kid will fight me when I insist that it’s time to go to sleep, kicking and screaming and hitting and crying in his desperation to extend his limited time with them.  He’ll ask over and over, “Why do we have to bring the boys to their mom’s house?” and “Why can’t they just live here?”

I can explain, then explain again, but all that registers is that his only siblings, older brothers that this little boy worships, come for short periods, in which he’s blissfully happy, then leave him to deal with the fall-out of being an only child once again. 

And, this happens every other weekend.

My husband and I have had people question our decision to have another child, stating, “Well, I loved being an only child,” and “He does have brothers, so it’s not like he’s an only child.”

But, he lives a split life, so he hasn’t experienced the true benefits of either. 

If he were an only child, that would be what he knew, and perhaps he would have enjoyed that status.  But that is not the family dynamic he’s grown up with.  He has brothers who visit every-other-weekend on a regular basis, then varying other times, based on the terms of their parents’ Joint Parenting Agreement.  And, he prefers life with his brothers.  He doesn’t sigh with relief when they leave because now he can be king of the house once again.  After experiencing day-to-day life with siblings, he doesn’t want to go back to the isolation of being solo.

And, yes, he has brothers, as we are reassured by those who believe only-childness is a curse.  But, for our son, our super-social son, having them only part-time has become detrimental as he becomes older.  Starting last fall, his sadness after every visitation period was so apparent that his preschool teacher asked for the visitation schedule, so she could anticipate his down periods and help him work through them.  This, necessary for a 3-year-old…

Added to this is the unique circumstance that he is the child of an anonymous sperm donor, so he will never have the opportunity to meet his biological father.  He has the best adoptive father possible, and he and my husband are extraordinarily close because they’ve been together since the minute he was born.  So, perhaps the loss of any possible relationship with the donor will be fine to him, but maybe not.  We won’t know until he gets older and fully grasps the story he’s been told since his birth, of his donor, of how he grew in my belly, of how his Daddy chose him to be his son and adopted him.

Just as with other adoptees, his paternal origins may not be relevant to him, or curiosity may consume him.  He can satisfy his interest partially by meeting some or all of the 14 half-siblings he has in the United States and Canada, whom I’ve found via the Donor Sibling Registry, www.donorsiblingregistry.com.  But meeting his half-siblings, children who will have grown up in different families around North America, is not the same as meeting his biological father, if that is what he longs to do.

My husband and I can’t provide him with access to his biological father.  We can’t increase the visitation time we have with his adoptive brothers.  We can eventually facilitate his introductions to his half-siblings, wherever they may live in the future, but these relationships can only be long-distance, which could further frustrate him—the double disappointment of not having regular access to either his adoptive brothers or his half-siblings.

But my husband and I could try to give him a half-sibling to whom he would have 24/7 access.  So we did try, twice, with our two in vitro fertilization (IVF) cycles. 

And, now I’m pregnant with twin boys. 

My husband and I have been told that, if my high-risk pregnancy is successful, we’ve ruined our lives.  But, we’re well aware of all the negative occurrences and influences that have combined to adversely affect us and our children, resulting in anxiety, anger and depression all the way down to our youngest son.  And, along with our 15-year-old having the opportunity to overcome his learning disability at his new school, this pregnancy is the most positive occurrence in the 2 ½ years since we got married, so full of hope for our futures together. 

This pregnancy renews that hope.