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MATERNITY FROM A DISTANCE

By Lisa Baker

In the bright California sunshine I'm watching a little girl run around the playground. Her wispy blond hair escapes once again from the ponytail one of her fathers carefully formed for her. She is adorable in her pink, black and white dress with matching shoes. This is the fourth time I've visited since I gave birth to her two years ago. When I first arrive at her home, she hardly registers my presence. But eventually she figures out ways to engage me. She doesn't call me by name or call me Mommy. There are photographs of me and my family in her home, but I don't know whether she connects them to me, or whether that matters. Her fathers tell me stories about her life: how she adores her nanny, a beautiful young Mexican-born woman, and how she sometimes plays with the nanny's nieces and nephews in their neighborhood. When she's there, she calls the nanny's mother Mom. My heart lurches when I hear this. I didn't expect to care so much about how I fit into this child's life. When I first got the idea to be a surrogate, I just wanted to help a married couple, our relatives, become parents. My husband's cousin Laura was married months after we were. She and Allen were eager to start a big family. But while Jerry and I got pregnant the first time we tried, and I carried my healthy baby to term, Laura was never able to maintain a pregnancy. This misfortune gnawed at me. At the time I was finishing graduate school and already had exactly what I'd hoped and planned for my life: husband, child and doctorate by age 30. I wanted to do something tangible to help the world instead of just cloistering myself as another narrowly focused academic. My body was healthy and strong. My pregnancy had been easy. I felt I had leftover reproductive capacity, yet we didn't want more children ourselves. Jerry and I discussed telling Laura and Allen that I'd carry a baby for them. But by the time we broached the subject with them over dinner one night, they were already in the process of adopting. I was surprised to feel so disappointed. Similiar to online dating At my university and through the Unitarian Universalist church, I was becoming friends with many gay couples. It occurred to me I could take my offer one stop further by extending it to a male couple that wanted to have children. I began my research, and to my surprise I felt more kinship when I visited online surrogacy sites. I could see that the surrogates were deeply proud of what they were doing. They valued their families and wanted to give other couples the same chance. Even more selflessly, they risked the disapproval of family and friends to do so. So, rather impulsively -- I didn't expect anyone to respond and hadn't even discussed it with Jerry -- I posted an ad on surromomsonline.com. The process was not unlike online dating, but instead of selling yourself, you're selling your genes and your fertility: Details such as SAT scores, Ivy League degrees and physical health and appearance get more prominent play than one's fetishes and measurements. In my ad I said I was specifically seeking a gay couple, and within days I got a promising response from California. These guys had been together for 10 years: One was in entertainment, the other a nurse. They explained that they had investigated adoption but found it difficult for gay men. They had been at this awhile and already had screened many potential surrogates. I took a deep breath and went to discuss it with Jerry. He had been enthusiastic about my offer of surrogacy to his cousin, but this was something else entirely, and it scared him. "What if the couple walks when the baby is born?" he wanted to know. "What are the risks?" He didn't dismiss the idea out of hand, but he wanted to protect his family, as did I. It took months of research and talking, but finally we decided to do it. Our developing trust in the would-be fathers made our decision easier. I flew to California for inseminations. At the amniocentesis in New York a few months later, the future fathers held my hands and stared rapt at the monitor as they saw their child for the first time. When the due date approached, we scheduled a C-section in California. I flew out weeks ahead to await the birth. My husband and son (plane tickets generously provided by the new fathers) arrived a few days before she was to be born. 'You can visit anytime' As I lay in recovery, her fathers brought her to see me. I held her in my arms, feeling so proud of what I had done. The baby's grandfather sat next to my hospital bed, warmly clasped my hands and thanked me for the gift I had given his family. When it was time to return to my hotel and prepare to fly home, I held her in my arms one last time and wept. I couldn't bear to let go. Her fathers were quick to reassure me. "This isn't an end," one said. "It's only the beginning." But I couldn't stop crying. Later at the hotel I pulled myself together and e-mailed them an explanation: "I know she is where she belongs. But I will never again hold her as a baby. When I see her next, she'll be a big girl. She'll be your project, not mine." At home I tried to settle back into the rhythms of my old life. I taught my students, debriefed my third-grade son after school, did household chores. But in my quiet home office, when everyone was gone, my attention wandered from the lecture notes on my desk. I checked my e-mail continually, ravenous for pictures of the baby. I lived for phone updates from her fathers. I hadn't expected it to be so hard -- which made me feel stupid. Why wouldn't it be hard for a mother to give up a baby she had carried, a baby that was part her? One of the fathers became my lifeline. He called every day; he let me cry. At his urging I booked a flight to visit and then counted the weeks. She would be 3 months old. When I held her, I still felt that she was part of me, that she could have been my child. But I didn't cry. She was so clearly in the right place. Now, two years later, I watch her run around with her friends on the playground. I search for the right words to describe how I feel about her. She feels like a niece to me, but more than a niece. I feel I have a special responsibility toward her, but what is it? And what about her feelings? Will she one day disapprove of me, as well? Will she wonder how I could choose to bring her into the world and not raise her? Or will she think of me at all? On the playground her father minds the diaper bag and asks her if she wants a snack. I stand to the side and watch, feeling useless. But then she takes my hand and leads me to the slide, and I am reminded that I need to leave it to her. She keeps finding ways to bring me into her world, and for this I am grateful.