Updated: Mar 9, 2021
Before I can even begin to cover the birth of our daughter, we have to rewind a little over six years. Six plus years ago, I met a real babe who is now known as Mama in our household. This babe meandered over to my twin and I at a hole in the wall lesbian bar in Washington DC and within weeks I was telling her that I wanted to have kids with her one day. Typical lesbianism. We waste no time.
Over the next few years, we lived a good life. We travelled to places we’ve never been and some that we have and we even visited Amy’s motherland, Jordan. We moved in together, got engaged, got married, got a dog, started a real estate investing and flipping business, renovated our own home, all the while, discussing how we were sculpting the perfect life for our own little family one day. I remember even putting it in my wedding vows: I vow to give you your own little family that you so desperately deserve. Yeah, I’m kind of the perfect wife, I know. Hold the applause, please, the baby’s sleeping.
As you all know, giving my wife her own little family comes with its own set of hurdles. We don’t have the luxury of an “oopsy” baby, even though the heterosexual community likely doesn’t look at this as a luxury at all. Oh perspective, what a compelling bastard you really are.
Procreation for us was always a pipe dream. Like I said, we had talked about it when we first met and after getting married in 2017, we started researching more about it. We were in a place financially where it was possible so we started skimming donors on three different sperm bank websites and found a couple different options that had Amy’s ethnicity and features. We jumped through all of their hoops to be able to purchase a specimen.
Let me tell you, finding a provider who would sign off on this for us was no easy feat. Luckily, we found a nurse practitioner who was LGBTQ (or the alphabet mafia as some would now call it) friendly and we submitted our paperwork. Just as soon as that happened, poof, the donors we had chosen no longer had any specimens in stock.
So, as true bullshitters do, we said we would check back in a couple months...
But then, fucking life happened.
Sickness ravaged my family. Family near and far. And the losses are unimaginable. We lost several family members in Pennsylvania and the most petrifying for me, my twin.
Take me back to a year ago and I couldn’t confidently say I’d still be here. Walking this earth. The magnitude of this loss was more than I could see past. So logically, what does one do? They throw themselves into something that will give them (and their entire heartbroken family) purpose, positivity, and hope for a future. Our little family. A baby.
After the sperm bank donors we liked still did not have stock, I scoured the internet and Facebook support groups for insight. And that’s when I found the app Just A Baby.
Cue the holy, heaven-opening-up, and rays-of-white-light-beaming-down music.
I feverishly Tinder-swiped through this app for a solid six hours straight getting more and more excited that we were honing in on our pipe dream. And then it happened. The donor that I liked most, liked us back.
And Amy approved.
So we set up a coffee meet and greet where he interviewed us and we interviewed him and all of the stars aligned. He was handsome, healthy, intelligent, and shared all of Amy’s features. So, like any true lesbian couple, we be-bopped our way out of that coffee shop infatuated with a man. Who so selflessly was about to change our life for the better.
Hold tight. This is not the better part. Insemination for lesbians is a gag fest. Especially when you waste the semen on your Honda Civic’s passenger seat because you have to work the next day and don’t have time to sit in a hotel room with your legs in the air so you tell your wife to insert it in the car so you can keep your legs elevated on the dash for the hour commute home but you don’t realize you’re straining hoisting yourself up in the seat so the entire specimen shoots out of you and you both gag because you hate sperm and you cry because you just wasted the thing you hate most on your seat and not in your lady part. But eleven days later, you realize a little goes a long way, and you’re staring in the mirror with your jaw dropped because you just peed on a stick and it reads “Pregnant.” So you run to wake your wife who screams and runs out to get three more packs of pregnancy tests “just to be sure.”
Fast forward ten months.
You’ve had steady contractions for 48 hours straight at home likely because you read on the internet that using a breast pump can induce labor so you did that and now you haven’t slept for two days and your wife hasn’t either because she’s applying counter pressure to your back every contraction and you will undeniably be expected to push a whole ass baby out of your hooch on no sleep in the near future.
So you call the midwives and they say to come in.
They feel the baby’s head while checking my cervix.
We labor on the toilet and in the jacuzzi tub and on the floor and on the bed for five and a half hours and then she’s born. Just in case you were wondering because I know you were, I was on all fours when she was born. That was the position I was in. My wife behind me ready to catch the baby, seeing all of that. How she still likes me, I cannot be sure. Just imagining what she saw, I don’t even like me.
But then our girl was born. Jade Lennon Buchholz, 7 lbs 10 ounces, 18.5 inches, and beautiful and alert and ready to latch. My wife cried when she caught her when she was born. My wife never cries. I guess that’s what a kid does to you. Softens you up.
I cried for a different reason.
Apparently the placenta was still inside me and the umbilical cord was severed during birth because I’m a bad ass bitch who pushed my baby out with such force that something happened to the cord. My first failure as a mother. So here we are with a placenta that is inside me that we cannot assist out by pulling the cord because it’s severed and the medication they gave me to cause contractions hasn’t forced it out and neither has me pushing. So, logically, the only way it comes out is if my midwife goes to get it. With her hand. And just like that, she was forearm deep and retrieving the placenta. And then I passed out and blah-de-blah-de-blah.
But we were still on our way home with our bundle of joy within nine and half hours of showing up to the birthing center. So I’m still a bad ass, dammit.
So here I sit, with my twin’s namesake (JLB) sleeping in her swing and a wife sleeping upstairs because she was up all night with the baby, drinking a coffee and eating some goldfish at 6:47am on a Thursday with a story to tell and a daughter to raise. Oh how life can fill your heart up and then rip it out and then fill it back up again.