And while I have never been asked whether I am (or am not) the “real” mom, it remains the case that the bio mom is generally seen as The Mother (capital archetype) during the pregnancy and first year.  The nonbio mom is generally seen as, well, um, something else.

So, I think that I should feel good about the idea that it might just become less and less relevant who is who.  And yet, I don’t.

Here’s the thing.  When we look at straight parents, few people would suggest that it doesn’t matter who is the dad and who is the mom, since they’re both parents, after all.  Even when those very same dads and moms are pushing the gender envelopes in how they define their roles, it still matters.  Because, even though they might be stay-at-home dads or high-powered-executive moms, they’re still dads and moms.  So why does it “not matter” in lesbian couples?

The bottom line is that I continue to feel a resistance to becoming subsumed into one big maternal entity.  I also feel like saying that it doesn’t matter who is bio and who is not erases the reality of the nonbio mom.  Yes, I’m a real mom and yes, I’m a nonbio mom.  It matters because it matters to me.  It matters because it is something different.  It is who I am in relation to Hannah.  That matters.

“I don’t like that language,” I say.  Again.

“I didn’t mean stupid stupid,” she equivocates. “I meant it in the good way.”

“It sounded like stupid to me,” I say.

“I don’t really think you’re stupid,” she says. “But you can be annoying and embarrassing sometimes.”

I’m not sure we’re really getting anywhere.

I stop at a red light.  And I hear her say, “But . . . deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep . . . ”

The light changes.

“. . . deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep . . .”

I am being chanted a mantra. My mind wanders.  We come to our cross street.  I turn.

“. . . deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep . . . “

I negotiate the frozen ruts and mounds of snow, trying to avoid the worst bumps.  We come to our house.  I pull up in front.

“ . . . deep down inside, I really love you,” she says.

I laugh.  “I love you, too,” I say.

I’m not a fool, so I asked her what she wanted EXACTLY.  She told me.  I ordered it.  A toasted twelve-inch sandwich on Italian bread with turkey, shredded cheese, orange cheese and mayo.  She went to find a table while I paid.  I brought the food to her and sat down on the stool next to hers.  She took the bag and gave me a look of disgust.  Apparently, I had ordered in NOT EXACTLY the right way. I had said “orange cheese” as opposed to “cheddar cheese.”

“You are so not cool,” she said.

Oh, you don’t know the half of it, I thought.  I was uncool before uncool was uncool.  I am part of Square Nation.  And darned proud of it, too.

But still, it bugs me just a little, to be deemed so not cool by someone who is so not yet seven years old.

“About what?” I ask.

“She said two men or two women can’t get married, but I said they can.”

“You’re both right,” I say.  “Two men or two women can’t get married in some places, but they can in others.”

“Like where?” Hannah asks.

“Well, they can’t get married here in Minnesota,” I say.  Hannah knows this.  She also knows that Jane and I did get “married,” but that “the government doesn’t think it was real.”

These are the things we have to explain to our children.  We’re married, but we’re not.  What you know to be true in your life is not true in the eyes of the government.  Sometimes the government is wrong.

“But two men or two women can get married in other places like Iowa or Massachusetts.”

I remind her of a long-time friend of ours who moved to Massachusetts with his partner and got married there.  Hannah is intrigued.

“Did they get a piece of paper?” Hannah asks.

A marriage license?  I don’t know where she’s going with this.

“Yes,” I say.

“Did they come back to Minnesota and show it to the government?” she asks hopefully.

In her mind, this is probably all that is needed.  Maybe the government here in Minnesota doesn’t know that gay people can get married in some places.  Maybe they just need to be informed.  Maybe life would be better if it followed the logic of first graders.

“I don’t know,” I say.  It may be worth a try.

“I need that back,” I call.  “You don’t get to keep it.”  My glasses disappeared recently, into her hands, I am convinced.  They haven’t turned up in weeks, and she swears her innocence.  I don’t want my cell phone to fall into the same black hole.

“I have to make a call,” Hannah says.

“To who?” I ask.

Silence.

“Who are you calling?” I repeat.

“I want to buy dresses for you and Mommy.”  Let’s be clear.  She means wedding dresses.  As in gowns.  Specifically, the silky lavender one for me and the lacey white one for Jane.

Oh, my.

“I think that’s a little premature,” I say, since there is no wedding in the plans.

“But it’s your anniversary,” she says, sounding disappointed.  She’s right.  Jane and I will celebrate our twenty-fifth anniversary in September, but not with an elaborate wedding, much to Hannah’s disappointment.  And without wedding gowns.

I go and get the phone.

“That’s so sweet of you, Hanner,” I say, and give her a kiss.  “That’s just about the sweetest thing ever.”