Are you my mom?

“You’re not my real mom!” 
“I hate you!”

These might be the words that donor conception parents fear the most.

Not me. When I was pregnant with Miss 9, I had the good fortune to be approached by Marna Gatlin and Carole LieberWilkins to develop their book, Let’s Talk About Egg Donation*. I benefitted from their decades of experience of egg donation, both as moms and professionals in the infertility realm. 

I got very comfortable very quickly with ideas that weren’t as common as they are now. Like being completely open with my kid, as well as other people. When my husband and I met with a third party reproduction therapist—required by our clinic—she remarked that we had done “95% of the work.” I was surprised to learn that S. and I were in a minority of parents who didn’t need to be convinced about telling our future child/ren. In other words, we not only planned to be open with our kids, but viewed it as a series of ongoing conversations (not a one-time telling) that we would start having early on.

Back in 2014, I knew that I still had 5% to work on. I just wasn’t sure what was in it.

***

The other night I asked Miss 9 to help me make the pesto we were having for dinner.

As she washed the basil in a big pot of water, she told me about the evolution of monkeys she had been learning about in science class. And then her face fell. I could see something was weighing on her mind.

“What is it, honey-bunny?” I put my arm around her.

“Well… I wish I wasn’t made with a donor. All my friends’ moms made them…”

I looked at my copper-haired kiddo and kissed her the top of her head. “Ah, I understand, love. It’s true, the way you and your brother and sister were made is a bit different, isn’t it?”

“Mm-hmm. Does that mean you’re not my mom?”

***

I’ve heard countless times that telling early and often is the way to go, but that the science doesn’t actually click for a child until 9-10 years old. At 9½, we’re right on track.

There was a brief moment of panic when Miss 9 asked me if I was her mom. But it wasn’t a dagger to my heart the way I thought it could have been. I was more upset when a friend once referred to my donor as “donor mom.” I was so shocked I didn’t correct them, and by the time I had regained composure the moment had passed. 

Ah. There’s that final 5%. 

Over the years I have thought about that conversation, irritated that I didn’t correct my friend. But now I’m glad I didn’t. Because it made me examine my discomfort. 

Why should I feel uncomfortable with “donor mom” or “genetic mother” used to describe my donor? What do they take away from me, as a mom? 

Nothing. 

***

“Of course I’m your mom!” I hugged her. “Who changed your diapers? Who takes care of you when you’re sick? Who makes your favourite pesto for dinner?”

Miss 9 chuckled when I mentioned diapers. Then she exhaled. “Sometimes I feel disappointed that I didn’t come from your eggs, Mama.”

I hugged her again. “It’s okay to feel disappointed, honey. I understand. Can I tell you something?” We looked into each other’s eyes, my small brown ones that I inherited from my dad and her large green ones that she inherited from our donor, and I said, “When I first learned I couldn’t have a baby without someone else’s eggs, I was disappointed too.”

“You were?”

“I sure was. And also because a lot of people who do egg donation have tried making a baby with their own oocyte eggs first, and we didn’t. We went straight to donor eggs. No regrets! Know why?”

“Why?”

“Because then I had you.”

“And brother and sister!” Her little moon face lit up.

“And brother and sister.”

“But they were frozen for four years!” she laughed.

“Yes they were! So you see, having an egg donor is something that makes our family a little bit different. You know what else makes us different?

“Having a British mom?”

“Yep! Having a mom with an accent. And having two passports. Or having a dad who is shorter than your mom.” We both giggled.

Then she mentioned her Black friend, R., who was adopted by white parents. “I guess R. being Black and having a white mom and dad is something that makes their family a bit different too.”

“Right! There’s no one way to be a family.” 

And I told her about how there are many ways of being a parent, and sometimes you can’t tell what’s different about how a kid came to their family. 

“Some people use an egg donor, like us. Some people use a sperm donor, like [I named the families we know who did sperm donation]. Some people adopt—like [I named the families we know who adopted their kids]. And some people use their own oocyte eggs and sperm, but have help from someone who grows the baby in their uterus. You can’t always tell how a family was created.”

“Is [name of donor] my family?”

***

Until this past year, I hadn’t used the term “genetic mother” with Miss 9 to describe my donor. I felt that it might be confusing for someone so young. 

But, not gonna lie, I also recognized my own discomfort referring to my donor as any kind of mother. 

It was probably in 2020 that I started paying attention to donor-conceived people’s experiences. And while I could lament a lack of vocabulary for someone who is, medically-speaking, my kids’ mother but not someone who is raising them, I had this lightbulb moment where I recognized that it was not my job to invent new words to describe an alternative kinship. My responsibility is to give my children all the vocabulary so they can choose what feels right to them. 

Just like my husband and I felt that it was our responsibility to make sure our children are able to be in touch with our donor, if they wanted to. 

***

“That is such a good question! Kind of. She’s not family like the people we spend Xmas with, or the people who give you birthday presents, or who love you. But she is your family in the sense that you share DNA (“ingredients”) with her, as well as her mom and dad, and her children. And that’s why I sometimes call her your genetic mother. You can call her whatever you want—genetic mother, biological mother, donor mom, whatever you want.”

“I think I’ll just call her [her name].”

“Totally fine. But if someone asks you, ‘Who’s [name]?’ how will you describe that relationship?”

“I think I’ll just say ‘my donor’.” 

And I reminded Miss 9 that it’s okay if she changes her mind. She can refer to our donor however she wants.

“Do you know her?”

“No. I wish I did! Actually, we were in touch briefly—”

“Do you have her phone number?” Miss 9 interrupted, excitedly.

“I have her email address. And I have a questionnaire she answered. The clinic asked her a bunch of questions, and you can see what she wrote. Shall I print your own copy for you?”

Miss 9 nodded.

***

I know this is just a snapshot in the many conversations I’ll have with Miss 9, the twins, and other people. There will be future conversations that will continue to evolve. (See here for past conversations at 5, at 4, at 2, and at 6 months.

By the time you’re reading this, my little Miss 9 will be poring over the pages of the questionnaire that our donor filled out when creating her egg donor profile. 

And I hope that Miss 9 will recognize in herself the same qualities—kindness, open-mindedness, artistic talent, even favourite colour—that drew me to the wonderful human being who helped me become Mom.

***

Check out how to talk about egg donation with your kids and other people.

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