Updated: Dec. 20, 2015
Originally Published: May 18, 2010
One sunny morning, my 6-year-old daughter, Mia, woke me up with her bright smile and a flurry of hugs: “Mommy, Mommy! Happy Mother’s Day!” Right behind her was my 7-year-old, Emma, proudly holding a single red rose and a homemade card. This day was like a dream come true for me, a vision I’ve held since I was just a kid myself.
My path to this beautiful moment wasn’t without its challenges. It took me a while to navigate the dating scene before marrying my husband, Jake. Then came years of navigating the intricate world of fertility clinics. We even traveled from Austin to Denver, seeking help from one of the top reproductive specialists in the country.
Our first visit to the clinic involved a series of tests on my reproductive health—results that were less than encouraging. At 38, my eggs were aging out, making natural conception or even assisted methods a daunting prospect. Mourning the loss of the children I might never meet was a strange experience. It wasn’t about not wanting to be a parent—it was about the ache of not holding a baby who might share my features or family traits.
We refer to my girls’ biological mom as “Lisa.” We didn’t have her real name or a photo, just a brief medical history that was mostly clinical. Since she was an office manager, we thought it fitting to name her after Lisa from Friends. As a token of gratitude, we even found a lovely glass dolphin sculpture to honor her.
On that Mother’s Day, Emma surprised me with Nutella toast and coffee in bed, while Mia showered me with hugs. The girls played happily with their cousins, and I enjoyed the company of the moms in our family. Everyone, from toddlers to grandmas, joined in a backyard kickball game filled with laughter and made-up rules. It was everything I had wished for. Yet, in the back of my mind, I knew that I would need to talk to my daughters about Lisa soon.
Not long ago, Emma’s older friend did a science fair project on genes, and I jokingly told her mom, “Please keep my girls away from that!” Both of my daughters have blue eyes—just like Jake. Statistically speaking, it raised questions about how much of their genetic traits were influenced by me.
Each night, as we cuddle before bed, I share their birth story with them. I explain how much Jake and I longed to become parents and how we traveled all the way to Colorado to seek help from a caring doctor. I mention the special woman who contributed to their creation and how grateful we are for everyone involved in our journey, allowing us to be Mia and Emma’s loving parents.
We’ve been open about our IVF and donor egg experience with family and friends, but we haven’t yet shared the full details with the girls. Partly, I worry about how to explain concepts like egg and sperm to them at such a young age. Mostly, I’m concerned about how they will react to the idea of a biological mom who isn’t me. Will they wonder what she looks like? Will they feel a sense of loss for someone they’ve never met? Will the knowledge of our physical differences create distance between us?
If I reveal this too early, will they be confused or upset? If I wait too long, will they feel betrayed by a secret? By the time next Mother’s Day rolls around, I hope to have navigated these conversations thoughtfully, answering their questions as they arise and in a way that suits their understanding. I’m proud of my family and the journey we’ve taken together. I look forward to celebrating many more Mother’s Days to come.
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In summary, sharing the story of your child’s origins can be a delicate task, especially when it involves a donor. Balancing honesty with age-appropriate discussions is key, and the journey of motherhood is one filled with love, gratitude, and many memories yet to be made.