Look! There go my moms!

NRC Next intern Maite Vermeulen talks about the pros and cons of having two lesbian mothers and no father.

Gay Pride 2007. My little brother and I are sitting on a bridge over a canal in Amsterdam. Boat after boat passes by under our dangling legs, full of scantily but fabulously dressed dancing men. With my fingertips I'm drumming the beat to Gloria Gaynor's I Will Survive.

Suddenly, my little brother jumps up. "There she comes!" he shouts. "Where? Where?" I scream while I struggle to get my right leg out from between the bridge railing. "There!"

And then I see her too. As samba music drowns out Gloria Gaynor, a boat approaches on the canal, full of women dressed in blue and silver beating the drums. At the very front of the boat a woman is dancing enthusiastically as she plays an agogo bell. I would have recognised her by her hip movements alone. I've seen her dance in the living room so many times.

"MOM!" My brother and I jump up and down as we wave. "Mom!" Over here!" My mother sees us and waves. She beams. The couple next to us look at us in surprise. What? Is she their mother? How can that be? The man can't help but ask.

Yes, my mother is a lesbian. And not just that: my other mother is a lesbian too. It may surprise the couple on the bridge, but there are quite a lot of us by now. There are no statistics, but there must be thousands of us.

And do they lead normal lives? It depends on how you look at it. For instance, I don't know who my father is. He was an anonymous sperm donor at the UMC in Leiden.

I remember how as a child I used to scream every time someone failed to understand. Like that time at a campsite when I turned up at the family tent with five new incredulous friends in tow.

"Moms! Come outside!" Both my mothers put their heads out of the tent. "You see? Can too!"

I don't know how many times I had to tell people about that "kind man" who was good enough to give "his seed" to my moms. There were times I was so fed up with defending myself that I flew at the other kids. But it is not uncommon to fight on the playground. And there were kids who didn't ask: the children of my moms' lesbian friends.

As I grew older people around me understood better: it's easier to explain these things to an adult. Still, I often try to avoid the subject when I am in a new situation. I will talk about "my parents" without going into the details. "One" is a teacher, I'll say, and "the other" is a civil servant. Only when people ask, "So what does your father do?", do I tell them about my two mothers.

It's not that I'm ashamed; it's just easier. Because I know what will happen next. It goes something like this:

So do you miss having a dad?
No.
Don't you want to know who your dad is?
No.
Is one of your mothers the father figure?
No!
And another classic: So do you really see your non-biological mother as your mother?
Yes, of course.

Obviously I look more like my biological mother, but what about my fondness for camping? Or how I'm fanatic about sports? That I really got from my non-biological mother.

Her colleagues often remark: "She really is a chip off the old block!" Then we look at each other. Me: blond, she: a brunette. Me: 1.82 metres, she: up to my shoulder. Me: an oblong face, she: a round face. So we just nod and smile and laugh about it later.

Not so long ago a well-meaning person said to me: "It's funny how normal you turned out." For a moment, I felt the old anger well up.

"My mothers are normal!" I wanted to scream. I hunted for Easter eggs just like everyone else. I've learnt how to iceskate. I've been read bedtime stories. I was applauded after my school musical. I was comforted the first time I fell off my horse. What did I didn't have that a father could have given me? Nothing. Playing football? Check. Fix a tire on my bike? Check. Build a hut? Check.

Instead I just nodded and smiled.

But there were practical problems. Every six months I know to expect a letter about my student loan. It invariably asks me to provide my father's financial data, because my student loan depends on both my parents' income.

The first time it happened I naively called them up to explain I didn't have a father. No problem, they said, we'll mail you another form. Two days later the new form arrived. It was a multiple-choice form.

I am unable to provide my father's financial data because:
a) my father is deceased;
b) my father hasn't recognised me;
c) I am not in contact with my father.

There is no d) I don't have a father; I have a sperm donor. So whatever I do, six months later the same form will arrive with the mail - again and again.

And it's not just the student loan. There is no official relationship between my non-biological mother and me. A recent change in the law allows her to adopt me, but that takes time and money.

Still, I'm considering it, ever since I went on a six-month exchange programme to Australia last year. I decided to get travel insurance to cover all those things you don't want to think about. Like paying for a return flight in the event a relative passes away. However, if my non-biological mother had died during my trip, the insurance wouldn't have paid me anything to allow me to attend her funeral.

Luckily, we can laugh about most things. I remember a Christmas party at my brother's school where we played out the nativity scene - just like all families did. I was Mary. But who was going to be Joseph? The school photographer was at a loss. My little brother, who had already dressed up as the donkey, volunteered. In the picture, my two mothers smile at the camera like two tough 'lesbo' shepherds.

How we laughed when that school photograph arrived. In the end, laughter has always been our medicine for stupid questions or weird situations.