I HAD been expecting it - it would have been naive of me not to - but when it happened, it sent me reeling.
I was reading a bedtime story to Corin, my seven-year-old son, when he came out with it, no warning, no context, just a bald statement: ''When I say I have two mums at school, some kids tease me.''
It came like a blow to the stomach and it took my breath away. Corin, and his two younger sisters, were conceived using an anonymous, identity-release donor through IVF, a path we took because it provided clear legal certainty in relation to parentage: we are the parents, the donor is not. But it also ensured that, when the time came, we would be able to provide information to our kids about their genetic background, something we knew from the experience of adopted children was important.
As it turned out, we met our donor, David, fairly early on when Corin was still a baby; a remarkable meeting that was warm and generous and positive. David is happy to provide information - medical or otherwise - that we might need over time, and is comfortable with the kids knowing who he is. But he is clear, too: he is not their father, he is their donor.
Our kids have two parents who I believe are capable of meeting all their needs, but that doesn't mean we don't want men in their lives. Quite the contrary. Our kids have granddads, uncles, cousins and male family friends and we are fortunate to have many great dads in our social circle with whom the kids spend a lot of time. Pretty much every same-sex family I know goes to great lengths to involve men in the lives of their children.
But none of this, of course, changes Corin having two mums and, in that, he is different from many of his peers.
''Hey, that's not good, sweetheart,'' I say. ''That happen today?''
Today and a couple of other times, it turns out. He is specific: ''Not my friends, not kids who know me. Other kids,'' and he mentions one by name and grade.
I am relieved by that at least. My partner, Sarah, and I have always believed that the best way to overcome prejudice is to be out, open and honest. We try to make it easy for people to ask questions and are always happy when they do. We don't take offence.
When Corin started school, we had playground discussions about same-sex families, and were commonly asked by other parents how they might explain Corin's situation to their children.
All families are different, we say, lots have a mum and dad, some just live with their mum or their dad, and others with dad and his new girlfriend and her children and so on. Kids take things at face value: Corin has two mums and no dad. People are happy with this, we find, and always relieved that they don't have to talk about homosexuality or sex. It will get more complicated as they get older, of course, but for now this works.
What has helped us, too - and what we hope helps the kids - is being involved in our community as much as possible. And so Sarah is chairwoman of the management committee of our day care centre, we attend every school barbecue, camp-out, concert and campaign meeting, and we always end up inviting ridiculous numbers of people to the kids' birthday parties.
We would probably do all this anyway, but it is a quietly calculated strategy, too. The hope is, of course, that it makes it just a little bit harder for people to dislike us and, more importantly, harder for others' kids to tease mine.
Someone once said that you change the world one person at a time.
''So what do you think would be a good way to handle that, sweetheart,'' I say, ''if it happens again?''
It's a good conversation. We rule out fighting - it's not his inclination and we agree it's a rubbish way of sorting out a problem anyway - and we talk about better ways of fighting, of sticking up for yourself: using words, laughing, walking away.
As an out and very public same-sex family, we have had an easy time of it in many ways. The people in our community whom we encounter every day - childcare workers, shopkeepers, parents and teachers - have always been more than accepting. We live in a nice, leafy, inner suburb with a highly educated demographic and that helps. We chose it for a reason and we know it is not like that everywhere.
What we have in common with other families with young children binds us so much more than our same-sex status separates us. We fit in. We are one of a crowd. We are ordinary.
But every now and again - such as when Corin tells me he is being teased - I am reminded that we are different and that while we may have found a safe, quiet corner to raise our family, there is a big, bad world out there waiting for my kids. And that worries me.
A few days after this incident I relate the story to some parents and one of them asks if I reported it to the school. It's a fair question and I think they are surprised when I say no. There may come a time when I need to, but that's not now. I don't want to blow this out of proportion, and there is a danger that I may make it more difficult for Corin. And, sadly, he needs to develop the skills and confidence to defend himself at times - the times when I'm not there in the playground to do it for him. And as things turned out, it was the right decision.
In the midst of all this I take a trip overseas. My closest friend, Ian, and his partner, Nick, are getting married, a civil partnership in South London where they live. I have known Ian forever and I am honoured to be his ''best lesbian''.
Britain came on board with legal recognition of same-sex relationships in 2005, soon after Canada legalised gay marriage. Now, some form of legal recognition exists in close to 20 countries in Europe, and in such diverse nations as South Africa, New Zealand, Argentina and a number of American states.
Sarah and I got married in Canada in 2003 on a trip home to visit her parents. It's seven years now and it's a strange thing, I can tell you, to be married in some places and not in others. Now you're married, now you're not. When we go back to Canada to visit my in-laws, the gay marriage thing is all a bit old hat; the same when we see friends in Britain. But here at home, of course, things are different. All of a sudden this ring on my finger doesn't mean anything any more and I am ticking the ''single'' box on official forms.
As I hover outside the registry office at Ian and Nick's civil partnership, I am struck by how normal it all feels: a legal ceremony bringing together two people who love each other - two people who just happen to be the same sex - and it seems crazy to me that this still threatens people so much.
Inside, the celebrant conducts the service with professionalism and humour and, as at all the best weddings, we laugh and we cry. But what strikes me most as I listen - ''This place in which you are now met has been duly sanctioned according to law … Nick and Ian have chosen to pledge themselves to each other by committing to a legally binding contract … '' - what really hits home, is that this is a legal process, that the parliament of this country, elected by its people, changed the laws to make this happen, and that blows me away.
And for the first time I see the whole issue of gay marriage with a blinding clarity. The overriding feeling in the room is respect, for Ian and Nick, and for their relationship. Our being in this room says that their relationship is as good, bad or indifferent as yours. And it says that they are as good, bad or indifferent people as you. They are the same. I am the same. I am no less than you because I am gay.
When Sarah and I returned from Canada after getting married, we were unsure of our legal status here and decided to test it in the Family Court. It was this process that led the Howard government to change the law to specifically exclude us. That change sent a clear - opposite - message. It said: Your relationship is not the same as mine You are not the same as me. You are less than me because you are gay.
It is time for this to change.
Back home I am sitting in the playground at pick-up time waiting for the bell and thinking about Corin. I know that he is as sure of himself and his family as any other kid in his class. He understands he has two mums and that that's different. He understands that donor Dave gave us sperm and that you need eggs and sperm to make a baby. He knows lots of his friends have a mum and dad, and lots have two mums. He's cool with all that. What he doesn't know yet - and what I would give anything to shield him from knowing - is that some people think his family is not just different, but worse. Less. Bad.
As the bell goes and the kids spill out on to the oval, I see the grade 6 girl I have noticed a few times reading her book on the bench. There is something about her - the way she sets herself apart from her peers, her dress, her manner - that sends me spinning back to the playgrounds of my youth. She is me, and my heart goes out to her. I don't want her to feel awkward, or alone, or afraid. I want so much for it to be different for her, for it to be easier.
And then there are the boys; there's always one or two - how hard it will be for them - even today, even in the city. Every gay man I've ever known says he knew he was different well before he reached high school, and even by conservative estimates one kid from each of these classes may turn out to be gay.
I cannot pretend that life for me is hard because I am gay. It isn't and it hasn't been for a long time. And the recent legal changes at state and federal levels have removed most discriminatory laws and practices. But for the children in Corin's playground it is a different story. Young, gay people are still extremely vulnerable and if they are going to be OK - and if the children of gay parents are going to be OK - things need to be different.
What you say about same-sex marriage, what you say about gay people, filters down to your children and gets played out in the schoolyard. My schoolyard with my son in it, or another schoolyard with another kid in it, a kid who knows he's different. Maybe your kid, even.
Corin finally emerges from his classroom and bounds up to me with a boy I've not seen before. ''Can my friend Stephen have a go on my scooter?''
Hmm. Would that be the ''Stephen'' in the teasing story, I wonder?
''Sure, sweetheart.''
Later, when I ask him, he says: ''Oh, it's OK now, Mum. He didn't know me, but he does now. He gets it. It's fine.'' And as he disappears across the playground, I can't help but smile. I am relieved, proud; we cleared the first hurdle.
And when, a few weeks later, he comes out with his next announcement I am not quite so taken aback. '' Rebecca in my class says two girls can't get married.''
I take a deep breath. ''No, sweetheart, not here in Australia.'' That's true.
I think about our wedding, about Ian and Nick's civil partnership. I think that a society that treats all its members the same in law sends a message that it respects all its members equally.
I think if my marriage to Sarah was legally acknowledged, it would send a message that our family is as valid as anyone else's. I think that laws are changing in many countries around the world and that there is no reason why those laws can't change here. And by the time I work out how to explain all this to Corin, he has - fortunately - disappeared into the garden and is bouncing on the trampoline.
In the end, all I can really do is try to make his immediate environment as safe as possible, equip him with the skills to defend himself if need be and, maybe, chip away at the attitudes that make him vulnerable in the first place. I know that - as much as I would like to - I can't be in the schoolyard to fight his battles for him, but like I said: there's more than one way to fight a battle.
I do, I do: Now you're married, now you're not
AUSTRALIA: Same-sex marriages are currently not permitted under Australian federal law. The federal government has legislated to remove discrimination against same-sex couples in tax, health, welfare, aged care and superannuation entitlements.
Victoria, Tasmania and ACT allow same-sex couples to register their relationships.
UNITED STATES: Same sex marriages are allowed in five states and one federal district.
Massachusetts became the first state to legalise gay marriage, in November 2003; same-sex couples also may marry in Vermont, Connecticut, Iowa, New Hampshire and District of Columbia.
UNITED KINGDOM: Same-sex civil partnerships allowed.
CANADA: Legal same-sex marriage.
Jacqueline Tomlins is a Melbourne writer and a member of the Rainbow Families Council.
[Source: Original Article]
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