Two dozens lesbians and one male (Steph’s father) got together to celebrate by contributing to the nest. All new moms need stuff. They registered, we bought, and handed it over wrapped and tied with rainbow ribbon.

Of course we ate first—duh! Kudos to our party planners who brought out lasagna, brownies, and pie. We finished off the food as if we were all eating for two.

Afterward, there were gifts aplenty to open. While the festivities went pretty much as you might expect, my mind wandered a bit to the (insert announcer voice here) “Lesbian Baby Shower! With today’s guest moms, Steph and Kelly!” What happens when you get a room full of lesbians together for a baby shower? Test your knowledge with this short quiz.

How many knives does it take to cut through the ribbon on a baby gift?
Just one, but there are two dozen back-ups. Don’t take them out all at once ladies. We don’t want to scare Steph’s dad.

Steph opens a gift. It’s Boob Tubes! They are:
a. Breast pumps shaped like TV sets.
b. Breast-shaped drinking straws.
c. A product designed to ease the discomfort of breast feeding that we want you to demonstrate for us right now.

Steph opens another gift. It’s nipple cream! The reaction from the party is:
a. What flavor is that?
b. Whose nipples do they go on?
c. It’s a product designed to ease the discomfort of breast feeding that we want you to demonstrate for us right now.

Steph opens a package of Pampers Swaddlers and is warned about “blow outs.” A blow out is:
a. A flat tire.
b. A smooth hairdo styled with a blow dryer.
c. The most disgusting thing that can happen with a baby’s diaper, and trust me it will, but only when you are by yourself and both of your hands are full.

Steph opens a series of squishy packages to reveal:
a. Baby’s first yoga pants.
b. Baby’s first construction outfit.
c. Baby’s first robot crib sheets.
d. Three dozen “onesies.”
e. All of the above.

As Steph continues to unwrap packages, the gifts take a literary turn with an assortment of helpful and entertaining books: “Counting with Cats,” “Heather has 2 Mommies, a Nanny, and an Accountant,” “Teach Your Baby to be a Dotcom Billionaire,” “Lactation for Fun and Profit,” and “The Case of the Sleep Robber.”

Finally, there were practical items like the nose syringe and a case of Gerber’s hard cider, as well as a few toys including the huggable stuffed rainbow Pegasus, and baby’s first Harley.

When all the gifts were open, I realized we hadn’t played any traditional baby shower games. I remembered the one where you can’t cross your legs or you get a clothespin clipped to your collar. Hmmm, two dozen women and none of them cross their legs—ever. Next! How about the one where you guess the jelly beans in the jar? Oh, someone ate a bunch? They’re half gone? What about adult lesbian games like, “Who’s More Butch?” Wait! Don’t take out your knife!

Okay, so maybe that’s why we skipped the games. We didn’t need them because we had a great time. All the “aunties” are soooo excited; a few even offered to babysit. Steph, Kelly, did you get their names? I noticed these women were seniors and you know what happens to memory, especially when crying babies are involved.

My guess is you’ll both be so entranced by your sweet, little bundle of joy, your idea of fun will be to stay home, put on an adult onesie, and watch her. Then, the real shower begins as you shower her with love. What could be better?

Zoe Amos brings her lesbian point of view to articles and stories on diverse topics. Connect with her on Facebook and Twitter. Read her stories on Kindle and Nook. Check out her other life at www.janetfwilliams.com

The post From A to Zoe: Baby’s first shower brings rainbows first appeared on Lesbian.com.

Meet Queer Abby, our new advice columnist, feel free to ask her anything in the comments below or write to her directly at abagailwaller@gmail.com.

When I came out of the closet I sort of tiptoed out. There was no party, no parade, and no dancing girls. I warily dipped my big toe in the still, warm water of queerdom. Once I was finally “all the way out” at the age of twenty–I sought out all things gay. I watched every episode I could of the L Word and I went to a local lesbian dive bar on “college” night to nervously dance to Top 40’s hits while giving the eye to any cute girl that looked my way.

Coming out isn’t easy…at least it wasn’t for me. I was raised in a strict southern baptist household where I wasn’t allowed to wear pants, take the lord’s name in vain, or listen to rock music. I used to jokingly say that I am absolute proof that homosexuality is something you’re born with–like being born with red hair or olive skin. I am proof because there’s utterly no “explanation” for my “becoming gay.” I didn’t even really know what gay was until long after I started having feelings of attraction towards girls.

At the age of fifteen I kissed a girl for the first time. We made out and it was awesome. But immediately afterwards, I was filled with shame, and I dug a hole deep in my gut to put any queer feelings into. I wouldn’t kiss another girl for five years. It was the longest five years of my life.

Shortly after my 20th birthday I finally dropped the straight-charade and came out. I created about 3,738 online dating profiles with the hope of getting a girlfriend or at the very least, getting laid. I went on multiple dates and had even more flaky-date cancellations. After a few months of playing this awful game, I met a tomboyish redhead who’d end up being my first girlfriend. We went on our first date (I have no recollection of what we did or where we went) and then we went back to my place and well…you know.

The tomboyish redhead took me to my very first Gay Pride event in D.C. That might have been the beginning of the end for us. I mean, lezbehonest, I was a fresh-out-of-the-closet baby dyke and going to Pride in the nation’s capital was like being a kid in the Willy Wonka factory. I walked the streets of Dupont Circle with my eyes taking in countless types of lesbians. There were ultra-femme ones, leather daddy ones, androgynous ones, and me: a totally overwhelmed, ravenously eager-to-have-it-all and astoundingly naive little lesbian.

That whole weekend was filled with my staring in wide-eyed wonder as drag kings strutted down the street, and queer folks from all walks of life gathered celebrate being “out” together. I’d never experienced anything like it, and I was completely enraptured knowing that I was in a safe place. I didn’t feel threatened or like a fish out of water. I was surrounded by smiling faces and people that had one thing very in common with me: they were attracted to members of the same sex, too.

The years passed and even though I’d come out and knew I wanted to be with women, I struggled with my queer identity and bounced all over the femme/butch spectrum. When I met my wife I was at the top of my game. I’d been single for a while, was working out on the regular, and was having a generally good time — if you catch my drift. I felt good about my androgynous style and enjoyed not toeing the line of gender rules,

My Missus and I have been together for eight years and married for four. She has loved me on my femmiest days and my butchiest days. She has never eluded to which of my “looks” is her preference and continues to stand by me with unwavering love as I shrug off one style to try on another for a while.

Who knows — maybe I’m still confused and in 6 months, a year, or 5 years I’ll decide that I’m totally tomboy or fervently femme. After all, that’s my right. But for now, I feel amazing. I feel freed. It may seem silly, but just a dapper button up or layer of fire-engine red lipstick can do so much for the soul. Why should I be absolute with my gender? Isn’t that boringly heteronormative? I’ve spent too long worrying about the comfort of others that I’ve forgotten about my own comfort. I feel as though I’m getting back to my andro-roots, and am blending the rules of gender conformity. I hope I stay here awhile — because I feel right at home.

The post Queer Abby: Blending the rules first appeared on Lesbian.com.

BY SARA PALMER

Based on the suggestion: Truth

There she was, tongue stuck to the frozen metal tetherball pole, and it was entirely my fault. Just moments prior I had pretended to lick the frozen pole a few feet away from my cousin Jill, then yelled, “Look! It didn’t work!”

Before the exclamation point could drop on the end of my sentence, she had believed with every fiber in her, what I had said. I know this because of the amount of tongue that was now stuck to the dirty, frozen tetherball pole located in the middle of the park, three blocks from her house.

It was a cold day in Watertown, South Dakota, the grown-ups were sitting around the table talking and my cousin and I, the two youngest, were bored. “Let’s go to the park.” Suggested Jill. The slides were fun in the winter, especially if they were icy. We would pack a little snow on them, then cheer at the level of speed the rider achieved as they grappled for footing at the slides end. Breaking old speed records seemed like the perfect cure for the current state of boredom, so I was all in.

We bundled up in snow pants, snow boots, puffy winter jackets, hats, gloves, scarves, earmuffs, and anything else we could find in the metal buckets installed in the hallway closet. The buckets from top to bottom contained hats, gloves, scarves, wool sox, ski masks and any other miscellaneous winter wear one might need during a bitter South Dakota winter. We bundled up good knowing we wanted to be outside for a while. So good in fact, we could hardly communicate with just our eyes peeking out between the hat and scarf. We looked like a couple of tiny, multicolored State Puffed Marshmallow Men. This may have just been the reminder of the Christmas Story movie I needed to prompt my pole licking genius scheme. We told the grown-ups we were heading to the park, they seemed less than concerned and we were off. There we were a couple of puffed out ninja stars romping through the snow filled sidewalks, excited for the adventures that awaited us.

It wasn’t long before I was headed back on this trail of snow filled sidewalk. Only this time, I was alone. I couldn’t believe she bought it. I thought for sure she would call my bluff. I’m the worst cousin in the world. These thoughts swirled through my head as I ran back to the house as fast as I could. I opened the door and ran up the stairs with an emphatic sense of urgency. I yelled to the grown-ups, still sitting around the table, “Jrrrllls sterck tehdeh phooool!” Not one of them turned around. I pulled the scarf down from my face and tried again, “Jill’s stuck to the pole!” The grown-ups all casually turned toward me. “I pretended to lick the pole and then she really did lick the pole and now she’s stuck!” I shouted, avoiding the more incriminating part of the story.

My uncle turned his chair toward me slowly and unaffected by the urgency of the situation told me to grab a cup of water and pour it where her tongue was stuck. “That should do the trick.” He said. Brilliant! I thought as I grabbed a cup of warm water from the sink and headed out the door.

Running with a cup of water proved to be a greater challenge than I had ever expected. I tried several techniques before deciding to just take giant steps with my gloved hand over the top of the cup. It seemed like an hour before I arrived back at the park. I turned past the chain-linked fence with one soaked glove and about a third of a cup of water. Just then, a sense of joy filled my little ten-year old body. Jill was off the pole! As I grew nearer, the joy began to slip away from me as I noticed her crouched forward and holding her gloved hand over her mouth. Realizing I didn’t need the water anymore I ran toward her and yelled, “how’d you get away from the pole?” She didn’t answer. I turned and looked at the pole and to my horror a small layer of taste buds stared back at me. I freaked, “why didn’t you wait for me? I brought water.” Raising my now empty cup at her. “You should have waited for me!” I looked back at the taste buds on the pole as they sat there taunting me. Look what you did, liar, they seemed to say. Oooohhh, you’re gonna be in soooo much trouble, they continued. Fear swept over me, what had I done? I just wanted her to yell at me, but talking proved to be too painful. I felt even worse.

It was a long, quiet walk back to the house with my cousin that day. Once inside, I stood in front of the table of grown-ups and told them what I had done. My cousin’s tongue was raw and ice cream seemed the only medicinal solution. I sat down feeling deflated and defeated by the trick I had pulled.

Incredibly and thankfully, it only took a few days and several bowls of ice cream for my cousin’s tongue to heal, but the memory has stayed with me ever since.

To this day, not a winter goes by where I don’t think of this situation and wonder, why didn’t I just grab a cup with a lid?

Sara Palmer is a an improviser-writer-storyteller based in the Phoenix, Arizona, area. Share your ideas for her next blog in the comments below.

The post The truth can get out out of a sticky situation first appeared on Lesbian.com.

Zoe and her GF on the trail at Lake Poway.

Still haven’t decided on your new year’s resolutions? You’re not the only one. Besides, there’s no point in making them just to follow the half of us that do. A blase attitude about your resolution means you’ll probably fall into the sad majority (66 to 92 percent depending on the source) of those who fail to keep them. Reasons for not following through vary. Bottom line? When you’re not passionate about change, follow through lags and other motivations lead you astray. On the other hand, those who are passionate about their goals are up to 10 times more likely to achieve them.

I’ve made a few worthy resolutions that have stood the test of time. They’ve ranged from the momentous quitting cigarettes to minor washing off make-up or sunblock before bedtime, to can’t-possibly-fail proclamations such as, “This year, I will eat more chocolate!” But the single best resolution I ever made was the one that removed New Year’s resolutions from my life forever. One year I decided that if I felt strongly about making a life change, I wouldn’t wait for a significant date to do it, I would start right away. I also decided that each year I would do something new and go somewhere I’d never been.

I’m not saying my way is the best for everyone. This mindset works for me, which is why I continue on with it. New Year’s Day resolutions can help those who need to mentally, emotionally, physically, or spiritually gear up, who need to see that fresh 01-01 calendar date to use as a springboard. You may tally your successes year after year and if that’s what works for you, then “Bravo!”

It is helpful to conquer foundation goals first, that is, to put yourself into a position where your next desired change is even possible. This is where I find myself several weeks into the new year. You see, my GF is more physically active than I am. She has helped me by encouraging me to walk more than when I’m on my own. I like walking and could always manage a couple of miles. Three was pushing it. Now on occasion, we walk over five miles. Yes, I feel it, especially when we tackle steep hills. I keep pushing myself knowing it’s a good thing. I love being outdoors and longer hikes mean getting away from the crowds. I love the smell of sage in the air, seeing hawks ride the thermals, and getting a good night’s rest after an afternoon of exercise. My resolution is more like a goal: I’ll log my progress and see if I can reach 250 miles by year’s end—that’s just over 20 miles a month. This decision falls within the “do something new” category and with longer hikes on the horizon, I will likely trek somewhere I’ve never been. Did I mention I take chocolate on the trail?

I’ve yet to meet someone who didn’t want to improve their life. Resolutions are another form of goal setting. Change happens slowly and we all continue to evolve. Situations change. Dreams change. Personalities change. People come and go and leave their marks—kisses to gouges—and we respond. We fall down. We get up. Sometimes we need our support system to help us along. Mine will help me reach 250 miles by year’s end because it’s unlikely I’ll do it alone.

Did you make a resolution? What do you need to do to make it happen? How important is it? What will make you soldier on past the rough spots? Is your support system at the ready? Your resolution is a promise to yourself, but that doesn’t mean you can’t ask others for their help. It’s amazing what you can achieve. Tap into your power and reap the rewards. You can still make a New Year’s resolution or a decision to improve your life any day of the year. Tell me about it. I’ll report back sometime later this year and let you know how it’s going.

Wishing all my gentle readers a happy, healthy, prosperous new year!

Zoe Amos brings her lesbian point of view to articles and stories on diverse topics. Connect with her on Facebook and Twitter. Read her stories on Kindle and Nook. Check out her other life at www.janetfwilliams.com

The post From A to Zoe: Resolutions take a hike first appeared on Lesbian.com.

They say kids mature faster these days. I hear about girls aggressively pursuing boys and doing so at an earlier age than when I grew up. It’s partly our technological age of communication with revealing content front and center, kids being exposed to adult situations, peer pressure and bodies maturing earlier. I remember the point when playful interaction between classmates changed to something more and the boy who asked me to go steady.

My first recollection of boy/girl interest took place in second grade when a boy showed his affection by repeatedly punching me in the arm. Protests to my teacher fell on deaf ears, but eventually she switched up the layout of the classroom — problem solved. In third and fourth grade, the boys chased the girls, or vice versa, all in good fun. By fifth grade, the playful aspect took on the beginnings of maturity and curiosity. Many of the girls started to develop and subsequently, boy-girl parties started to form with pairings.

At this time, I noticed a shift in a male friend, Dan, who lived a few blocks away. We two were labeled the “smart kids” and, as such, found one another good company. During summer vacation we played Parcheesi and chess, splashed around in his above-ground pool with his best friend and strolled down to the ice cream parlor with our few cents to buy penny candy. Once, we combined our money and bought a soda. We got two straws and leaned in to sip, our foreheads almost touching, just like the teens we looked up to on TV. I sensed the shift.

I began to realize Dan liked me, not in the way he used to like me. Now, he “liked” me. His best friend also sensed the change and reacted jealously. It created conflict and that boy left the picture, at least while I was around. I liked Dan, but not as a first boyfriend. It created a small amount of tension, though not enough to stop our friendship.

Dan made no secret of his feelings and our classmates thought we made a great pair. They tried to push us together. Suddenly, I couldn’t be with him only as his friend. There was anticipation and hopeful expectation. When would I agree to hold his hand? Would I let him kiss me? I did neither. My classmates didn’t understand why I wasn’t agreeing to go steady when it was obvious (to them) we were meant for each other.

Liking Dan as much as I did made it hard to explain why our friendship couldn’t be something more. My female classmates wanted the boys to show interest. They wanted to hold hands. They wanted a little kiss. Dan was cute, smart and consistently vocal about his interest. Notes were passed in class. My disinterest to further our pairing didn’t make sense to any of them.

The decisive moment came when our class took a field trip to a local camp to spend a few nights. We visited the nature center, took hikes and played Capture the Flag. The girls’ and boys’ cabins were separate, but we dined and had free time together. It was during a free moment in the lodge that we sat in a large circle on the floor and played Spin the Bottle. There were almost thirty kids there. When it was Dan’s turn to spin, the bottle pointed directly at me. What were the chances! His face brightened in amazement and joy. Excitement peaked in the room as he approached. They were rooting for him, for us. I heard the kids groan as I turned my head to let him kiss me on my cheek, instead of the lips. I couldn’t let him do it. As disappointing as it was for my friends to witness this moment, so ripe with potential, I knew it would be devastating to lead him on and spurn him later.

No one knew I had a crush on a girl.

To be continued. Stay tuned!

Zoe Amos brings her lesbian point of view to articles and stories on diverse topics. Connect with her on Facebook and Twitter. Read her stories on Kindle and Nook. Check out her other life at www.janetfwilliams.com

The post From A to Zoe: Crush or be crushed? first appeared on Lesbian.com.

Steph married her wife, Kelly, in Washington, D.C., in 2011. Their union is strong and moving into their newly purchased home is a sign their plans for the future are progressing nicely. At a recent gathering of friends, Steph mentioned her desire to start a family. Someone asked if Kelly would get pregnant. “No, I would,” she replied. Several women looked startled. “Why? Do you think I’m too butch to carry a child?”

Steph’s reply was more snarky than defensive, plus it wasn’t the first time she’d heard a similar remark. Why does her being butch raise eyebrows? After all, there’s nothing unusual about a young woman planning to get pregnant — or is there? Why do we assume a femme would be the first choice to carry a child? And how does one decide what to do when both are women and butch, like this couple, assuming both are healthy and able to carry? These are good questions, and Steph has a few words to share.

She anticipates the response from the hetero community would be to assume a butch woman would not be as interested in bearing children, or that a feminine woman would be more interested; however, wrong those assumptions may be. Some consider Kelly more femme and expect her to take on the feminine role, though Steph sees her as equally butch, if not more so.

“Gender is a social expectation,” she says, which makes the need to counter reactions within the lesbian community that mimic hetero presumptions a little perplexing. She refers to the lesbian community as being inside the same bubble and wonders why this typically empathetic group initially misses the point.

The idea that a femme is going to be the logical choice for insemination is an expectation built around a stereotype. People are not stereotypes. They are individuals and want to be treated as such. At 28, Steph carries a maturity that bodes well for the responsibilities of pregnancy and parenthood. She has confidence in herself, making no apologies for her decisions because they are right for her.

Motherhood was an ideal formed in her mind at age two, before she understood why she liked typical boy stuff or had lesbian yearnings. As people age, they form their personal image and Steph was no different. When she realized lesbianism could be embraced in the way she saw fit, it solidified her sense of self, and subsequently, how she wanted to outwardly present herself to the world, that is, mostly in male-identified clothing.

Now that family planning is on the front burner, Steph says she imagines she’ll continue to wear men’s clothing — only larger sizes, along with black v-neck tees and maybe a novelty item from ThinkGeek.

Comfort and cut are high on the list. Maternity clothes? Forget it! Though she has her preferences, she says clothes don’t define her. She states, “Butches tend to hide their curves and pregnancy is all about curves. I think it’s the opposite (of what people expect to see) that takes people aback.”

Femininity and mothering aren’t about clothes. Decisions about pregnancy, e.g., which woman will carry the child, are between Steph and her wife. Others’ opinions are irrelevant. Like most new moms-to-be, the prospect is both scary and exciting. Steph believes being a nurturing person is part of who she is, just like being a mom someday. When the time comes, she will continue to carve her own image drawing from her inner resources, values, and creativity. For example, as a quilter, don’t be surprised to see her own creation adorning the baby’s crib.

“When you cross that feminine line to butch,” Steph says, “People expect you to be hard. Masculine. It’s not for me to speak about how other butches feel. I’m an all-out butch.”

Knowing who you are and feeling comfortable with yourself are important attributes in personal development and self-esteem, qualities worth passing along to the next generation by example. Steph, you’re going to make a great mom.

Zoe Amos brings her lesbian point of view to articles and stories on diverse topics. Connect with her on Facebook and Twitter. Read her stories on Kindle and Nook. Check out her other life at www.janetfwilliams.com

The post Butch plus butch plus baby makes three first appeared on Lesbian.com.