I saw Mommy – or Progenitor A – kissing Santa Claus

Lori Borgman

If you like hearing yourself called “Mom” or “Dad,” you might want to get it on tape. Those days may be rapidly disappearing.

In Spain, all birth certificates have been changed from listing “Mother” and “Father” to “Progenitor A” and “Progenitor B.”

The old classic “Daddy’s Little Girl” now becomes, “You’re the end of the rainbow, my pot of gold, you’re Progenitor B’s little girl to have and hold.”

Earlier this year, the Commonwealth of Virginia issued a birth certificate to an adoptive couple that read Parent 1 and Parent 2.

Canadians have erased the term “natural parent” and replaced it with “legal parent.”
The roles once determined by a man, a woman and a pregnancy are now increasingly determined by the state.

The Commission on Parenthood’s Future, a nonpartisan group of scholars and leaders concerned with marriage, family, law and culture, recently released a white paper titled “The Revolution in Parenthood.” The revolution is that the “two-person, mother-father model of parenthood is being fundamentally challenged.”

So long, Mom. Bye-bye Daddy.

The examples are global: In Australia, proposals are on the table allowing children conceived with the use of donors to have three parents.

In New Zealand, donors are allowed to “opt in” to parenthood if they wish. It would be natural to assume that if one can “opt in,” one can “opt out.” As though opting in and out of parenting were viable. “I’m opting out this month, you take over.”

In Erie County, Pennsylvania, a 62-year-old man and his 60-year-old girlfriend commissioned a surrogate to carry triplets. When the couple failed to pick up the infants (perhaps they had opted out that day), a judge released the babies to the surrogate. The surrogate has been raising the babies, but now the commissioning couple is fighting for access.

How can you not feel sorry for children born into a family configuration like that?
In Canada, an adopted child has the right to know the identity of the biological parents, but revealing the identity of a donor is a federal crime punishable by fines and prison time.

Polyamorists (meaning “many loves”) are also being heard. The Heartland Polyamory Conference was held this fall in French Lick. I’m not sure how successful it was. Their web site featured a four-day schedule grid that had only two events listed - lunch and dinner. In any case, polyamorists also are clamoring for recognition in the redefinition of family. Meet the fam, progenitors A, B, C, D, E, ad infinitum.

In the midst of all this family turmoil, the voice of sensibility calls from France, where a parliamentary report acknowledges, “the desire for a child seems to have become a right to a child.” The report cites the “precautionary principle” and advises a ban on surrogacy should stand.

The desire to procreate, reproduce, and have children is one of the strongest desires known to mankind. The heartbreak of infertility, the ache of yearning for a child is enormous. But the desires and aches of adults are only one part of the story.

There is something gravely disturbing when we deliberately create families with multiple parents, anonymous donors, and the ability to opt in, before the babies are even born.

The Commission on Parenthood calls for something that will sound familiar to parents – a time out -- a five-year moratorium on the laws and proposals that are redefining the roles of parents, often at the expense of the kids. The commission asks that we take a deep breath, pause and carefully prioritize the needs of children.

There can’t be nearly as much harm in waiting as there is in charging ahead.

A number of reasons for highway hassles

Lori Borgman

You don’t normally think of the engineers who design the interstate system as a knee-slapping, hoot-‘n-holler, farcical bunch, but I’m betting they have a lot of laughs.

Consider the following: The oldest daughter and I are in the western suburbs of Chicago with the intention of reaching downtown in rush hour. If we had entered this trip into Mapquest it would have returned a page with driving instructions that said: Stay put.

I am the out-of-town driver today and, since we are battling a massive flow of traffic (approximately 326 lanes inbound), my passenger’s job is to help watch for signs.

“We need 290,” I say, easing into the flow of traffic. “There’s a split up ahead, so help me watch. OK? 290.”

“OK,” my co-pilot chirps. “We’re headed to 90.”

“Right, 290.”

“There’s a sign!” she shouts. “We’re in the wrong lane, we need to get over – way over - to the far right!

“What sign?” I snap. “I didn’t see a sign.”

“Well, it was right back there, and we only have a half mile. Hurry; I think you can make it.”

“Are you sure it said 290?”

“Yes, it said to 90!”

We are clinging to the edge of the far left lane. Each and every lane of traffic to the right of us is hurtling along at Mach 2 speed, directly into the blinding glare of the morning sun. They have graciously left a quarter inch of stopping distance between vehicles.

“Hold on,” I yell. My co-pilot grips the arm rests and I grip the steering wheel. We swerve, weave and skid sideways across 325 lanes of traffic and bully our way into the far right lane. All in a distance of only 18 inches.

“I didn’t see the 290 sign,” I wheeze. “I’m glad you spotted it.”

I catch my breath and notice a light sweat breaking across my forehead.

“Hey! Wait a minute!” I yell. “This says we’re going to 90. We don’t want to go to 90. We want 290!”

“I GOT US TO 90!” she yells, clutching the dashboard.

“NO! NOT to 90 -- 290! Give me the map!”

“YOU CAN’T READ THE MAP WHEN YOU’RE DRIVING!” she screams.

“No, but I can HIT you with it!”

“Listen to me – 290. Do you understand? 290!”

“Yes, I understand. Do you understand? I got us to 90!”

“No, we don’t want to go to 90, we want to go TOOOOO 290.”

“Ooooooh,” she says. “In that case – and you’re not going to like this - we need to get back to the far left.”

The traffic which was only mildly surly before has now turned ugly. Trucks are pushing little compact cars like crumbs into a dust pan. SUVS have metal spikes poking from their wheels and a granny in a VW bug up ahead just sprayed an oil slick and roofing nails from her rear exhaust. What’s more, a sedan just sped by with an artillery gun mounted to the sunroof.

“I’m going for it. HANG ON!”

We careen wildly, lurching ahead of trucks and sliding between mini-vans. We do a 360 and miraculously wind up pointed in the right direction in the far right lane. The 290 lane.

Somewhere,engineers are huddled before an interstate mini-cam having their morning coffee and laughing ‘til they snort.