Non-Genetic Parenthood

The questions we're afraid to ask

Non-genetic parenthood is a recurring topic of discussion in queer parenthood and donor conception forums, and something that I have reflected on deeply as a non-genetic parent myself. Most frequently discussed is prospective non-genetic parents’ fears around feeling (or seeming) enough like a parent, and/or around being able to form a strong bond with their child.

I know these fears well. When my wife was pregnant, second to my fear of the pregnancy not resulting in a child were my concerns about my connection with my future son. These fears are compounded as a non-gestational parent, too. I wouldn’t be carrying my son, I wouldn’t be feeding him with my body (before or after birth), and I wouldn’t see myself in him genetically. As I wrote in my book, My Son’s Siblings:

“I knew I would be his parent, and that I would love and care for him no matter what, but the questions lingered. I’m sure all parents have them, but there’s an extra layer of uncertainty when you don’t have the built-in reassurance that shared genetics can provide.”

I think the true underlying question behind many of these fears was: will I matter less to my son than I would if I was his genetic parent? Will I feel like a substitute for his other “real” parent, our donor (or will he or the world view/treat me that way)? Will I feel any inequity in parenthood with my wife?

As I type these questions I can hear the dismissive replies I have heard from other people in the back of my head - the ones that claim these fears are rooted in hetero/bionormative rules that are up to us to break or ignore. The ones that say biological connection doesn’t/shouldn’t/won’t matter. The ones who say “love makes a family” (to which I say: “Yes, and…”). But calling these fears illegitimate does nothing to assuage them. Instead, I feel that these voices encourage burying these concerns in a way that leaves little room for exploration, and lots of room for emotions to fester. I don’t think these questions disappear because we tell ourselves we’re not supposed to ask them. In my experience, peace came from looking directly at them instead of trying to convince myself they weren’t there (or weren’t legitimate).

Another common sentiment I hear is that once the child is born, the fears will simply go away. I’m here to offer a different perspective. The fears have not gone away, but changed shape. My child is now 3.5 years old, and we have a bond like I have never experienced. He and I are so in-sync, and no one could ever shake my confidence in the fact that I am his full parent, and one of the two most important people in his life.

I didn’t always have this level of confidence though. When he was young, and I was just beginning to dig into the ethics of donor conception and the opinions of donor-conceived adults, something I read seriously rattled me. It’s a phrase on the list of banned terms in a Facebook group for discussions around donor conception: “social parent.” I wrote:

“I hadn’t expected it to hurt as much as it did. I am confident in my relationship with my son. I know I’m his parent in so many of the most meaningful and important ways. We have an absolutely incredible bond. But something about that word, social, made me feel immediately lesser, like I needed an asterisk next to my title. It made me feel like I was ‘just’ the parent who showed up, not the one who belonged. Once again, an ‘other.’”

As a nonbinary person, I am already familiar with the power and importance of language. Choosing the language that works for yourself, and in this case, your family, carries incredible weight. The language others use matters too. The term “social parent” stung so much because it was a reminder of how the outside world may view me, and it poked at a fear I hadn’t fully yet come to terms with. The fear that I was not a full parent, but a conditional parent.

One of the best ways to exemplify these fears is unfortunately a bit morose, but I think it’s important to put words to. Namely, if I died today, what would I matter to my son? Taking my family out of the equation (because of course he would continue to have a relationship with his grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins), why would he have much reason to wonder about me when he grows up? Of course I am an integral part of his story as my wife and I decided to have a child and went through the process of finding a donor together, but there is a type of curiosity that comes from genetic connection, specifically a desire to understand the people whose biology is part of your own story, that I cannot offer him. What do I matter to him, really? He won’t see me in the mirror or in his 23 and Me results, so who am I to him, in the end?

This is the part I find particularly fascinating, because I am not a religious person, and faith is a complicated term for me as someone who grew up Catholic. But if I have faith in anything, it’s that my presence has already impacted my son immeasurably. Not tangibly, because at 3.5 he likely won’t remember anything from these early years, but the feelings I have imparted, and the love I have poured into him, will last. The security that I have been integral in creating, the loving, playful home he has grown up in, and the joy and curiosity we have experienced together will play a part in who he is, forever.

Gaining this level of confidence has allowed me to dig into my feelings around our donor as well. I recognize that making space for curiosity about his genetics does not take away from our own connection. I understand that acknowledging the genetic connection that my son has with our donor (and not with me) does not diminish the importance of my role in his life. I have gotten to the point in my understanding, especially after listening to donor-conceived adults, that if our donor was open to having a relationship with our son today, I would welcome it with open arms.

Listening to the stories of donor-conceived adults helped me realize that my son’s potential curiosity around his genetic origins and genetic parentage via the donor are not in conflict with my own relationship with him. Where the donor once felt like someone in competition with me for the title of “parent” he now feels more like an integral part of my son’s story. Another common sentiment I hear in these discussions online is the idea of parent as a noun versus parent as a verb. Some say a donor is not a parent because they do not actively parent.

The donor is not a parent in the same way I am a parent, but he is still a meaningful person in my son’s story. Not parenting is not the same as not significant. My son would not have existed, and I could not have become a parent, without him. There are things he can offer our son that I cannot. Things that could help my son better understand who he is, which at the end of the day is something everyone can understand the value of. Curiosity about identity is something I myself hold incredibly dear as a queer, nonbinary person. Opening the door to this kind of relationship between my son and his other genetic parent, even if hypothetical, solidifies my faith that the relationship I have with my son is not diminished by making space for others. Our relationship is integral, meaningful, and incredibly beautiful.

As a final thought, I want to share a quote that I come back to time and again:

“The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them—words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out.”

—Stephen King, The Body

My relationship with my son, and my journey in parenthood feels almost impossible to accurately articulate. But what I am experiencing is whole, life-altering, soul-filling, affirming parenthood.