Let me preface this by saying it: I love my doctor. She is one of my closest friends. She is the kids doctor, and also my mom’s doctor. We’ve been friends since we were 12. Noah would move into her house if we let him.
We are not her typical patients. She works for a community health center, which is code for “health care for poor people.” Obviously, her choices and values are part of what we love about her. The quality of care is just as good as it was when she was in private practice, but there are no toys in the waiting area, there’s a guard in the entry, and today was the only time I’ve ever noticed another white patient waiting. (There are often attractively dressed, perfectly made-up white women around the waiting area, but they are pharmaceutical company reps.) Sometimes it takes a ridiculous amount of time for a nurse to return a “can we get in today?” call, leading us to have a close relationship with the neighborhood Urgent Care receptionist as well. Apparently, when you are uninsured, you have to spend a lot of time waiting.
Today was Josie’s 3 year old checkup. (For the record, she is perfectly healthy, 39″ tall, weighs 35.2 lbs, and is almost exactly on the 50th percentile line for 4 year old girls in height.)
The nurses were lovely — Josie didn’t even cry at her shot. (We had missed a vaccination last time; they were out of what we needed.)
But the support staff is still learning about a few things — like families that are not quite typical.
The discussion started like this:
Receptionist: Are you her mom?
Me: I’m one of her moms.
R (looking alarmed): Are you her legal guardian?
Me: Yes.
R: Are you her birth mom?
Me (looking stunned): I don’t think that’s any of your business. Why are you asking?
R: Legally, I’m required to ask that.
Me: What? No you aren’t. I am her legal parent. What difference does it make whether or not I’m her birth mom, or she’s adopted?
R: I have to make sure you are authorized.
Me: What? Why don’t you talk to Dr. Tully? She can assure you that I can authorize medical care for Josie.
R: She’s with a patient. You’ll have to wait.
Me: That’s fine.
A few minutes later, Josie was summoned by the nurse. We were about to take off her shoes so she could get weighed, when the receptionist announced that we were NOT checked in yet and should not be taken to an exam room. The nurse looked confused, so I explained, “We’re having a dispute over whether or not it is any of her business whose vagina Josie came from.”
The 4 or 5 women staff in the immediate vicinity began to buzz. Josie and I returned to the waiting area. The receptionist and I went back and forth a few more times. (My main point became, “The terms ‘birth mom,’ and ‘parent,’ and ‘legal guardian’ are not synonyms.”) I knew that if I caved and said, “Yes, I am her birth mom,” things would move along more quickly. But someday, Jill will be the parent at the doctor’s office. And sometimes, other parents in 2 mom or 2 dad families will come there too. So I stood my ground, unwilling to answer the question.
(Let us also leave aside the apparent weakness of the receptionist’s powers of observation. The fact that I am this child’s biological parent is so obvious as to be remarked upon by strangers in parking lots. But that is not the point.)
Eventually Josie was weighed and measured, her blood pressure was taken, and she had charmed and been charmed by a lovely nurse.
Not long after that, Madelaine arrived. She had already seen my Facebook status update, which noted my love for her and lack of love for her support staff. She had spoken to the receptionist about what happened, and explained to her and why “are you the birth mother?” wasn’t the right question. Madelaine arrived and immediately conveyed the receptionist’s contrition.
Some days it is harder to feel like the Ambassador from Planet Lesbian Mom than other days.
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