The Boy Is (Still) Mine: Honoring My Queer Motherhood Journey
I didn’t carry my first-born son. Biologically, he has none of my DNA. But that doesn’t make him any less my child.
My son rocks back and forth as he sits. With no music playing or prompting, he sways gently like leaves in a gentle breeze. Whenever he does this, I quickly tell anyone listening that he gets it from my side of the family. My sister, his auntie, rocks the same way when she knits, watches television or does any stationary activity.
Most times, whenever I draw this connection, my friends and family will laugh because, genetically-speaking, Davis doesn’t get anything from my side of the family.