By MARCUS MABRY

http://parenting.blogs.nytimes.com/

Happy Father’s Day

A series of posts honoring everything Dad.
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I’m in my mid-40s. Growing up, there was no such thing as gay parenting. I had a vague notion, I think, probably from television or a movie, that some kids’ fathers or mothers could end up running off with someone of the same sex. So, technically, they were a parent and they were gay – but it was a roundabout, devastating way to do it, kind of like demolishing a building by using a hurricane. It gets the job done but you wouldn’t want to see it.

When I finally accepted in my 20s that I was gay and that in order to live a life true to myself I had to come out, I knew there were “risks.” When my mother let loose a stream of consciousness list of fears that the world would visit on me for being openly gay – including never finding happiness, or being bashed coming out of a bar with my lover – the one she settled on was “…and you always wanted to be a father.”

It was the thing that broke my heart: the feeling that by coming out, I was giving up the one thing I had always wanted since I was a kid – more than any profession or any pursuit – being a dad.

I didn’t have a choice, of course. Most gay men of my generation came out when we simply could not stand the lying or daily self-denial any longer. Still, I mourned for myself and for the children I would never have.

Even as an adult, even having come to terms with my sexuality, even having decided – after much searching, and periods of being an atheist and an agnostic – that God had made me as I am, somewhere I still felt that being denied fatherhood was punishment for being gay.

Then came the revolution. Scientific advances outraced laws (and conservatives’ imaginations), and surrogacy provided a route to parenthood that was unthinkable when my generation of gay men was picturing our futures. Even in deep red states where adoption by lesbians, gays, bisexuals and transgendered people can be impossible, surrogacy is usually unregulated and often practiced.

When I turned 40 I decided it was time. By then surrogacy was so en vogue among those who could afford it – gay and straight alike – that I knew that was the route I wanted to take. My partner wanted to have children, too, but he was younger than I was and he had not decided at that point, as I had, that he would have children, no matter what.

We also differed over the primacy of having a family. As he put it, he did not feel that his life would be incomplete without children. I did. What would a well-off gay couple have to show at the end of a life spent together: photos of the various exotic trips they had taken? This is us at the pyramids. This is us at Angkor Wat. This is us in Patagonia. This is us in Paris.

A series of travelogues as proof of a life well-lived.

Of course, career, philanthropy, extended family, working to improve the world can all be immensely gratifying pursuits, but – for me – I believed that building a family and leaving children as a legacy would be my best-lived life. And even though he didn’t think it a necessity, my partner was thrilled, if filled with trepidation, about trying surrogacy.

After our first gestational surrogate miscarried in the first trimester, we went on to have an ideal surrogacy experience. Our surrogate became our friend and finally family. She had a nearly flawless pregnancy. And our boys are the best part of our lives. They are our little miracles.

Every time I look at them I understand that far from being cursed, being a little gay boy was a blessing. It taught me compassion. It taught me how to rise above fear and self-hatred. It made me stronger.

Today, I feel well and truly blessed.

My partner and I have all those travelogue snap shots from before we had kids. We’ll be revisiting all those places and taking new pictures again, with our sons.