As a proud gay man, I’d decided parenthood wasn’t for me – then my niece was born
Iwas never terribly interested in children. As I settled into adulthood as a loud and proud gay man, there were elements of heteronormative existence that didn’t seem part of my destiny. Marriage was off the cards for most of my life so, despite 2017 ushering in marriage equality, I’d long decided the institution wasn’t for me. By my mid-30s, the prospect of parenthood had also fallen by the wayside. My chances of impregnating someone have always been, well, slim. And I don’t think I have the patience to wade through years of adoption paperwork, which perhaps gives some insight as to my suitability for full-time fatherhood.
I would feign interest in other children for politeness’s sake, then retreat to my homocentric nirvana. That was until my niece was born and I realised what I was missing out on.
I remember that day so clearly.
Dad’s voice at my door spun me out of a deep sleep: “The labour’s started. Contractions.” I bolted out of bed and hurried over to my sister’s house. She was sitting in her living room, bouncing happily on an exercise ball. “Has it happened yet?” I shrieked. The question betrayed the first of many misconceptions I had about birth: that it’s quick. If you’ve watched enough TV, you could be forgiven for thinking the whole thing takes place in a fiveminute medical hurricane punctuated by screams and tears. It turns out labour often begins quite slowly and peaks over hours to days.
My sister and I began to play our favourite board game to pass the time. An adaptation of Guess Who? where, instead of asking about appearance, we fire a volley of insightful questions to identify the culprit character. You’d be amazed how much you can read into the face of a small illustration. “Are you a kleptomaniac?” she asked.
“Definitely,” I replied. “Do you start small fires?”
My sister stood up and disappeared into the bathroom. “Mucus plug’s come out!” she announced as she emerged. Mum and Dad bubbled over with excitement. By this stage the whole family was there to “help”, inadvertently turning the birth into a spectator sport.
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One of the many beautiful things about my niece’s birth was that it happened at home. Home birth is not an event I’m advocating if it runs contrary to medical advice you’ve received or is simply not for you. I can, however, see the appeal of being in your own space, surrounded by family and bringing your baby into a familiar, loving environment. My niece’s home birth was very successful.
We called to update the midwives and, by sundown, a small group sat on the bedroom floor, gazing up at my sister. A quiet rhythm gripped the room. Not only had my sister opted for a home birth, but she’d opted out of pain relief, except for a transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation (Tens) machine. Over the next few hours her labour followed a pattern: breathe, contraction, Tens, breathe. It intensified into a crescendo, peaking as the midwives urged to push, push, PUSH.
A slippery, baby-sized broad bean tumbled into the world, landing safely in her father’s arms. She let out one small cry to announce herself, then closed her eyes again and drifted into relaxed breathing. My sister held her daughter, incredulous. “It’s a baby!” she cried, and the room erupted into celebration. She later explained her surprise had been genuine – she was so deep in the physiological process of giving birth, she’d momentarily forgotten about the likely outcome.
After a few minutes, I volunteered to take my niece into the living room for weighing. It was the first time I’d held a newborn and I grasped her firmly, gently, staring with amazement at her little form. I unwrapped her swaddle, placed her on the scales and snuck a quick kiss on her forehead before wrapping her up again. “I will love you for ever,” I whispered. She opened her eyes for the briefest moment, seeming to meet my gaze, and the world changed.
Since the birth of my niece, my appreciation for the newest members of the human species has extended beyond immediate family, which is lucky because my friends keep making babies. I love watching tiny humans as they interact with their environment for the first time and seeing them inhabit a space of authentic self-expression. The American poet Louise Glück once wrote: “We look at the world once, in childhood. The rest is memory.” How lovely to be reminded of the world through the eyes of a child, with all that excitement and wonder. And how lovely to be a visible queer presence for the kids around me.
I’ve been a proud uncle for almost six years now and adore the time my niece and I spend together. I’m popular with her parents when I babysit, although my popularity did wane once when she mysteriously returned home having learned all the words to Kim Petras’s My Coconuts. We’re pretending it’s a harmless tropical ditty that she’s forbidden from singing at school. In the meantime, she’s become a discerning judge of drag queen makeup and we’re planning our first Kylie concert once the Princess of Pop tours again. I’ve also been teaching her how to play Guess Who? The traditional kind – for now.
Roland Bull is a writer and comedian living in Canberra with an interest in LGBTQIA+ social issues, health and politics