One of the nurses just came in to take my temperature and draw some blood. As she prepared the needle, she complained to me in a hushed tone about some of the Hispanic patients on the floor.
"Why do they always call each other 'papi'?" she asked.
"We don't do that," she said, and by "we," I knew she meant us white people, as if I would automatically agree because of the color of my skin.
"Umm, I think it's just a term of endearment," I replied lamely. But instead of being outraged by her obvious prejudice, I was worried about myself. Does she know I'm gay? I'm sure her close-mindedness applies to procreating homosexuals as well, and I found myself nervous that she would find out. Would she draw my blood as gently if she thought I was a sinner?
Throughout our pregnancy, Emily and I have not encountered a single doctor, nurse, co-worker, or friend who was uncomfortable with the fact that we are two women. None of the nurses even flinch when they see Emily and I cuddling in the hospital bed together. We've been so accepted — and celebrated — that I sometimes forget our situation is not the norm.