Two mums can make a good home

Anna is an ordinary woman in an extraordinary situation. She's pregnant, the father's gay, her lover's a woman, and she still hasn't told her parents. Anna's a reluctant rebel, but her new family is at the vanguard of change. Hers is a quiet, and contemporary, sexual revolution. She's about to be a parent, and her family values aren't at all traditional.

At this point I should tell you that Anna isn't real. I made her up. She is simply a character in a novel, Around the Houses, which (as the blurb says on the back) presents contemporary London life at its eccentric, comic best. That's all I'm saying.

But if Anna isn't real, her situation is. All over the country, lesbians and gay men are having babies, and our families are becoming more visible and more acceptable in mainstream society. Gone are the days when you came out to your mother and her first reaction was: "But I'll never be a grandma!" Now lesbians are almost as likely to want to have children as their straight counterparts.

I became a mum in 1996, when my partner Ruth gave birth to our first son. We'd been together for six years by then, and had always talked about children, but it was only when we hit 30 that it really became an issue. We began to have those chats broody couples have; the ones that start with questions like "How will it affect our relationship?" and "Can we afford it?".

But for us, agreeing that we wanted children wasn't enough. There were other questions. How were we going to do it? Which of us would get pregnant? The second question was the easiest to answer. Ruth had always wanted to have children, and since my idea of pregnancy was totally unromantic, I was happy to let her go first.

The "How are we going to do it?" question was more difficult. At the time there were two options. Anonymous donor (either through a private clinic or a self-help network) or a gay friend. The thought of approaching a man you weren't having sex with and asking him to make babies with you was a little daunting. But that's what we did. We wanted our child to know who their father was. At the very least we wanted them to be able to point to a photo and say, "That's my dad".

We wrote a letter to a good friend of ours, asking him to help us make a family and he said yes. We met up and talked with him about being a family. Like all parents-to-be, we none of us knew how we would feel when we held our baby in our arms, so we didn't even try to set down hard and fast rules about rights and responsibilities. We just outlined the parameters: from known donor up to third parent – involved, consulted, but not controlling.

So we made babies. For all the mystique, the art of conception is a fairly basic process if you have all the ingredients (and for the curious, conceiving with a woman can be just as romantic, funny and meaningful as conceiving with a man).

We came out to the midwife, the doctor, the hospital and the health visitor, not because we were brave (we're not) or confrontational (only sometimes) but because we all wanted to be recognised as the parents of this new baby. We were all at the birth, and it was wonderful (read: terrifying, awe-inspiring, overwhelming).

When our son was born I fell instantly in love with him. I held him in my arms all day while Ruth and he slept, and driving home that night I felt like a teenager after her first date. We were a family. But we were a family without clear models or defined roles. How could I be or feel myself to be a mother when I was in the middle of a maternity ward and I hadn't given birth? I was the "other-mother", the non-biological mother. I certainly felt like a mother, my partner had just given birth to our child, but I was vulnerable to the world's judgement as a spare part, an unwelcome addition to the nuclear family of mummy/daddy/kiddy.

In those first few days of emotional overdrive, small slights and small kindnesses made all the difference. And we had many kindnesses. I'll always remember one particular nurse. She took our son for his "heel-prick test", and he screamed his head off. I went after them, wanting to be with him but not sure how the nurses would react to me. She saw me coming and, without hesitation, said, "You can stop crying now. Here's mummy."

Two years later, I was the one giving birth. Oh my God! What a shock! When Ruth gave birth, she said things like "it hurts", and "ouch". I now realise that this was a kind of deranged stoicism. Needless to say, I was more vocal.

I think childcare is especially fraught for lesbian parents. Our children are always wanted (they don't happen otherwise) and like other women, we want to be with them and enjoy them. Ideally, Ruth and I would have both worked part-time and shared family time. But we didn't earn enough to do that. So for a while we both worked full-time and juggled our hours around part-time childcare. It wasn't something that could last. So Ruth went part-time, and then, unexpectedly, we found a fantastic nursery. At the centre of a provincial suburb, it was small and family-run, a hotbed of gossip. Not somewhere you'd expect us to fit in. But after the initial awkwardness ("There's something I should tell you about our family," red-faced and shuffling, "we're somewhat unconventional") we got on brilliantly. I've had to learn to come out. I've never been good at it, but it's very hard to be closeted with a three-year-old who wants to talk to complete strangers about his two mummies.

The boys loved their nursery and so did we. The staff respected us as a family. OK, we were a family that happened to have two mummies and a daddy on the side, but we were a stable, happy family. We were judged according to how we looked after our kids, and not according to our sexuality. When I see stories about homophobia in schools, in the NHS, in the workplace, they frighten me. But they also make me grateful for how lucky we've been. Since having children, we've lived and worked in provincial southern cities. Usually, we are the first gay family people have met. And yet schools, doctors and colleagues have generally been supportive – sometimes wonderfully so. And if they couldn't manage that they have at least been discreet in their disapproval.

That's not to say we have somehow avoided homophobia. Most people have to arrange their faces when they first meet us. It normally takes people a couple of weeks to see through the labels ("lesbians, dykes, queers") and their unquestioned prejudices ("It's not fair on the children"; "Lesbians can't bring up boys") to see that we are a nice family, that our kids are happy, confident and supported.

When they don't get past the labels it can be difficult. A few years ago, our 12-month-old son had to have a minor operation. In response to the doctor asking about Ruth's presence ("Who's that?!") I explained about our family. His response was brusque and embarrassed. He blanked Ruth and rushed away. It was a time when we were worried about our child and didn't need the grief of a bad reaction. It was a time when we just wanted to be normal.

The operation had complications and, much to the nurses' surprise, the doctor did not come to explain what had happened. Now was this homophobia? Or was it simply that he was too busy to speak to us? That's the thing about prejudice. A brick through the window is pretty unmistakable, but most of the time life is more subtle.

At school we've had minor upsets, parents who wouldn't speak to us. Petty stings. Playground politics for the grown-ups. The children, thankfully, are protected and, so far, oblivious. And we've had wonderful school times too. Nothing can beat those school Mother's Day cards, lovingly made with glitter and eggbox daffodils, addressed to "my two mummies".

And our children love having two mummies. They know they are different. They are proud of being special. At this young age, mummies are still hot property, and to have two is twice as nice. They see their dad regularly, and ring him when they want. And having three parents, they get all the extra grandparents, aunties, uncles, and cousins too. All our families have been fantastic. Some of them had their doubts when we first told them that we were having children, but since our boys first came into the world they have been cherished by an extended family that goes beyond a basic biology.

I'm excited about our future. I know things will not always be easy. I know that as our children get older, and learn about sexuality and the pressures of conformity, they will have many questions. They may face prejudice themselves. I hate that thought, but I know that as a family we have the strength to help them deal with it.

A month ago, we moved house. We debated moving to Brighton: gay metropolis, lots of pink parents, support-group heaven. But we couldn't afford it. Instead, we moved to a beautiful country market town. If we were a straight couple we would have moved here years ago. But we're not straight. And we spent many an anxious night persuading ourselves that if the locals strung up dead pigs on our guttering we could always leave.

The pigs haven't appeared (although the guttering still needs work) and the locals have been wonderful. As far as I know, we are the only gay family here, but everyone's so friendly, it feels as if we have moved on to the set of Postman Pat. We know the novelty won't last, and we're gradually preparing our children for the "blue meanies" of more grown-up fairy-tales. But then, with no script to follow, we are also making up our own story, and hoping that we'll live happily ever after.

Amanda Boulter teaches English and an MA in creative and critical writing at King Alfred's College, Winchester. Her book 'Around the Houses' is published by Serpent's Tail, £7.99