Jane is sleeping. Every day now, she crawls home from work and goes immediately to sleep, lying like a fallen soldier on the battlefield. She hauls herself up to wolf down a plate or two of food, then shuffles back to her pillows. She lies unmoving on the bed or the couch, our two cats sprawled blissfully on top of her. In these early weeks of gestation, she is all hormone, her breasts swelling, her energy sapped by a creature still smaller than a guppy.

Meanwhile, my inner guy is coming out of the closet. I feel urgently, irrationally protective of Jane. I want to stand guard over her, to protect her from drafts, from worry, from bacteria-laden soft cheese, from cat litter, from free-floating germs. I want to tell her what to do and what not to do. While she sleeps, I go outside and mow the lawn. I pull weeds in the garden. I turn the compost. I climb an aluminum ladder and clean the gutters. I sweat. I stink. I feel positively virile.

Is this the role of the nonbiological lesbian mom—to be a faux dad? Am I becoming a “DH,” the “dear husband”—or designated hitter, for all I know—that all the straight women write about on the Internet discussion boards I visit? I don’t feel like I somehow need to mimic the paternal role, but yet it seems to be finding and claiming me. I am a little worried that I am somehow fueling the stereotypes of right-wing complementarians who argue that every woman needs a man, every man a woman, and every child one of each, to have proper balance in the universe. Maybe major change inherently promotes traditionalism, a grasping for the models most familiar, if not necessarily the most fitting. Or maybe the experience of the unpregnant partner, whatever the gender, follows a predictable pattern. It’s just that most of the unpregnant partners in the world are men.

When Jane is not sleeping, we go to the bookstore. We are both believers in the idea that reading bestows control. The trick is finding the right books. In the Pregnancy and Parenting section of the store, she settles down on a chair. There is a mound of books by her side, all explaining to expectant mothers in more or less exhaustive detail what is happening to their bodies, what they need to worry about, how to worry less, how to exercise, why they shouldn’t exercise too much, and on and on.

Meanwhile, I find myself drawn to books for new fathers. Compared to the absolute onslaught of books for pregnant women, who apparently have nothing to do but read, there are surprisingly few volumes directed at men. Based on what I find, dads still seem to be remarkably marginal to the whole process of reproduction. The general pregnancy books mention men in an almost offhand way—as in, it’s good to have Dad involved. Or, Dad can help with parenting by giving Baby a bottle. Many of the books actually targeted at men emphasize manliness: book jackets designed to look like men’s clothing, “Guy’s Guides” to the mysteries of pregnancy. They are gestational positioning devices, promising to help men navigate the wilderness of pregnancy.

None of these books expect men to be naturally good at much of anything relating to parenthood except, maybe, teaching the kid to throw a ball. They assume anxiety and a certain cluelessness, which may be why I find them consoling. Books for guys provide the most basic information, while books for Mom are far more sophisticated. While Dad learns how to keep from dropping the baby, Mom learns the various hypotheses about what causes colic, the dangers of strep B, and how to do yoga with an infant.

Finally, I buy a book for stay-at-home dads. I like the topics it covers: balancing child care and work, defining responsibilities for housework, developing shared family goals. We are actively discussing the prospect that I might quit my job and take care of the baby after it is born. After spending so much time and energy deciding whether to have a child, neither one of us wants to hand our baby over to a stranger, no matter how much more they might know than we do. Many of the questions faced by stay-at-home dads are also mine. Should I quit my job or work part-time? How will I feel about not earning money? Will it affect my self-esteem? How about my virility? How will I feel about being the principal caregiver of our child, but not the (biological) mom? How will Jane feel about going back to work and leaving our baby with me?

Thinking of myself as a dad, maybe a stay-at-home dad, feels a little safer than thinking of myself as a mom, especially when I’m not the one who is pregnant. Among the dads, I feel less anxious about becoming a parent. I realize that I have certain huge advantages over many men, at least the ones portrayed in the books and magazines directed at women. Female anatomy won’t come as a shock to me. I know something about cramps. I’ve been up close and personal with a speculum. I believe completely in the earth-shattering power of the female hormone. I know how to run the dishwasher, oven, and washing machine, so I don’t have to take a course in basic housekeeping. I don’t need to be told to help occasionally with the grocery shopping. In contrast to these guys, I am positively prepared.

But if the truth be told, I feel more at home among the dads because I have never thought of myself as a particularly good woman. I have never regretted being female nor am I even remotely butch; I’m just not very good at girl stuff. At my favorite coffee shop, a young guy who works behind the counter frequently wears a t-shirt that reads, “You make me feel like a natural woman.” Every time I see him, I want to hug him. If he feels like a natural woman, I think, there might be hope for me.

When I was a teenager, the things that girls were supposed to care about never really registered in my life. Like boys, for instance. I tried several times to have a boyfriend. A couple of them turned out to be gay. On the rare occasions that I was asked out on a date, I became painfully introverted and verbally inept, trying to guess what my lines were when I didn’t even know what play we were in. My most successful relationship was with the boyfriend who lived in New Jersey. I lived in Ohio.

Mercifully, it never occurred to me that perhaps I was unsuccessful with boys because I was meant to look at girls. At the time, I would have been utterly unequipped to deal with the notion. I suppose the warning signs should have been obvious. Other girls developed crushes on Burt Reynolds. I had a thing for Kristy McNichol. Other girls loved the Bee Gees. My favorite band was Queen.

What does it mean to be a natural woman? I have no idea, but I am convinced that other women know. While I was trying to get pregnant, I went to a birthday party to which one of the guests brought her three-week-old daughter. When Baby entered the room, heads spun faster than Linda Blair’s. Women clustered around the still puckery little girl whose sandy blond hair fell onto her forehead, whose tiny, dime-sized eyes were closed in sleep. Within seconds, a line formed to hold her. Most of the people at the party were lesbians who had no children of their own, although some were in the process of trying to get pregnant. As each person held the baby, someone else would invariably say to them, in a tone of coy innuendo, “You look really natural, there.” Eventually, the baby was passed to me. I sat in an armchair, believing as I do that it is always best to sit down when holding an infant, in the same way that it’s always best to wear gloves and a hat when facing a hazardous situation such as a dead bird on the porch. I tried not to move and barely breathed, convinced that she might suffer Sudden Infant Death Syndrome while lying in my arms. Eventually, as was bound to happen, someone looked at me and said, “You’re looking really natural.” Wink, wink. So does Astroturf, I thought. I certainly didn’t feel natural. I felt fraught with danger. I was aware that at any moment, Pookie’s head could fall off. She could become fatally overheated in her fleece receiving blanket. She could smother in her onesie.

I feel like a distant cousin to the natural woman. Maybe I would have felt even more unnatural as a pregnant woman. But still, I wanted to know what it would feel like to grow a baby. I wanted to know how it would feel to nurse. I wanted to know if I could give birth.