Peripheral Parenting: The Biological Parent Privilege

I'm parenting from 600 miles away. Would I be if I was his biological parent?

I moved in when Sam was two months shy of his 3rd birthday. I wasn’t sure what my role would be in his life, as he already had someone to call dad. His mom was separated from his dad. We had primary custody, which meant he spent most of his time with us.

I did always want to be a parent. I’m good with kids.

I even moved back to NJ despite hating it there to make it work for Sam’s blended family. His mom wanted him to have a relationship with his dad.

Within the first six months, Sam began calling me Daddy Leo - to distinguish me from his other dad. I was a little surprised and, to be honest, a little uncomfortable. I didn’t intentionally set out to bring this particular kid into the world. I didn’t have any of the legal protections to make sure he stayed in my life. It felt risky.

Sam and Leo over 10 years ago.

But living with a kid 80% of the time, it’s kind of hard not to slip into parenting. Unfortunately, his bio dad did not like that I was trans and was my biggest bully as an adult.

He’d work to make Sam dislike his mom and me. But we found a balance and tried our best to protect Sam and ourselves.

As soon as I arrived in NJ again, I wanted to leave. So did Sam’s mom, but within a couple of years, it became clear Sam’s dad would never let us leave.

Over the years, it was his mom and I doing the hard work of parenting while his dad got to be the fun one. But unfortunately, in the eyes of almost all of Sam’s childhood care team, doctors, teachers, and other relatives, I was not an equal parent to his bio dad and mom.

His aunt would often call me “Leo” to Sam. Funny enough, Sam would correct her.

As I found myself cleaning Sam’s pee off the bathroom floor, I thought how odd it was to be in the labor of parenting without any of the privileges or respect.

When the pandemic hit, Sam was in 2nd grade. Out of the three of us parents, I’m one the who took leave to help Sam with school. I spent every day ensuring Sam logged on and sat still. It wasn’t an easy task. We’d sit at the table and figure out his homework. I was deeply invested in his well-being.

Leo navigating pandemic life with Sam, his dog and a bald Mario.

Then, something tragic happened. Sam’s biological dad died of an overdose while Sam was there for the weekend. It shattered everyone’s hearts. I wondered if he’d ever recover. He began calling me his “last dad.” No pressure, huh?

But in a way, I was glad he had a spare dad lying around. I couldn’t replace his bio dad, but he still had two loving parents ever present in his life.

We were able to move when his dad passed away, so we left within 6 months.

We set up a new life in Indiana. I was hopeful that eventually I’d just become Sam’s dad without any questions asked. It started to head that way. Sam’s mom and I showing up at parent-teacher conferences and doctor’s visits.

Then we separated.

I didn’t know what this would mean for Sam and me.

Now, I was the weekend dad. But knew how skewed that felt. I remembered that his bio dad didn’t have any idea of the work of getting him up and off to school.

I started picking him up in the mornings for school. I tried to make sure I saw him throughout the week and not just the weekend. But I felt a strong sense of powerlessness.

His mom was fair. She wanted me in Sam’s life. She’d often say she was still grateful to be raising Sam with me.

Then she decided to move back to New Jersey with Sam.

My heart felt twisted. Why did we stay in NJ to maintain his relationship with his bio dad? Why couldn’t she do that for me? What were my rights? This move felt like the biggest indicator that, despite the labor and love, I was not Sam’s biological parent, and I didn’t matter as much.

This pain cracked me open. I wept at the idea that he’d be so far away. What if something happens to him? How will I get there quickly? I spent the last decade catching him if he fell, making him dinner, removing splinters, teaching him how to tie his shoes, ride his scooter, pass a ball, and brush his teeth. Now I have to just believe each day he is okay. And if he is not, I can’t do anything about it.

What’s even more wild is that I’ve had just a few people in my offline life acknowledge how deeply heartbreaking this was for me. But I do believe that if Sam were my biological child, the reactions would’ve been different.

I still see Sam. Not every week, not even every month, but here and there.

I’ve rarely been seen as a true parent. I know I’m not alone. Many queer, step, trans, and other types of parents have devoted themself to the children in their lives and then are invalidated simply because they didn’t contribute to their DNA.

Sam turns 14 on Sunday. It’ll be the first birthday that I’ve missed, minus the one where I didn’t know him yet. In the past, I was always the birthday guy. I’d fill his bedroom up with balloons as he slept, and I made him waffles every birthday morning.

But Sunday, I won’t be there; the balloons will.