The Swing
In the quiet of the early morning light, I push my 8-month-old son in his stroller to the park. Today will be his first time on the playground’s swing set. I exercise wherever I can, so I move along at a jog pace. It’s a warm day, and my hands sweat against the handle. These strolls are a rare time I let my mind wander. Zach is safely secured in the stroller so I’m not in the perpetual hyper-vigilant mode that keeps me tuned to every movement and sound. I think about how I created Zach by embarking on a journey two years earlier to become a Single Mother by Choice. It’s miraculous that he’s next to me and we are sharing new experiences together. It is the beginning of so many rituals that will strengthen our bond.
We arrive at the park and head to the swings. Since he’s never been in a swing before, I’m nervous. I wiggle his little body into the swing, and he sort of slumps forward not sure what to do with his head and body. I squat down so we are eye-to-eye. For the first time, he is looking at me rather than through me. Not staring, he sees me. I wonder about the thoughts forming behind those bright blue eyes and whether his eyes will stay blue like his donor’s or darken to the brown of my family. Parts of his identity will come from me, parts from his donor and parts uniquely his own. As my brain chatters on, he gives me the sweetest look and turns on that million-dollar one-tooth grin. His grin brings a hit of joy, an intense natural-high like no other.
For years before he was born, I scrolled through donor profiles. The decision to pursue single Motherhood hadn’t been easy, but it was clear. I’d watched friends’ cycle through disappointing relationships and others struggle with fertility after waiting too long. My stepmother helped when she asked me to imagine what it might feel like at 50 years old to not have a child. The sadness was overwhelming. I wanted to be a mother more than I wanted to wait for a partner. This realization changed everything.
The donor profiles had felt surreal at first, men reduced to medical histories, educational backgrounds, and physical attributes. I’d chosen carefully, looking not just for good health markers but for someone whose words in the biographical essay revealed kindness, intelligence, and thoughtfulness. Donor 3473 had written about his creativity, and how he wanted to travel and teach harmony through diversity. He described his personality as passionate and believed in speaking his mind. His eyes were blue.
Now blue eyes stare back at me from my son’s face, curious and trusting. I began to push his swing, watching his tiny fingers tightly grip the front strap. When I push him higher, he tries to turn his head to find me, so I dash around to the front, letting him see that I’m still here. I’ll always be here.
“It’s okay, sweet boy,” I say, meeting his gaze. “I’ve got you.”
His initial uncertainty transforms into wonder. His eyes widen with each gentle arc of the swing, his body gradually relaxing into the new sensation. He likes to look down at the ground that seems to be moving beneath him. I watch the subtle changes in his expression — the look of surprise, the cautious delight building with each movement. There’s no fear, only curiosity, as if he’s cataloging this new experience, filing it away in his developing mind.
When his face finally erupts into that gummy smile again, my heart swells. These are the moments no one told me about — how a simple smile from your child can physically affect you, like a drug hitting your bloodstream. Scientists call it oxytocin. Mothers call it love.
My brain drifts to the conversations we will have someday. How will I explain his origins? When will he start asking questions about the other half of his genetic makeup? I’ve rehearsed these talks, preparing careful age-appropriate explanations. I’ve already bought children’s books about single mother donor-conceived families, tucked away until he’s old enough to understand. I want the story to feel special and celebrated.
I’m jolted from these thoughts when another mother, who is a new friend, approaches with her six-year old son. He races toward the climbing structure near the swings. Within minutes, we’re chatting, the easy conversation of single Mothers who find themselves sharing the same space during a weekday morning.
Sophia gradually shares pieces of her story. Her son’s father left before he was born, provides minimal financial support, and is not a father figure. She doesn’t say it with bitterness, just as a fact. I watch her son playing on the jungle gym, seemingly unaffected, but I wonder what questions he asks at night, what explanations she’s had to craft over the years.
I reflect on my unique situation. While I can only see this from my perspective, I believe there’s peace for a child who understands their origins from the start, rather than a father existing in the world but absent. Our story may be unconventional, but it’s honest, intentional, and free from the shadow of rejection.
“He’s beautiful,” Sophia says, nodding toward my son, Zach, who is now grinning with each swing.
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“Thank you,” I reply, feeling the pride that still surprises me with its intensity. “This is his first time on the swings.”
“Ah, the first of many firsts,” she says with a knowing smile. “You’ll blink and he’ll be where my Ethan is, trust me.”
I look at Ethan — navigating the playground equipment, calling out to his mother to watch his latest feat — and try to imagine my little boy at that age. It seems impossible, yet I know it will happen faster than I can comprehend.
I turn back to Zach, pushing him a little higher. His laughter comes in short, surprised bursts. I’m beginning to get a sense of his personality. There’s thoughtfulness in the way he observes everything, taking it all in before reacting. I have a feeling he’ll be an observer in life, first processing and getting comfortable with what is going on around him before actively joining in.
Years later, my intuition proves true. During toddler years at bounce house and Gymboree parties, he watches all the kids playing, clinging to me as if still attached by the umbilical cord. I remember feeling concerned, wondering if I should push him more, but something told me to trust his process, to let him engage on his terms.
During his school-age years, he ventures into sports — soccer and basketball — where he would stop in the middle of play on a field or court to watch. He was comfortable staying away from the battlefield of aggressors. One soccer game, he repeatedly ran out of the action and plopped down on the blanket where my family was watching. My father, his Poppa, turned to me and confidently stated, “He doesn’t like soccer,” to which I replied, “He’s got to get used to it, Dad.”
Poppa never pressured him. Instead, he’d sit with Zach on the sidelines, where observation was valued rather than seen as a deficiency. I’d like to think my father’s acceptance allowed my son to develop confidence in his own approach to the world.
And then something remarkable happened in early high school. It was as if his brain and body suddenly coordinated, his years of careful observation transforming into athletic intelligence. He became outstanding in every sport he loved. Soccer was not one of them — my father had been right about that — but basketball and volleyball became his domains. Still observant, but using it to his advantage, he excelled in ways I couldn’t have predicted during those early sport days.
At the park with Zach, I’m unaware of all that is to come. I’m entranced by his joy on the swing, by the way his blue eyes — which will indeed turn brown, sparkle in the morning light. I run to the front of the swing, crouching down once again to meet his gaze.
“Do you like that?” I ask, knowing he can’t answer with words, but his expression is pure delight, a look that says, “More, please!”
I move behind the swing again to give another gentle push. In this moment, I feel certainty wash over me — that despite the challenges ahead, despite the questions that will come, despite the times I’ll question my decisions as a solo parent — this was right. He was right. We were meant to be as we are: a family of two, created through choice and love, finding our way together.
This moment — this simple moment at a neighborhood park — I commit to memory, knowing someday it will be a story I tell him about who he was before he could remember.
“See, sweet boy,” I whisper as I catch the swing to slow it down, “The world has so many wonderful things to show you.”
And as I lift him from the swing, his warm body melts against mine. I silently promise him that I’ll be there to guide him through every discovery, to create a life where he never questions that he was wanted, chosen, and loved beyond measure from the very beginning. And some day, he will be ready to guide me.
