Does This Baby Make Me Look Straight?: Confessions of a Gay Dad (12 page)

Dan:
“I told the kids they had to be in bed by seven thirty.”

Don:
“Oh, I told them they could watch a movie.”

Dan:
“Right. But I said no movie. I don’t want to back down and lose all credibility with them.”

Don:
“Right. But wouldn’t I lose credibility if I back off the movie thing?”

Dan:
“Or you could come off as supporting what Daddy said. What movie?”

Don:
“
Over the Hedge
, and how about
you
coming off like you support
Papi
?”

Dan:
“That movie is rated PG.”

Don:
“So? It’s animated. It’s cute. It’s not scary.”

Dan:
“Maybe it’s not scary to you, but to a three-year-old? You know what cortisol is? It’s a fear hormone secreted in the brain. Movies like that trigger—”

Don:
“Okay. You’re fucking crazy, you know that? What gets secreted in their brain from having a fucking crazy daddy?”

Dan:
“I’m crazy for caring about what my kids are exposed to? According to commonsensemedia.org, that movie’s not for kids under ten. Our kids are five and three. That doesn’t even
add up
to ten!”

Don:
“I guess I just don’t care enough about my kids to pick a movie that freakyself-righteousparents.com recommends. You’re a better parent all the way around. Congratulations. You win!”

Dan:
“Feels better to say it out loud, doesn’t it?”

All the issues a man has in this society about feeling relevant and powerful, productive and successful, multiplied by two? It’s tricky, being a man in a relationship with another man who is also by nature competitive. Add to that the fact that we’re two creative artists straining to catch a drop or two from the stingy tit of show business in a place where any
of us would gladly shove even our closest friend into a box of fast-metabolizing jelly donuts if they came even close to standing in our light. We who were damaged by our invisibility as children are dragging our loved ones into this giant stew of need and guilt and money and shame and ambition with nothing but a Barneys Warehouse Sale to make us feel better. Then we have kids. And the focus becomes them. And we strive to push our competitive impulses aside to work together to make a great life for them.

In a relationship between two men the balance of parenting power can be trickier when both are strong, smart, opinionated people who like to feel in control and
right
most of the time. On the other hand, Don surrenders on a lot of the stuff he just doesn’t like to do or doesn’t care about. Which is healthy. He lets me be the one to get woken up at six for that cuddle after a nightmare or to change wet pj’s, the one to take out a splinter, buy clothes, feed them (though he toasts a mean Pop-Tart), dress them (in clothes that fit), or make vanilla French toast in the shape of woodland creatures. This adds to the sting when both of them would crawl over live snakes and broken glass to be the one who gets to sit next to Papi at a restaurant or in a movie.

But then something happened. I overheard some friends of ours—a straight, married couple with two small kids—in the middle of a giant fight during one of our park picnics together.

Him:
“What are you doing?”

Her:
“I’m giving them a snack. It’s a fruit twist.”

Him:
“You realize they just had lunch about twenty minutes ago. And B) that stuff is pure crap.”

Her:
“I bought it at Whole Foods!”

Him:
“So what? You think a ‘fruit twist’ grows in nature like that? It doesn’t. It’s processed. And check the grams of sugar. What is it? Forty? Fifty? Like a can of Coke. You’re throwing me under the bus.”

Her:
“Okay, wow, cranky. Are you insane? I’m not—”

Him:
“Yeah, you are. You give them the message that what Daddy says doesn’t matter but what Mommy says is law.”

Her:
“Someone needs to grow a little self-esteem, there, buddy.”

Him:
“Someone had plenty before someone’s
wife
hacked away at it.”

Her:
“Along with his balls, apparently.”

Ouch
. Silence. The conversation stopped there when they realized several people had overheard them. So much for my whole theory about navigating the power between parents in a same-sex relationship. I have to admit, it was a relief to find out that there’s nothing particularly gay or straight about anyone’s ability to compromise or delegate or work as a team in a marriage with kids. It’s just about our own egos and our own willingness to relinquish control. That’s right. Watching another couple struggle in the same way really inspired me to let some of this shit go.

The truth is? I like seeing the kids with Don; their bond with him is so strong and affectionate and specific. And it’s different from the one I have with them. Which is a good thing. They get different things from the both of us. There’s
balance in that. And what’s more, I love doing all the things I’ve come to do for the kids. And with them.

Don and I both notice how we go in and out of being Flavor of the Week. It’s not a reflection on our worth as parents. On how much they may love one of us or the other. Or on our weight. Although last summer we were swimming and I had forgotten to wear the surfing rash guard shirt—what we affectionately call “modesty shirt”—which I use to cover the parts of me for which push-ups and Pilates seem to be no contest. Jonah took one look at my naked torso and burst into tears, screaming, “Black shirt! Black shirt!” as though my exposed upper body would leave him with a visual he couldn’t boil away if he tried. Believe me, I know because
I’ve
tried. Hmm. Maybe if I could get Don to drive shirtless, the kids would pick my car . . .

I
t’s the Sunday before Memorial Day. Don’s home while Jonah naps, thank God, so I’m taking Eliza to buy groceries at Trader Joe’s. She loves Trader Joe’s because the guys there always give her a balloon. Eliza has an odd little obsession with balloons. She sees one and has to have it. But then, as if it were a seven-layer wedding cake or a nuclear warhead, everyone has to get out of her way when she’s holding it. She walks slowly. Staring at it. And if it accidentally rubs against anything and makes that awful squeaky sound, she screams as if bloody worms were about to ooze from its nozzle and pull her hair. And yet she worships it. And hates herself for having to have one but loves it all the same. Basically, it’s me with a York Peppermint Pattie.

We’re in a hurry and I know I can’t devote that kind of attention to a pink floating nuclear warhead, so I lay down the law—“No balloons this time”—as we tear through the store grabbing everything we need for our barbecue tomorrow. Turkey burgers, hot dogs, chips, salsa, and drinks . . . I load all the bags in the car, strap Eliza into her booster, and race down Ventura Boulevard.

Then I see Pier 1 and remember I’m supposed to get a
patio umbrella. I pull into the parking lot. The only open spot is in the blazing hot sun. I think,
Oh good. I can preheat the hamburger meat
. I prep Eliza for a fast errand.

“Okay, monkey, we’re just going in and getting the umbrella and going right home. You can help pick the color. But super fast, okay? Because we have meat in the car and don’t want it to go bad.”

“It’s not bad. I love meatie!” she says. And she does love meat. Maybe it’s her midwestern bloodline or some other primal carnivorous craving buried deep within. Eliza holds the string of the balloon I said she was forbidden to have. She stares at it as if eye contact alone will keep it from popping.

“That’s right. Meat is good as long as it doesn’t spoil. You understand, honey? If the burgers sit in the car too long, they can start cooking.” She laughs at this. Then I tell her we have to leave the balloon in the car. She doesn’t want to let it go. I have no time to negotiate. “If you bring it, it will pop.” She’s not buying it. “It will pop. And it will be very loud. And then it will die and everyone will cry.” Done. It’s not exactly a lie. It
could
pop. Whatever.

Inside, we head right to the patio umbrellas. They come in green, orange, and beige. Oh, and a striped one. I know we definitely
don’t
want that one but can build a case in favor of any of the others. I hate how indecisive I am. Having seen and admired the R. J. Cutler documentary
September Issue
, I’d vowed to be more like Anna Wintour in my everyday life.
Which color umbrella, Dan?
says my inner Wintour.
Don’t be a pussy. Pick the right one or you’re fired. Simple as that. There can only be one
right
choice
.

Eliza reminds me that green is my favorite color. Yes. Green is good. But in a decidedly
un
–Anna Wintour move, I take out my BlackBerry and snap photos of the color choices and email them to Don. Meanwhile, a very cute twenty-something salesclerk approaches wearing this cool lime-colored polo shirt. He tells me he’s a big fan of my work. “You were Billy on
The Comeback
!” I don’t get recognized all that often so immediately I have the fantasy of asking him to come over and say it all again—
and this time, say it slower!

“I really loved
The Comeback
,” he says—a phrase, like the old “friend of Dorothy,” which has come to mean “Yes. I am, indeed, gay.” I love him. And not just because he loves me. He heads to the basement to find a nine-foot green umbrella since the floor samples are too small.

“Your daughter’s adorable,” he says over his shoulder. I smile, thinking,
So are you
. But I don’t say it, of course. I’m not
that
guy, either. Then I look around. Where is my “adorable” daughter? Just before going to the panic place, I see her emptying a basket of colorful animal-shaped soaps onto the floor in aisle five. I run over.

“Bet those animals are pretty clean, huh?”

“Smell, Daddy!” She holds one up to my nose.

“Mmm . . .” I almost gag. It’s cherry or berry or, wait, yes—it smells like a urinal puck. I want to sneeze. I think about the hamburger meat in the back of my car. Shit! I have to hurry.

“No, sweetie, we’re not buying soaps today,” I say.

“Just one, D-D? Just for today?” she asks, her eyes begging.
D-D
is what she calls me when she wants something.

CuteGaySalesGuy comes back just in time for me to demonstrate how sweet yet firm I can be. I feel myself unconsciously
suck in my stomach. “Eliza, you were smart to pick the cute soaps, but we can’t buy—”

“I have to go potty, Daddy!” she cuts me off, jumping up to her feet.

CuteGaySalesGuy leans the various umbrellas against the counter. Eliza retreats behind my leg. “How’d you go about becoming a dad?” he asks.

I love that he’s asked. What a great opportunity to tell him about the process, to encourage him, to be a role model. I want to give him a conscientious answer, but Eliza has to pee and my car is transforming into an In-N-Out Burger.

“We adopted. But listen. Don’t go anywhere,” I tell him, “we’re going potty.” I don’t want him to think I’m blowing him off.

Eliza and I step into the men’s room. I hate public restrooms. Just because men can pee standing up doesn’t mean we should pee hopping on one foot. How else to explain the urine on
every single
surface? Eliza and I have a rule we chant over and over as we step into bathrooms: “Don’t touch anything. Don’t touch anything.” And we don’t.

To prep her bum for perching, I wrap the seat in layers of toilet paper like some intricate Egyptian mummification process. I listen for a tinkle. I don’t hear anything.

“Go pee-pee, monkey . . . we have to hurry.” I feel guilty for rushing her but will feel even worse if two hundred bucks’ worth of food is ruined and CuteGaySalesGuy doesn’t get to adopt. Finally I hear a short tinkle. Now we’re talking. Eliza wipes, pulls up her pants, and flushes. We wash our hands. I’m rushing as always but I make up little songs as I rush, hoping not to stress her out.

“Get our fingers in the water and then rub, rub, rub. Then the soap, do it quickly and then rub, rub, rub. Rinse and grab a paper towel. Grab it. Now.
Now. Now!
” She sees right through my game.

“I’m going as fast as I can, Daddy,” she says. Which, frankly, is a much sweeter way of saying,
Cool your jets, bitch, you’re stressing me out
.
And incidentally, Papi is waiting for us at home so you may want to tone down the flirting
. Which I would deserve.

“Stop singing,” she says. I smile. She’s right. I count to ten in my head.

“Let’s go, Eliza,” I plead.

“I’m coming, Daddy, I’m coming.” I run up to the cashier’s desk as I hear the chime of my BlackBerry. Don likes the striped umbrella. What? I apologize to CuteGaySalesGuy for his trouble and get him to sell me the floor model of the striped one.

“I don’t need the box. I have groceries in the car and it’s hot and . . .” Eliza rolls her eyes. When did she start doing that? She’s five! And have I really mentioned the groceries that many times?

CuteGaySalesGuy pulls down the floor model. He seems eager to chat. “How long did it take you guys to adopt?”

I want to tell him my story. I want to be encouraging. I have a responsibility, don’t I, to the gay dads of the future?

“Come on, Daddy, let’s go!” Eliza is whining. Perfect. It’s like my value as a father, my identity as a gay man, my ability to pay it forward, and my skills as a barbecue host are all being tested. And I’m failing at all of them. But come on. Right now my single responsibility, besides watching my
daughter, is to
get that fucking meat home!
Why did I have to buy the umbrella and grocery shop and take Eliza all at the same time? Why did I agree to host a stupid barbecue? Why did I agree to do all the prep and planning? Why did I agree to have kids? I’ve definitely bitten off more than I can chew. But I’m sure Anna Wintour could handle it. As I’m digging for my credit card, I try to give CuteGaySalesGuy some helpful information.