Does This Baby Make Me Look Straight?: Confessions of a Gay Dad (22 page)

The WORKING MOM. A busy, multitasking professional who races into school with her kids, an earpiece connected to her BlackBerry on which she’s simultaneously texting her assistant while trying to sound insightful on a conference call with London. So she’ll occasionally pipe in with “as long as we’re all on the same page,” while intermittently wiping dried yogurt off the mouth of her daughter, who has a name like Hunter or Clem. She wears twelve-hundred-dollar shoes and tinted glasses to hide the circles under her up-till-three-prepping-for-the-conference-call eyes. She has a kick-ass body and effortlessly gets down on one knee, careful not to rip her Armani pencil skirt, kisses her child goodbye, and repeats “I love you” seven or eight times to alleviate the guilt she feels about working so much.

The AT-HOME DAD. Everyone’s pal, this guy shows up to school in his workout clothes and hangs out to talk with all the parents, a few teachers, and the school principal, with whom he has a whole library of private jokes. His kids stay wrapped around his legs as he walks them, literally, to class. He showers them with love and kisses before sending them into the teachers’ care—but not before disclosing the special surprise he included in each of their lunch boxes: “I made brownies!” He hangs out after the kids are in class to watch them through one-way mirrored windows—and to flirt with the moms. He’s usually pretty good-looking, though he sports an ever-growing midsection from the post-bedtime wine and midmorning
brownies he devours while watching internet porn. Oh, and there’s always a dab of glitter glue stuck in his hair.

The DOTING MOM. These moms are either stay-at-home or part-timers who put their full-time careers on hold to be there for their kids. They are nervous, eager, and controlling of every move their children make. They sacrificed way too much for parenthood to end up with a kid who loses brain function from a scooter ride with no helmet. They do homework with the kids and sometimes
for
them and schedule dozens of after-school activities they hope will put them on track for the Ivy League. The kids often have some attachment issues with these moms, who insist on staying in the classrooms until their babies stop crying. Outside the class, they often solicit your opinion about their children. (“Does Winnie seem sad to you? She’s coloring by herself. Look at her lips. Is that a smile? It’s a smile, right?”) They’ll try anything to help ease their anxiety until four hours have passed and they can take another flake off a Xanax.

The PERFECT/CRAFTY MOM. She is at school every single day and always looks damn good. She’s crunchy/glamorous in her Dansko clogs, giant gold hoop earrings, and vintage Marimekko handbag. She used to have a great figure but hasn’t yet lost the paunchy baby weight. She’s got a great smile and knits extraordinary cashmere sweaters by hand. She takes great photos at all the school functions and posts them online. She is well liked by everyone and genuinely seems to like everyone back. She throws great classroom parties—especially for Halloween, where she’s known for green “goblin” pudding with a homemade bloody
eyeball she makes out of marshmallow and organic strawberry jam. She and her husband, who doesn’t look as old as you thought, are the best of friends and often put on family shows on weekends “just because.”

The COMPETITIVE DAD. He shows up dressed for whatever high-power job he’s heading to after dropping off the kids. He’s got them on a short leash, as evidenced by the look of respect/fear in their eyes. He has them playing three to four different competitive sports by the second year of preschool and coaches at least two of them. He walks with a swagger and is often seen readjusting his not-as-big-as-he-thinks crotch through his suit pants. He likes to ask a lot of questions about what
your
kids are doing and at what level in order to create an opening for him to tell you about his. He plans spring break ski trips with the other dads so they can ski, watch sports, get loaded, and talk about which of the moms at the school they’d fuck if they got a freebie. He works hard to stay at the top of his game and keep his family living in a manner to which he’s made them accustomed.

The GAY DAD. He falls into any and all of the above categories. Add to that how much he likes to gossip with the moms, flirt with the dads, and croon over the young, gorgeous male nanny. By the way, he heard (and by “heard,” I mean he’d like to think) that the manny is also a model and a tennis pro with a nine-inch penis. He also heard that one of the Working Moms is divorcing one of the Competitive Dads over a weekend tryst
she
had with the manny in Vermont. The Gay Dad befriends a circle of moms with whom he can plan playdates and lunches. He competes for friendships with the A-list moms and becomes a shoulder to cry on for the ones teetering
on the brink of divorce. The gay dad prides himself on being everything the moms could possibly want out of a man—minus the sex. At the same time, he accepts an invitation for a golf weekend with the divorcing dad. While he doesn’t know the first thing about golf, he springs for expensive clubs, shoes, and outfits as a way of jockeying for the approval of these same straight “cool” guys. (These were the guys who shoved his face in the snow as a boy and who now own a shoe conglomerate that could lead to a thirty percent discount on Italian loafers.) The Gay Dad is a devoted parent, shows up to all the kid functions, makes lunches the kids love, and tries to get all their friends to think he’s “the coolest dad.”

Where do Don and I fit in? I don’t know. We’re all of them and none of them, smack in the middle of the whole messy parent parade. But looking for ways to evaluate my worth as a parent is a fool’s game. I mean, everyone’s approach is flawed but valid. And we’re all desperate to be the best versions of ourselves we can be.

•   •   •

A couple of years ago we accepted an invitation for a family brunch date from a couple whose kids were in a summer art class with ours. We enjoyed our giant table for eight and had fun sharing the parental duties, the passing of plates, the cutting up of waffles, sharing crayons, mopping spilled maple syrup—and bringing Jonah back to us after he went table to table to show everyone his yo-yo. It felt like we were all in it together—old school. “It takes a village” and we were a village. Then, something happened. Our new friends, I’ll call them Liz and Mike, turned and gave each other some
kind of signal to go ahead and ask us what had clearly been on their minds from the moment they invited us for the family brunch.

“Um . . . whose sperm did you—?” Liz was clearly embarrassed but beyond curious. We explained how our kids were part of an adoption plan rather than a surrogacy. They were surprised and impressed that we felt okay about raising kids who had no genetic ties to us. They wanted to know all about our birth mom. They wanted to know everything. I was a little taken aback by the line of questioning but ultimately happy to educate them on anything and everything, as I believe it only helps open the minds and hearts of others. Yeah, well . . . not always.

After we had given them a complete history of how we had become parents, they complimented us on our honesty and our commitment. They were proud to know us, they said. They thought it was “good for their family” to have friends “like us.” They wanted their kids to see that the world is made up of all kinds of people and that children can have parents who come in all different shapes, sizes, and genders, as long as the parents love them. We were their “gay dad friends” and they loved us.

I wondered how many other “gay dad friends” they had interviewed prior to choosing us. Granted, the competitive spirit in me was relieved that we had, in fact, been chosen. But then I got annoyed. Were we only friends with them because they wanted a token gay couple in their lives as a teaching moment for their kids? And if that were the case, maybe there was nothing wrong with that. But something didn’t feel right. We’d been inadvertently sucked into a
strange Playdate Affirmative Action Program. Being chosen or rejected in any work or personal relationship solely on the basis of sexual orientation, race, religion—anything—is the very definition of discrimination, isn’t it?

Look. I’m happy to be a role model. I’m happy to be an example to others of the different colors of love and family and marriage. But like everyone else, I’d prefer to be welcomed into another person’s inner circle of friends on the basis of my personality or my values, my sense of humor or, I don’t know, the whiteness of my teeth?

So what if Liz and Mike wanted to expand their social circle and open their minds to a different type of parent—a modern, less conventional family? I got over my self-righteous outrage and opened my mind and heart a little as well. The conversation ended and we cleaned up our kids and paid the check.

“Oh listen . . .” Mike stopped me on the way to the cars. “I meant to ask you this earlier,” he said casually. “You guys don’t ever, you know, kiss—in front of the kids—do you? Not, like, by accident or when you didn’t realize they’re there . . . but, like, if they’re having a playdate or anything—you guys don’t strike me as the types who are into PDAs? Cool. Just checking.” His tone was not one of curiosity. He was asking it like a favor. Like please never do this. I didn’t actually say anything in response, but he seemed pretty pleased to have gotten that off his chest. He patted me on the back and headed toward his Dodge Caravan.

And in that moment, the “village” was suddenly down two gay villagers.

A
fter my parent crush on Marguerite Bergman, I shifted attention to Roxanne, whose daughter Lola was one of Eliza’s closest New York preschool friends. Our approaches to parenthood seemed to intersect, and I admired the way she balanced the dedication she showed to her kids with the passion she showed in her career as a graphic designer. In my mind Roxanne was doing it all right! We hadn’t gotten a chance to really hang out much, though, ever since she’d moved to Northern California after the kids were out of preschool. Fortunately Don and I had to go to San Francisco for an event, so we brought the kids and I finagled a playdate for Eliza and Lola—and for me and Roxanne.

Roxanne, or Roxy, was, like me, a rare hybrid of the Working, Doting, and Perfect/Crafty mom. When we got to the house, she had set up an arts station for each of the kids, complete with stand-up easels, glue guns, and little holsters to hold brushes, markers, and tiny water bottles. If Martha Stewart were six, this would be what she’d design for herself.

“Wow, Eliza! Isn’t this great?” I overpraised. It really was quite a spectacle. I was impressed, delighted, shamed, jealous,
and enraged by it all at the same time. The kids stayed in the crafts room hand-making their personalized Hello Kitty Japanese bento lunch boxes while Roxy invited me out onto her patio for a glass of wine. It was already five-thirty and I figured a little alcohol would take the sting off my crafts table envy. Roxy’s patio overlooked the most perfect, deliberately messy, and overgrown garden of wildflowers I’d ever seen. It rivaled anything Monet was inspired to paint in Giverny. And then Roxy mentioned how she had painted a version of her garden and hung it in her dining room. I had noticed it on the way in.

“That huge painting—the one in the—? Was, wait—
you
did that?” I asked, genuinely incredulous because the painting was wonderful. But Roxy had a lot on her mind she wanted to unload, before I had a chance to compliment her art. She told me how much she loved “the gays” because we’re such good listeners.

“Thank you,” I said. “You know, on behalf of all us gays.” I was being a little facetious, but I couldn’t help it. I felt a bit like a toy poodle, sipping delicious Napa Valley sparkling blush in the midst of this stunning garden.

“You know, Rob and I are having sex again,” she boasted, absentmindedly playing with a strand of her blond hair. I hadn’t realized they’d ever stopped having sex but I read between the lines.

“Oh, wow. Great!” I tried to sound supportive without sounding surprised.

“It’s like we just met,” she continued, acting embarrassed even though I knew she wasn’t. She whispered, “He took me
on the kitchen table this morning. Seriously. I found Rice Krispies stuck to my ass when I got in the shower.”

She couldn’t stop laughing. I was uncomfortable, but I tried my best to laugh along with her. Ha ha ha! I’ve always liked Roxy, even if she is completely inappropriate. Or maybe because of it.

“It’s easier now that the twins are away at boarding school. When the three kids were home it was tough. Someone was always walking in on us—‘Finn put gum in my hair,’ or ‘Lola broke a plate,’ or ‘Mommy, I have a splinter.’ But now, it’s like nine-fifteen in the morning and I’m spread-eagle on the kitchen table having multiple orgasms. It’s heaven!”

Really? Heaven? I think:
Not for the next people who have to eat at that table
. Actually,
I
just ate at that table.

“Sounds like heaven to me!” I offer. What else could I say? Don and I weren’t having sex on the kitchen table. Not that I wouldn’t be willing—but really? I’m not twenty. A hard wood table against a herniated disk isn’t exactly as cozy as you might think. And Don would never go for it. No, for the kitchen table sex to happen, I’d first have to time travel back before Don was born and have his mother impregnated on a kitchen table herself so that at least the trait would be hereditary. But Don would no sooner have sex that close to cream cheese and strawberry preserves than have sex with a woman.

Roxy looks out over her garden. She reaches out to a baby rosebush beside us and pulls a bloom close to her nose and inhales deeply. I think about how Roxy really lives in the moment, something I need to work
so
much harder to do and often doubt is even possible. But that’s how
not
in the moment
I was, thinking how
her
smelling a rose made
me
feel like it was something I needed to do more. She was still talking. Had I missed something? This gay poodle was not being a very good listener.