Mommy Man (19 page)

17

The Sad Happy Face

I
don’t understand God
. I’m not saying I don’t believe in him—or Him or her/Her, it/It or them/Them—just that I don’t understand. Sure, maybe there is some unseen big shot on another plane of existence who’s secretly micromanaging our lives, but I don’t get how anyone finds comfort in that. I mean, what kind of person (or faceless entity, for that matter) takes that much interest in whether some shady contractor is telling the truth when he’s sworn in on
Judge Judy
? No disrespect intended, but the type of God so many people claim to believe in sounds like a loser. If anyone needs to get a life, it’s the guy who has all the power and knowledge in the universe but who spends his time helping pro bowlers take out 7-10 splits.

At the same time this loving, omnipotent gajillion-year-old whatever-it-is is helping Jay-Z clean up at the Grammys, he sits by while people carpet bomb and date-rape each other into oblivion. Sure, some people believe they can explain all the bad things away. Cancer? That’s God’s way of making you appreciate life. Tsunamis? God’s way of making us respect nature. YouTube videos of people dancing with their dogs? God’s revenge for all that cyber porn. I’m not saying any of these explanations are wrong, because they make as much sense as any other justification for human existence. But if that’s the way God does business, why bother praying? If God shrugged off the Holocaust because it made some point about faith or brought some nice people up to Heaven to live with him sooner, then my babies and I were fucked.

Tough times have been known to drive heathens to prayer, but if you ask me, the worst time to pray to a god like this is when you actually need help. I wasn’t going to ask a favor of some guy who got off on jerking people around. Better to fly under the radar than alert you-know-who to the fact that my fetuses could be a tool in teaching me some kind of bat-shit spiritual lesson.

At the same time, I couldn’t accept the notion that I was completely powerless. There had to be somewhere I could turn to help me save those kids. I know it’s impossible to write the following sentence without it being political, but I’m going to try anyway: Those six-week-old fetuses I saw on the sonogram monitor were people—real people, and I loved them like a father already.

I’m pro-choice and pro-women’s rights, and I don’t want to give any fuel to the people who aren’t, but to be honest, I was already mentally preparing myself for the day those two hovering blobs moved out to go to college. I could picture me dressing the blobs as ketchup and mustard for Halloween, me and the blobs riding the teacups at Disneyland, and me breaking my back in a bounce house at the blobs’ fifth birthday party.

“Blob 2, call an ambulance!” Blob 1 would say.

“On it!” Blob 2 would reply.

They were real people, capable both of injuring me and of summoning medical assistance. If they didn’t make it, I would cry real people tears.

Maybe I didn’t see any point in addressing some cloud-floating cruise ship blesser, but there was still someone I could turn to. Someone I fully believed in, who was directly involved in this situation. I decided to take this matter straight to them:

January 11, 2009

Dear Babies:

That’s right. Babies. There are two of you. We saw you in the doctor’s office last week. Two little blobs came up on a screen, and Dr. S said, “It’s twins!” and Daddy Drew almost fell over. (He claims I’m the one who almost fell over, but suffice it to say we were both pretty shocked.)

So that’s the good news. You may not have a fully formed brain yet, or any fingers or toes. But you’ve got a buddy.

When you’re gay dads having a baby with a surrogate, it’s easy to put the baby out of your head. We’re not living with Tiffany, so we’re not taking care of her when she gets morning sickness or waiting on her when she’s resting in bed to make sure you’re okay.

But although we may not be living under the same roof with you yet, seeing those tiny little beams of light on the doctor’s low-tech screen, well, it was like meeting you for the first time. I’m sure what I’m feeling now is only a tiny fraction of what I’ll feel when I’m holding you in my arms in a few months, but all I want to do is take care of you and protect you and let you know that you’re loved.

And, really, I can’t.

That’s the scary part. Okay, so I’m kind of avoiding the bad news, but that’s because I know it won’t amount to anything and I can’t let myself focus on it. But we did have a bit of a scare last week. Tiffany’s body wasn’t expecting twins either, and if it doesn’t figure out how to handle you, there’s a chance you won’t be born.

Dr. S said there’s nothing any of us—even Tiffany—can do to make sure you hang in there. So we all feel kind of powerless and are just hoping for the best.

That’s why I’m glad there are two of you. I know down the road, you’ll have all kinds of sibling rivalry. You’ll fight over toys, then you’ll fight over girlfriends or boyfriends or who gets to borrow the car. But for the next 7 1/2 months, I hope you’ll get along. Share that womb, kids. Take care of one another. Grow together, tiny unformed hand in tiny unformed hand.

Until you’re born, there isn’t much Daddy D and I can do to shield you from danger. But that doesn’t mean you’re alone.

Until then, you’ve got each other.

Love,

Daddy J

Going into the next ultrasound, I was cautiously optimistic. Tiffany was still cramping, but the bleeding—which was far scarier—had stopped. There had been no obvious signs of a miscarriage, but given how tiny our fetuses were, I could easily imagine them slipping out of Tiffany’s womb undetected.

It was a huge relief when I again saw both of my kids on the monitor. They were slightly bigger and slightly more developed, each tethered to an umbilical cord in its own little sac. Gazing at the image, I imagined that they were sending me a message of their own.

“It looks like a happy face,” I observed. I pointed to the fetal sacs, two wide round eyes, then to a crescent-shaped mass below them. I knew from our last visit that this was the blood. While the babies were growing, the blood was shrinking, but it still comprised almost half the volume of Tiffany’s uterus. Somehow, it had taken on the upturned crescent shape of a tremendous grin. It did look like a happy face. Everyone agreed—although Tiffany got more specific.

“It looks like Jack Skellington,” she countered. It makes sense that, as a Disney freak, she would reference the lead puppet from
The Nightmare before Christmas
, but her comparison was spot-on. There was something about us standing there before a gruesome image trying to find something lovable in it, which I think Tim Burton would have appreciated.

The next week, we took a step closer to the Disney of
The Little Mermaid
. The fetuses had developed clear extremities—feet, hands, heads. We could see them squirming in their sacs—alive and kicking, literally. It was quite a thrill.

If there was an upside to being stuck in a high-risk pregnancy, it was this ongoing ultrasound marathon we were treated to. The doctor needed to check and make sure things were progressing reasonably, and that gave us a regular opportunity to check in with our growing offspring. We’d only known we were pregnant for a month, but we’d already had as many ultrasounds as most expectant parents had in their entire pregnancies.

Tiffany’s Uterus
became my favorite weekly TV show. We tuned in every Tuesday morning to enjoy the ever-developing adventures of our lovable main characters, labeled helpfully by the doctor as Baby A and Baby B. This week on
Tiffany’s Uterus
, Baby A sprouts predeveloped nostrils, while Baby B finally loses his vestigial tail. The two main characters had parallel storylines but distinct personalities. Baby A was our squirmer, constantly swiping and pawing with his protruding limb buds. No doubt about it. We were in for some regular shenanigans from Baby A. Baby B was the little one—cute, smooshy, and lovable. That fetus may still have been lacking eyelashes or discernible genitalia, but one thing the kid definitely had was charisma.

It was appointment viewing, like
Lost
, speaking of which, bed rest had turned Tiffany into that show’s number one fan. Our gift to her while she minded our growing babies was a complete series box set. She had never seen it before, but we assured her it would keep her busy on those long days when she was confined to the couch. Boy, were we right. She watched the episodes over and over, with and without commentary tracks. She started developing her own theories about the mysterious island and its inhabitants.

Every week we’d ask her where she was in the show. Had she met the survivors from the tail section? Did she reach the flash-forward? Was Kate with Jack or Sawyer or Jack again? It was our dream come true. We’d turned our surrogate into a nerd, like us. There was no more awkwardness or hesitation between us. When we ran out of baby talk, there was always Oceanic Flight 815 to discuss.

Tiffany caught up before long, and we were all on the same page, waiting for season 5 to start airing live. Right around then came the best episode of
Tiffany’s Uterus
yet. Tiffany had stopped cramping entirely, and Dr. S announced that the blood in the uterus had been officially written out of the storyline.

He had some other big news for us, too—the introduction of a new supporting character.

“It’s time for Tiffany to start seeing her own ob-gyn,” he said.

“So this is the last time we’ll see you?”

“I’m not delivering these babies!”

Drew got choked up. Reflexively, he launched into a speech. “We’re really going to miss you, Dr. S. You’ve been so helpful through this entire process. Back when we started, we were so scared, but you really guided us through . . .”

“Does he always do this?” Dr. S interrupted.

“Yes.”

Drew stopped himself. Dr. S wasn’t a big fan of sentiment.

I hadn’t been asking any tough questions for a while because I’d been so afraid of what the answers might be, but I had a big one ready to go. “So . . . a few weeks ago, you told us the odds of either of these babies being born were about fifty-fifty. What would you say they are now?”

“Are you serious?” Dr. S asked. I shrugged. I wasn’t sure if he was serious either. “You’re out of the first trimester. The odds of Tiffany losing one of these babies now is less than 1 percent.”

Drew gazed at me and smiled, just as nervous to ask his own question. “So does that mean we can start telling people we’re pregnant?”

“What?! You m
ean you haven’t been telling people? Yes, tell the world!”

18

A Family Outing

“Y
OU GUYS ARE FUCKED!”

This was not the reaction we were hoping for when we started telling our friends our good news. Sure, most people went for something more traditional, like “Congratulations!” or “(Sniff, sniff) I’m so happy for you!” Not Jessica.

“YOU’RE ALMOST FOUR MONTHS ALONG, AND YOU’VE DONE NOTHING! YOU GUYS NEED TO WAKE THE FUCK UP!”

Throughout his phone call with her, Drew was practically hyperventilating.

“HAVE YOU REGISTERED FOR GIFTS? SIGNED UP FOR BABY CARE CLASSES? WHAT’S THE THEME OF YOUR NURSERY GOING TO BE? DO YOU WANT BASSINETS OR CO-SLEEPERS? ARE YOU BAPTIZING? CIRCUMCISING? BANKING CORD BLOOD?”

“Well . . . um . . .”

“YOU’RE FUCKED!!!”

Jessica really is a lovely person. Though she’s roughly the height of the average fifth grader, her personality is ten feet tall. She’s type A-plus-plus-plus. She’d been friends with Drew since his early days at MTV, and it’s no wonder she’d been so successful in her career because she’s smart, tough, and focused. She had two young kids of her own and was a terrific, caring mother. That’s pretty much how she behaved toward Drew, too, like a mother—a very strict one.

“OH SHIT! WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT THE SHOWER?”

“My friend Dana offered to host a shower. And Lauren did, too.”

“Tell her Victoria said she’d throw us one,” I added, listening in.

“SO YOU JUST TOLD EVERYBODY YES?!”

Drew sighed. “I don’t really even want a shower.”

“TOO FUCKING BAD BECAUSE IT SOUNDS LIKE YOU’RE HAVING THREE!”

“I’ll tell them I don’t want one. Baby showers are for women. It feels weird.”

“SHUT UP! YOU’RE HAVING A SHOWER. END OF STORY.”

“I don’t like parties. I don’t need all the attention.”

“NOBODY DOES IT FOR THE ATTENTION. THEY DO IT FOR THE SHIT.”

“The shit?”

“DUH, BABY SHIT! YOU NEED BABY SHIT!”

“We’ll buy our own.”

“NOBODY BUYS THEIR OWN, BECAUSE IT COSTS A FORTUNE, BECAUSE NOBODY BUYS THEIR OWN. IT’S ALL A BIG SCAM, AND THAT’S WHY PEOPLE HAVE BABY SHOWERS.”

“We don’t need much.”

Jessica laughed. “YOU’RE HAVING FUCKING TWINS, YOU PSYCHOPATH! THAT’S IT. I’M TAKING YOU TO REGISTER. MEET ME AT BABAS & BOOTIES ON SATURDAY AT NOON.”

“Where’s Babas & Booties?”

“YOU DON’T KNOW WHERE BABAS & BOOTIES IS? JESUS CHRIST, FUCKING GOOGLE IT!”

Jessica was waiting for us when we arrived. “OKAY, RELAX,” she said, in a completely unrelaxing tone. “I TALKED TO DANA, LAUREN, BETH, HEATHER, VICTORIA AND DAVID. WE’RE ALL PLANNING YOUR SHOWER TOGETHER.”

“Whoa,” Drew protested. “I don’t want all those people to have to . . .”

Jessica shoved him. “GET IN THE FUCKING STORE!”

Babas & Booties was a charming baby shop in the San Fernando Valley, with the highest concentration of cuteness I’d ever been completely surrounded by. I didn’t know where to turn first. Everything was calling out to me, saying, “Buy me! I will make your babies’ lives even more adorable!” I picked up a giant white teddy bear and gave it a squeeze. It was soft, precious, perfect. Jessica snatched it out of my hands.

“NOBODY REGISTERS FOR STUFFED ANIMALS!” she said, throwing the bear back on the shelf. “YOU’LL BE DROWNING IN THAT SHIT BEFORE YOU KNOW IT.”

She marched up to the cash register and waited patiently to talk to a salesperson—for about two seconds. Then she waited impatiently.

Cough.
No response. Louder
cough
. “HELLO? WE’RE HERE TO OPEN A REGISTRY!”

Finally, a salesman peered up at us. “Mm-hmm,” he muttered quietly. He slid a form into a clipboard, then slowly sauntered toward us. He was tall and well dressed, wearing a crisp white button-down shirt and freshly pressed slacks. He had impossibly perfect posture and square shoulders, like the product of a breeding program for snooty salespeople at high-end shops. His hair was carefully slicked back, his lips pursed as he looked us up and down.

“I’m Edmond,” he said. “Who’s the lucky dad?”

Drew and I looked at each other. He was assuming Jessica was the mother. We hadn’t had to explain our family to a stranger before, and we weren’t sure how to go about it.

“Um, actually, she’s just a friend of ours and . . .”

“THEY’RE BOTH THE DADS,” Jessica replied, matter-of-factly. It didn’t seem to me like the kind of thing you said matter-of-factly since to most people it was apt to be quite a surprising fact. Drew apparently felt the same way because he jumped in to explain.

“We have a surrogate,” he said, and when Edmond stared back stonily, he elaborated. “My sister was the egg donor. We’re having twins.”

“YEAH, SO SHOW US YOUR DOUBLE STROLLERS!”

Jessica stomped past Edmond, and he lowered his clipboard, sneering at us. I turned to Drew, who clearly noticed it, too. This douchebag sneered at the two dads. Apparently, we didn’t fit the profile of the preferred Babas & Booties customer.

I realized this was our first real outing as a gay family, and it was an outing in both senses of the word. Most of the time, Drew and I probably “pass” as straight in public. Two guys, hanging out, joking and laughing, like a couple of frat brothers or a beach volleyball tandem. But when two men are shopping for a double stroller together, it’s pretty clear they’re more than just drinking buddies. I’d never been introduced to a stranger and outed in one breath like that. I realized this is what I was in for the rest of my life. When you have a baby with your boyfriend, you’re not going to pass for straight anymore, and sometimes, as a result, homophobia will stare right down its stuck-up nose at you.

I looked back and forth between two strollers. These were the only two-seaters Babas & Booties sold, which should have made this decision easy.

“What are the advantages of one over the other?” I asked Edmond.

“Well, you could get this one,” he said, shrugging, “or you could get that one.” He rolled his eyes and waited impatiently. That was his comparison of the two models, in full. Again, Drew and I turned toward each other, both feeling slighted.

“THEY WANT THIS ONE!” Jessica announced. “YOU GUYS PICK THE COLOR.”

Drew and I flipped through the swatches for about thirty seconds, before Jessica became annoyed. “JUST PICK ONE, GOD DAMN IT! ORANGE! WHO GIVES A SHIT?”

Edmond uncapped his pen and made a note on his clipboard. “Orange, then?”

Other than Edmond’s attitude, registering for baby supplies was a blast. We could point at anything we wanted, and one day soon,
bam!
A UPS truck would deliver it to our door. It was like getting a one-time pass into the magical world where straight people live. Procreating was the key to a fantasyland full of free stuff most gay men would never know, and all of it was delightful. Puppy-faced blankies, crinkly crib toys, musical monkeys that lit up whenever a tiny hand swatted at them.

The only thing more fun was the way Jessica beat Edmond down at every turn.

“Will you be registering for a crib?” he asked at one point.

“THEY ALREADY HAVE CRIBS!” Jessica waved him off, then leaned in toward us for what she considered a whisper. “GET YOUR CRIBS AT BABIES ‘R’ US. THE FURNITURE HERE IS A RIP-OFF!”

It was hard to be irritated at Jessica because her bossiness was extremely helpful. Edmond made a much better target for our anger.

“I guess we can skip this section,” Edmond deadpanned when we came to the breast-feeding equipment. He drew a giant “X” through that line on his registry form.

As Jessica led Edmond around the store, I pulled Drew aside. “Is he being rude because we’re gay?”

“Why else would it be?”

“Should we leave?”

“I’m thinking about it,” Drew said.

“HEY! FROGGY OR MONKEY?” Jessica shouted from a few aisles away.

“What?”

“COME PICK OUT YOUR TUMMY TIME MAT!”

We rejoined her and Edmond, who was now doodling disinterestedly on our registry form. I had officially reached my fed-up point. It was approximately seventy-five minutes, forty-eight sneers, and eighty-two heaving sighs into our visit when I started mentally preparing myself to shout, “I guess there are no fags allowed at Babas & Booties!” and then storm out.

“WHERE ARE YOU GUYS GOING TO HAVE THIS STUFF DELIVERED?”

“I guess they should send it to Warner Bros,” Drew said.

Edmond looked up, suddenly interested. “What is it you do for a living?” Of course. He was probably an actor, and after all his condescension he was now going to slip Drew a head shot. Classic. I couldn’t wait to see the smackdown Drew gave him.

“I’m a reality TV exec,” Drew said. Yup, there’s the bait! Here comes the nibble!

“Oh,” Edmond replied. “I was on a reality show.”

“Really? What show?”

“
America’s Got Talent
.”

I struggled to suppress a guffaw. America may have had talent, but I was pretty sure Edmond didn’t. I tried to imagine him performing in any manner. Juggling bowling pins while riding a unicycle. Irish step dancing. Eating fire. Nothing quite seemed like him. I was dying to know.

“What was your talent?”

Big shrug and eye-roll. “Drag.”

“Drag?”

“Yeah, I was also on
Ru-Paul’s Drag Race
.”

Okay, so we called that one wrong.

Finally, Drew had his opening, and he seized on it to start the Drew Tappon Talk Show. Edmond opened up about everything—his drag persona, Moody Garland, his boyfriend, and how we were so much cooler than all the other gay couples who came in to register for baby stuff. We realized that maybe we had been the ones who were too quick to judge. Edmond wasn’t a homophobic prick. He was just a prick.

I knew we’d encounter actual homophobes at some point, and there’d be Edmonds, too, who’d surprise us. This was our life now, and hiding wasn’t an option. We were a nontraditional family, and we couldn’t control how other people would react to us. All we could do was be ourselves and be proud.

Across the store, Jessica hadn’t noticed any of this. She was still running through Edmond’s checklist to make sure we had everything we needed. “UGH! I AM NOT LETTING YOU GET A WIPES WARMER! THEY’RE FULL OF FUCKING GERMS!”