Does This Baby Make Me Look Straight?: Confessions of a Gay Dad (21 page)

Stop! What are you doing? You’ll ruin her!
I wanted to say. But he seemed so happy—playing beauty shop with his daughter.
I instead picked my eyeballs off the floor and placed them back in my head and went about my business. When he was done, he stood back to admire his work. Well, it was less “admire” and more “assess damage.”

“What do you think?” he asked. Brave of him to ask my opinion. I averted my eyes as long as humanly possible and finally allowed them to find their way to my daughter’s head. There it was—bangs like the toothy grin of a jack-o’-lantern or a row of piano keys, alternating long and short, resting on her forehead like a tattered dust ruffle.

“Cute!” I said, poorly masking my horror. He shrugged, acknowledging the mediocrity of the job.

“It’ll grow back,” I said, less for his benefit than my own.

“Maybe you can take her in to have it cleaned up,” he suggested. I was glad it was his idea rather than mine. I nodded. We’re here and queer, loud and proud, but we also possess eyes and the good sense to know when to admit defeat and turn our daughter’s hair, our playground, over to an actual hairdresser—probably a gay one. Please God, a gay one. We are the best at it after all.

I
t was right in the middle of Monica’s pregnancy with Eliza when Don and I were invited to dinner with friends of Don’s family, Marguerite and Phil Bergman. They have three kids. Don and I, seeking guidance, were on the lookout for a parenting guru, and Marguerite struck us both as a truly admirable matriarch. An immigrant from Spain who worked in publishing and volunteered in her community, she still found time to make her family a priority. Her husband, Phil, was also a total catch. A creative guy and an authoritative father, Phil commands respect without sacrificing his more tender, loving, and supportive qualities. He’s also really funny and good-looking. Too good to be true. Which is why, of course, Don’s convinced he’s gay. Oh, and their kids? Amazing! They’re talented, confident, studious, ambitious, and
love
their parents so much they can’t get enough of them. They are affectionate and look at their parents with appreciation and awe, gratitude and devotion.
What’s wrong with them?
was my first thought. I kept looking for the cracks but there were none. The family was perfect!

Driving home from the dinner, I was in a sulk in the passenger
seat. Don asked me what was wrong. I didn’t even know how to put it into words without sounding whiny.

“I’m sad,” I admitted, “because Phil and Marguerite aren’t my parents.”

“No. They’re not,” Don said with a smile.

“Just seems unfair, that’s all. Plus I’ll never
be
them. Which really sucks. I’ll never be the kind of parents they are.”

Don reassured me. “Sure you will. You’ll be a great parent.”

“Thank you,” I said, “but I wasn’t saying that so you would—whatever. I’m not saying I won’t be a good parent. I’m sure I’ll be, you know, fine. I’ll just never be
those
parents.”

“Okay. No argument there,” Don conceded. “You won’t
have
those parents and you won’t be those parents. Now what?” He looked at me. “You’re also never going to be a kangaroo.” He laughed. I didn’t.

“Shut up,” I said. But he didn’t.

“And you’re never going to be Robert De Niro. Or Snoop Dogg. Or Charlie Brown. Or a potbellied pig. Or an artichoke.”

“I’m going to choke you in a minute,” I said, laughing.

“You’re you. That’s it. Cards we’re dealt.” Of course, he’s right. But I can’t let it go.

“That’s what I mean. The minute you look at someone else’s cards—”

“Otherwise known as cheating,” he says, cutting me off. I ignore him.

“And you see that ace and that jack, when you’re a pair of sixes—”

“That’s what you think you are? A pair of sixes? You need more therapy.” He’s not wrong.

“No. Better than sixes, maybe. I don’t know. A ten and an ace,” I say.

“I’m the ace,” he says confidently. I envy how little Don worries about these things.

“Okay. Fine,” I say. “But I want a pair of jacks. Or kings . . .”

“Wanting to be something you’re not,” he says smugly. “Slippery slope.” And then he hits me with an uncharacteristic dose of glass-half-full: “How do you know you’re not going to be dealt
another
ten, or another ace? You could be working on four of a kind and you don’t even know it.” I begin to hear his point. “Maybe even better than the Bergmans,” he offers. I smile. Love him.

“You’re right,” I say. “Nothing wrong with the Bergmans serving as my inspiration. Right? Good to have a role model.”

As hard as I might aspire to the Bergman standard of parenting, from the second our beautiful baby was put in my arms, I started questioning my every move. We all do: from the position of their heads in the crib to the kind of formula to buy and eventually to the school you’re willing to sell your possessions to pay for and blow anyone you have to in order to get your child admitted. You are forced to make decisions about your children’s lives even though there’s always the nagging thought that there may be a better way to go.

What’s more, we stand by our way of doing things and spout our ideas as dogma to anyone who’ll listen. What’s the alternative? Admitting we’re fucking up our kids? No way. It’s maddening to think our parents’ generation could possibly have been so smug about their parenting techniques when they had none. On the other hand, we probably have too many! We scrutinize and analyze every detail of our kids’
lives—safety-checking and baby-proofing every corner of their environment. Every rough surface or sharp edge in my house has had or may soon have a rubber sleeve, or a beeping alarm around it. I’d go to any lengths to protect my kids from pain. (Or am I protecting myself from worry?) But what does it teach them? That every road they take will be paved for them? I don’t want that. Marguerite and Phil told us to read
The Blessing of a Skinned Knee
, which is an amazing resource for ways to stop hovering over kids and to teach them self-reliance. Ironically, it’s how many of our mothers and fathers parented—but more out of cluelessness than out of a conscious philosophy.

I see the benefits of letting kids face risks and challenges on their own. But the world feels scarier today than when I was a kid. It’s not, though. We just know more.

When I was Eliza’s age, my friend and I walked home from first grade at P.S. 75 on Ninety-Sixth Street in upper Manhattan, without the help of an adult. Around the same time, I remember being handed a flyer by my teacher on my way home. No, it wasn’t a show-and-tell schedule like I just saw in my daughter’s backpack. It was a police composite sketch of a serial killer named Charlie Chop-off who was on the loose in the fall of 1972. He was abducting little boys and cutting off their penises. Nice, huh?
Sleep tight!

I remember telling Don about Charlie Chop-off and he had a hard time believing it was real. “That didn’t happen. It was probably just one of those urban myths. And you all got sucked into the drama.” I would’ve gotten annoyed if I hadn’t feared he might be right. So I went to my computer and checked on Wikipedia and lo and behold, there it was: “Charlie Chop-off.” And apparently they never caught the guy!

So, what do I do? I try to resist my first impulse to monitor my kids’ every move. They don’t need a chaperone to go upstairs to find their sweatshirt or get a cup of water or go to the bathroom. Well, actually that’s a tricky one. The kids are old enough now to step into a bathroom and take care of business on their own. But for years, both kids would come into a men’s room with me to go potty, regardless of who else was in there. It got a little dicey as Eliza got older and we’d go into the locker room at the swimming pool. It’s only natural I felt the impulse to shield her eyes from the cavalcade of cock swinging in her direction.
Coming through!
I’d want to say.
Innocent eyes are coming through. Put it away!
But it was a men’s room after all. Was I being overprotective? Maybe. It’s just a human body. Kids need to learn that it’s all beautiful. No. Wait. What’s happening? Some huge, very old, very naked, and
not
beautiful man is now squatting in front of the kids telling them both how they remind him of his grandkids. I can only pray their eyes don’t catch sight of the fossilized ball sac grazing against the floor between his legs.

After considerable tears, and a call to Marguerite Bergman for backup, Eliza agrees to use the ladies’ room by herself as long as I promise to stand at the door and wait. She goes in. I try not to get sentimental about this being her “first time” and “my little girl’s growing up.” Instead I stare at my watch, trying to figure out how long I wait before I need to intervene. A few women come out.

“Did you see a little blond girl in there?” I ask one of them. I wonder whether this woman’s washed her hands. So many of the guys don’t.

“Oh, she’s so cute. In the stall all by herself. Humming! She’s darling.” And she goes. I smile to myself.
That’s my girl!

A minute or so later, I open the door to the bathroom and call out, “Eliza? You okay?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

I want to remind her to wipe but I decide to let that go. More time passes.
Where the hell is she?
I open the door and try and whisper loudly, “Eliza? Are you going poopie? Do you need help?” She can’t hear me. But another woman enters, asking if I want her to go check. I decline. I want Eliza to feel the sense of accomplishment at having done it all by herself. If, in fact, she survives to see it happen.

A good five or six minutes later, Eliza emerges from the bathroom.

“I got locked in, Daddy.” She’s smiling. Why is she smiling?

“You did? You poor thing. Why didn’t you call me?”

“I figured out how to squiggle out underneath. I crawled on the floor.” My mind flashes to the germs and bacteria undoubtedly having a rave on her knees and elbows. “I washed my hands,” she reassures me, “and I came out all by myself!” Okay. Now I really do have to choke back a tear. She did it. Could I have gone in there to help her? I guess so. But I’m glad I didn’t.

I think even Marguerite Bergman would agree that the single most important job we have as parents is to
love
our kids unconditionally and to delight in them and let them see that delight. What else? We know not to let them eat rat poison or stand in traffic or say “fuck off,” no matter how much we want them to “use their words.” Even the best of parents, I realize, let their kids face a challenge or two without supervision
or some other safety net. Sure, walk to school by yourself. And good for you, navigating a public restroom on your own? Call it the blessing of the sticky lock! There’s nothing quite like the feeling of pushing past your fears.

Okay. I admit it. After two days of internal struggle, I called the swim club and had them oil the bathroom locks. Sue me.

A
s soon as the kids were old enough to go to school, we knew we had to branch out from the Bergmans. Entering a school community is like walking through a shopping mall of parenting styles. Fortunately, the kids have landed at one of the best schools in Los Angeles. It’s not only a dynamic and innovative learning environment, it has an amazingly diverse and open-minded community of faculty, students, and parents. But getting here was a journey. Jonah was at a different school before this one. And Eliza tried two different preschools and even spent four months at a school in New York City when we were there for work. Each had its challenges. But there was no challenge greater than the first day of school.

At first, the kids cried when we dropped them off. It tore me to pieces. I’d go back to my car, almost in tears myself, and call my sister for support. And we didn’t know any of the other parents yet. We were nervous. We didn’t know if or how we would fit in. The experience took me back to a feeling I haven’t had since childhood.

I’m sure it’s not like this for everyone, but for me, there was a definitive moment when I realized I was different
from everyone else on the planet. It struck me like a bolt of lightning. The way one might be struck with an “uh-oh” feeling waking up, say, in the midst of the White House State Dinner wearing Superman Underoos with a pee stain in the crotch. That’s the feeling I had as a child. At what moment? I remember it like it happened seven minutes ago: me skipping happily up to a group of other five-year-old boys playing on the playground and asking if they all wanted to get naked and play monkey. Um, they didn’t. And I became consumed by that “uh-oh” Underoos feeling I haven’t been able to shake ever since.

Needless to say, when Don and I showed up to our first meet-and-greet, I was consumed by that nervous, pee-stain feeling right away. Granted, I knew better than to ask any of the other parents to play naked monkey. Before too long we realized we were actually at a wonderful buffet of interesting people, some of whom were also same-sex parents, but all of whom seemed to share our fears and frustrations. It instantly made us feel less alone. I soon found a nice circle of new friends and acquaintances. We’d chat during pickups or drop-offs, even exchange the names of dance teachers or speech therapists over a cup of coffee. In fact, all of them seemed to be warm, smart, open-minded people who gave us a real sense of community. We all seemed to be in the same boat, and yet it was sometimes hard for me to keep my eyes on my own page: “Hmm, that lunch box looks like it keeps food fresher.” “I heard karate builds discipline.” “What’s an auditory processing delay?” “Where does Iris take hip-hop?” “Is Robbie reading? Already? What’s your secret?”

I was hyperaware of what everyone else was doing, especially at that first preschool in New York. It’s no wonder I started mentally putting all the parents into little categories to help me cope with all the crowd noise: