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2dudesgethitched · 7 years ago

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If I Have Gay Children: Four Promises From A Christian Pastor/Parent by john pavlovitz

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll have gay children.

I’m not sure if other parents think about this, but I do; quite often.

Maybe it’s because I have many gay people in my family and circle of friends. It’s in my genes and in my tribe. Maybe it’s because, as a pastor of students, I’ve seen and heard the horror stories of gay Christian kids, from both inside and outside of the closet, trying to be part of the Church. Maybe it’s because, as a Christian, I interact with so many people who find homosexuality to be the most repulsive thing imaginable, and who make that abundantly clear at every conceivable opportunity. For whatever reason, it’s something that I ponder frequently. As a pastor and a parent, I wanted to make some promises to you, and to my two kids right now…

1) If I have gay children, you’ll all know it.

My children won’t be our family’s best kept secret. I won’t talk around them in conversations with others. I won’t speak in code or vague language. I won’t try to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes, and I won’t try to spare the feelings of those who may be older, or easily offended, or uncomfortable. Childhood is difficult enough, and most gay kids spend their entire existence being horribly, excruciatingly uncomfortable. I’m not going to put mine through any more unnecessary discomfort, just to make Thanksgiving dinner a little easier for a third cousin with misplaced anger issues. If my children come out, we’ll be out as a family.

2) If I have gay children, I’ll pray for them.

I won’t pray for them to be made “normal”. I’ve lived long enough to know that if my children are gay, that is their normal. I won’t pray that God will heal or change or fix them. I will pray for God to protect them; from the ignorance and hatred and violence that the world will throw at them, simply because of who they are. I’ll pray the He shields them from those who will despise them and wish them harm; who will curse them to Hell and put them through Hell, without ever knowing them at all. I’ll pray that they enjoy life; that they laugh, and dream, and feel, and forgive, and that they love God and humanity. Above all, I’ll pray to God that my children won’t allow the unGodly treatment they might receive from some of His misguided children, to keep them from pursuing Him.

3) If I have gay children, I’ll love them.

I don’t mean some token, distant, tolerant love that stays at a safe arm’s length. It will be an extravagant, open-hearted, unapologetic, lavish, embarrassing-them-in-the-school cafeteria, kind of love. I won’t love them despite their sexuality, and I won’t love them because of it. I will love them; simply because they’re sweet, and funny, and caring, and smart, and kind, and stubborn, and flawed, and original, and beautiful… and mine. If my kids are gay, they may doubt a million things about themselves and about this world, but they’ll never doubt for a second whether or not their Mommy is over-the-moon crazy about them.

4) If I have gay children, most likely; I have gay children.

If my kids are going to be gay, well they pretty much already are. God has already created them and wired them, and placed the seed of who they are within them. Psalm 139 says that He, “stitched them together in their mother’s womb”. The incredibly intricate stuff that makes them uniquely them; once-in-History souls, has already been uploaded into their very cells. Because of that, there isn’t a coming deadline on their sexuality that their father and I are working feverishly toward. I don’t believe there’s some magical expiration date approaching, by which time she and I need to somehow do, or say, or pray just the right things to get them to “turn straight”, or forever lose them to the other side. They are today, simply a younger version of who they will be; and today they’re pretty darn great.

Many of you may be offended by all of this, I fully realize. I know this may be especially true if you are a religious person; one who finds the whole topic disgusting.

As you’ve been reading, you may have been rolling your eyes, or clicking the roof of your mouth, or drafting familiar Scriptures to send me, or praying for me to repent, or preparing to Unfriend me, or writing me off as a sinful, evil, Hell-bound heretic… but with as much gentleness and understanding as I can muster; I really couldn’t care less.

This isn’t about you. This is a whole lot bigger than you.

You’re not the one I waited on breathlessly for nine months. You’re not the one I wept with joy for when you were born. You’re not the one I bathed, and fed, and rocked to sleep through a hundred intimate, midnight snuggle sessions. You’re not the one I taught to ride a bike, and whose scraped knee I kissed, and whose tiny, trembling hand I held, while getting stitches.

You’re not the one whose head I love to smell, and whose face lights-up when I come home at night, and whose laughter is like music to my weary soul. You’re not the one who gives my days meaning and purpose, and who I adore more than I ever thought I could adore anything. And you’re not the one who I’ll hopefully be with, when I take my last precious breaths on this planet; gratefully looking back on a lifetime of shared treasures, and resting in the knowledge that I loved you well.

If you’re a parent, I don’t know how you’ll respond if you find out your children are gay, but I pray you consider it. One day, despite your perceptions of your kids or how you’ve parented, you may need to respond in real-time, to a frightened, frantic, hurting child; one whose sense of peace, and identity, and acceptance; whose very heart, may be placed in your hands in a way you never imagined… and you’ll need to respond.

If that day should ever come for me; if my children should ever come out to me, this is the Mom I hope I’ll be to them.

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2dudesgethitched · 8 years ago

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"Ducks, Bears & The Autumn Chicken: An Imbrogio Clots."

(This is a letter by our good friend’s father Tee. It vividly conveys living with Cancer and the love of a family. It serves as a reminder of the frailty of life, the beauty of love and that good ribs are hard to find. Hold your dear ones close, time’s slipping from us all.)

Good Afternoon, all, It’s been a bumpy road since the last Update. I think we left off after chemo #4, and to begin with, it was a tougher week than normal directly after a chemo, so instead of going home on next Oncologist update Wednesday I went to ER, what I now call Wicked Wednesday, probably one of the worst days in this whole ordeal, but more on the prior week first before moving on to Wicked Wednesday. Despite it being a bad week directly after a chemo, there were some nice moments sprinkled hither and yon. One was a bowl of big gorgeous strawberries. I decided to have one, anticipating it would be a disappointment with my present weird taste buds in full monte, so to speak, but instead they were divine, but I only ate one. When I think of strawberries, I think of my visits this time of year to my lady friend in Laguna. She goes to a local farm that grows organic fruits and vegetables. And, during strawberry season there are racks and racks of fresh, plump, bright red, juicy, sweet strawberries. We bring back several little baskets and gorge ourselves on strawberries galore. Am I exaggerating, Christyne? But back to Calabasas, where Eric, who’s never made a bad meal, that I’m aware of, suddenly, his food isn’t working for me, I’ve discovered that I like bland food, and bland is not one of Eric’s fortes. Like here at the hospital which normally gives me no pleasure had mashed potatoes today, Hallelujah, lots of nutrients and calories, and devoid of anything the least bit exotic, plus, I have no fears mashed potatoes will not be able to slither past my golf ball, or maybe it’s a ping pong ball now, we’ll know next Wednesday how I’m reacting to the treatments. Anyway, one meal stands out from that first week, Eric made a Japanese breakfast: Rice, Seaweed, Ginger, and two eggs over easy. It was quite tasty, but not too tasty to disrupt my full monte taste buds. But, besides my thoughts on food, I decided I needed to soak in the jacuzzi. It was very pleasant while I was soaking in there, all alone, letting the jets push me around at their whim, willy nilly, to and fro, I was in paradise for awhile, but by the time I got back to the apartment, my energy had failed me big time, I was barely able to up the stairs, take off my trunks, and drop my wet towel on the hall floor leading to my (and Fox’s) bedroom, I was just totally zonked, I climbed in my bed and slept for the rest of the evening. That was Monday, and then Tuesday I felt worse, then on Wicked Wednesday I was totally out of it, as much as I remember I was refusing food and water and other good stuff. All I wanted to do was sleep. So, Sylvie and Eric decided to take me to West Hills ER, where this crazy year began with the first staph infection. But, this time it was a bit of a mystery. it began horrific and ended not so bad, much better than the other way around. I was in a bit of a haze, nurses and doctors, and Sylvie and Eric swirling around me and faint voices which seemed serious, most of which I didn’t hear well enough to determine the drift in conversation. One of the first tests they did was a chest x-ray, and soon after that Sylvie was at my side sobbing globs of unhappy tears. My recollection is that they had discovered in the chest x-ray that I had a punctured esophagus, which would have been horrific at this time in my treatment, heck, at any time. We had a half hour it must have been between this moment and the results from a Cat-scan that they decided to do, to see if the chest x-ray lied like you know who, or was as trustworthy as our mothers. During that time Sylvie was desperately reaching out on her trusty cell phone, to here phalanx of cancer experts and had discovered that Dr. Chao at City of Hope was the very best esophagus surgeon far and wide. When the results came back they’d determined it was fake news, no perforated esophagus, but I had some major infection going on somewhere, and some of the possibilities seemed just as bad as a perforated esophagus. So, the night wore on, they had me on three different antibiotics, plus a catheter to measure urine flow, with the thought I might have bladder cancer. They wanted to take me upstairs to the hospital, but we had to wait for a room. Sylvie and Eric waited until they got me one, around 2am. Once they got me out of that hard flat gurney, and into a soft form fitting bed, I hit the pillow and was out for the night. After a solid night of sleep, I was a Spring Chicken the next morning, well, maybe an Autumn Chicken, still not up to snuff, but a whole lot better. I cold sit up, walk and talk. When the doctor came in I knew my name, birthday, and what the day’s date was. Plus, I inadvertently transmitted an important piece of information that the doctors hadn’t know the night before, which was that I was getting that miraculous shot that boosted my white blood count. That is why the doctors thought I had some voracious infection, but it was just my super duper expensive shot. So, if the ironious high white count was not a high infection, what was it? I had a bit of nausea, some acid reflux, a drippy nose, a hacking cough and even a return of my childhood asthma. But, the basic problem seemed to be that I was dehydrated. So, I asked some nurses, visited the web, and determined I needed from six to eight cups (8 oz) of fluids per day. Sylvie has set that at two of my big 24 oz water bottles, one 12 oz Gatorade, and two Ensure’s, the latter being mostly for nutrients and calories. So, finally on Friday the hospital ejected me, no rejected me, hold on let me take a deep breath and gather my thoughts, I’m not the young buck I used to be, if I ever was … they discharged me. The nurses were gorgeous, prettier than any group of nurses I think I’ve ever had, and extremely nice, supportive, knowledgeable, and efficient. I hated leaving those wonderful nurses, hovering over me every now and then. And the Ultrasound was great too, no longer is it done with ice cold goo, but at last they use warm goo, what nice new pleasure. Anyway, they finally discharged me, I was surprised that I’d arrived in my pajamas and house slippers, but that’s all they had, so it must have been. It was late by the time we got home, but it was nice to get some cannabis and my trusty C-Pap machine. I slept like bear deep down in a winter snow bank. I started writing this on the day after Wicked Wednesday, and it’s now back to Wonderful Wednesday, our folo up meeting with Dr Shankar, and chemo #5, or as they call it End Chem rnd #1. But, Sunday, just a day after my discharge I was back at our old friends in ER. This time I was in excruciating pain in my urethra and bladder. It began innocently enough at about 3am Sunday morning. Suddenly I couldn’t pee, I had the urge, but nothing arrived on the scene. So, I just kept pouring down the water. But by 7am, I realized that the more I drank the more my bladder filled up, and the more painful it all became. By the afternoon on Sunday, Eric and Sylvie were getting stressed out that I wasn’t drinking or eating, and was having a cycle of pain periods that became more frequent and agonizing. So, back to ER. The doctor had told Sylvie that there was probably something obstructing my bladder entrance to the urethra. So, we toyed with the possibilities, the most likely being some problem with the gallbladder, which could be a major problem in our progress. The first thing I did when we got there was request a pain pill, which Sylvie reminded me was the first time in all this imbroglio over the last year-plus. But, the pain was getting worse and I was getting less motivated to bear with it. The did some other things first, which seemed machiavellian at the time, but there was a good reason. The last thing they did was shove another catheter down my gullet, I mean my urethra, and about half way down, suddenly, I mean instantaneously the pain evaporated, no that’s too slow, it vanished, like a magicians coin, in his hand one minutes, and then wham, it was no where to be seen. That’s how the pain disappeared, like magic. Turns out there was a blood clot no bigger than a grain of quinoa couldn’t make it through the uretra, so it just sat there, not letting anything else get through, then suddenly this catheter emerges with a bright shiny face and an opening larger than the urethra, it pushes the blood clot aside, and before it can even reach it’s final destination, the clot has floated down the wide open spaces of the uretra into a tube that then receives the stored up fluid in the bladder. The nurse showed us the clot floating along the tube, happy as a clam. And, I had just got the closest thing to my first medical instant cure. So, the Cancer Adventure continues, with chemo #4 being by far the worst two weeks in this adventure, sorta like plowing through the tangle jungle vines and overgrown greenery, then coming to an opening that looked out on a white sandy beach and an expanse of crystal clear blue/green water, and a sky to match. I suppose I should tell you my thoghts of pain in my past before getting to the good stuff. When I was a pre-teen a neighbor kid dropped a chisel on one of my toes. That hurt, it hurt a lot, although it passed once my mom sopped up the blood on the driveway and wrapped my toe and some soothing ointment in gauze, but I still have a toenail that is split in two. But, the other one that I thought of happened in Dallas, where a small crew, of which I was the cameraman, was wrapping up after a long day shooting a factory operation of a client of John Theile, the producer/director. No, I didn’t get gobbled up by a piece machinery, but later as we packed up, and ready to getting in the car to a Texas bbq. John was going to be sitting in the passage seat, and I was to be sitting behind him, as a true gentleman he held my door open for me, but with sluggish movements by both of us, he slammed the door closed before I was able to remove my fingers from the door jam, I too being sluggish to see it coming and pull away my hand sooner. But, the door closed first, slamming mainly on my big middle finger, and it hurt so bad I couldn’t utter a sound, I was in shock I guess. When the sound man saw what had happened he yelled at John to open the door back up. When we were finally able to confiscate my fingers from the door jam, my middle finger had taken up the form of the door jam. It looked awful, but no bones seemed to be broken, no blood had emerged, and I was no longer feeling any of that agonizing pain, just a kinda pulsating ache and a tender bunch of fingers. We had a very tasty Texas bbq, pork ribs as I recall, at the time thinking they were the best pork ribs I’d ever had. But that was years before I tasted Eric’s out of this world pork ribs, the megastar of pork ribs. But, in Texas I think it came with bbq’d corn, chunky corn bread, and watermelon. It was good, I slept well, and by the next morning my finger looked like a normal finger and the pain was almost negligible, reddy for our second day of shooting. Anyway, to get back to Sunday evening returning from ER, Eric had marinated and barbecued a duck, with a barbequed melange of bok choy, oyster and enoki mushrooms, and baby corn, and a glaze Eric made from the duck liquid, orange juice, and other flavors, heated and stirred patiently into a thick sauce poured over the duck and rice. So, Sunday evening was the beginning of a couple of great days. I’ve had more energy, and I stay up longer, and my appetite seems to be somewhat restored as well. And Eric made a luscious duck soup with remaining duck carcass, and several exotic kinds of mushrooms and other veggies. I had it Tuesday morning for the first time topped with a couple of soft boiled eggs. It looked and tasted beautiful. So, Monday and Tuesday were pretty darn good, napped a bit, but also worked a bit on my computer. Tuesday evening we went into the local urgent care to remove catheter number two. But, that night I was able to tinkle at all. I was afraid I had another blood clot mucking up the works. So, now it’s Wednesday, time for our consultation with Dr. Shankar, back from a relaxing Baltic voyage. He was a bit concerned about all my ancillary problems, some might be side effects, some may not. But he wanted to get to the bottom of it before we preceded with the chemo, which may not start until tomorrow now, maybe later. Also, the Cat scan they did in West Hills was not the Cat scan he ordered, so we have no news about how I’ve reacted to the chemo. Soooooooooo, I’m back in the hospital, St. Jo’s this time. They’ll be doing a new Cat scan, and several other tests, the most serious is an MRI to see what, if anything, is going on with my spine, which could be a major problem, or nothing. Oh, and I got a third catheter in less than a week. Ow. I guess that’s enough for now. Oh wait, we had an early lunch at my favorite ramen restaurant, while we waited to get a bed at St. Jo’s. I made my own, pork broth with fresh ginger, butter, poached egg, seaweed, and chicken wonton. IBut, now, ’m having my Cat scan shortly, so I think I’ll just lay back and relax. I have three images today. One is what I looked like when Sylvie said I looked like Nick Nolte after a drunken barroom brawl, then another equally unflattering image of me In West Hills hospital after Wicked Wednesday, and last is Eric’s bbq’d duck with barbecued veggies, boy, that was good. Well, my hospital lunch just arrived, just the opposite of Eric’s cooking, tah tah, tee tee

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2dudesgethitched · 8 years ago

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Spelling Dad from ADD.

“How do you feel about children?” he asked me on that magical Christmas Eve in 2008. We are at too large of a table for two people on a patio of ribbons, decked halls and twinkle lights. Ooooh, pretty lights sparkle so. We waited for our coffee drinks under trimmed trees, gay apparel donned. The crowd at Aroma Café was heavy with packages, burdens from the shopping that is a draw to the Tujunga Village part of Studio City. I love the idea of a hamlet in the land of hams. I need more irony in my diet. People banged about like cattle down a chute. Calling Temple Grandin.

My ADD is self-diagnosed and provides me ample amusement; sometimes others get to share in the joy that is my rambling. The stream of consciousness that I surf regularly makes me a fine Improv actor but an ineffective bureaucrat. Years later someone would shout “Squirrel” and I completely understood a cartoon dog’s pov.

Christ, he just asked me something. Focus, Hubble, focus. If my self-narration annoys feel free to substitute Neil Patrick Harris voice or Sara Jessica Parker’s. My patter might be more palatable. How do I feel about children?

Michael’s bright blue eyes, red cheeks and pale pallor defined the ‘Richie Cunningham’ description our mutual friend Rob had promised. Ha. Red, white and blue. He’s pretty cute, shivering in his p-coat. The lyrics to “American Boy” popped up. Stifle, silly ADD, stifle. Listen to the cute boy who is saying all the right things. I had arrived early to the date. I had armed myself viewing all the pictures he had posted on his MySpace. He had a butt-load of friends and loved the beach. I knew we had at least that, Tom & Rob as common denominators. He was tall, handsome and quirky. Our previous phone conversation confirmed quirky.

“Hello, Villa Cosa Nostra, Michael speaking, how may I help you?”

“Is this Michael Vinton?”

“Tis I” Tis I. Tis I? I’m calling a boutique timeshare and got transferred to a Renaissance Faire Restaurant?

“This is Tony Spatafora, Rob Hahn’s friend.” Beat. Beat.

“Oh. Hi..”

“I know you’re at work, is this an okay time to talk?”

“Let me put you on hold for a second? Thanks.” Boom. Gone.

He is so Googling me now. I think. Or he’s shuttering his work-hag so he can come back to the call a little more centered. I can’t wait to hear what comes back on the line.

“Heeeeyy, “ a much cooler cat returns. “How ya doing?”

“Fine. “ Eyeroll. Stop Spats, don’t be such an egotistical putz. “Rob Hahn said to give you a call and that we should probably get together.”

“Yeah. He said.” Ice, ice baby. Who sang that, I wondered “So, what’s up….”?

Saints preserve me.

“Listen, I know you’re at work. Why don’t you give me a call when it’s convenient and we can set something up?”

“Cool, man.” Oh, this kid is killing me. Did I mention that my angel is 14 years my junior? Yeah. Apply considerable mockery here, I deserve it.

“I’ll just get your cell, and get back to you.”

“Fine, ” I’m not finished playing with my food, “but let me ask you three things: Dog or cat?”

“Dog.” He’s confident.

“Boston or New York?”

“…New York.” He vacillated.

“And finally, like garlic or love garlic.”

“LOVE garlic.” He wins. I spit game like no other. Who sang that damn song??

“Okay. You may call me back.”

Laughter.

I thrive on acid tests and omens. I believe The Universe will give you signs when you are falling behind in it’s choreography. You are encouraged to free style only so often. Don’t waste your moment to jump in the abyss. Your pants can only get wet one of two ways when you dance. Go big or go home, I think I’d read that on some ones Friendster. I am so full of myself I should hang Charmin off my belt.

I had seen him heading to the café from a quaint store in the Village. In fact he had stopped in the window in front of my to check his hair. The afternoon was windy. Norman Rockwell snow falling lightly would have completed the picture. Oh, my. He is a cutie. Those eyes were so blue. I stalked him down the sidewalk praying there would be more preening to mock later to my besty Sue. He walked like a man, firm and grounded while sporting an angel’s face. These omens are good. I couldn’t wait to hear from ‘Tis I’ what made this guy tick.

Michael turned around in front of Aroma to find me, hot on his heels. He laughed and I gave him the big loving hug I like to share with my nearest and dearest. I wanted to warm his heart on this holiday night before we both had to race back to work. I would learn later that he really welcomed that hug as it was to be his first Christmas away from his wonderful family in Charlotte, NC. He was a little sad and in need of some familiar love. The guy has the big heart of a softie I would learn. Tick tick tick, boom goes the heart.

I thought he was shivering. He kept squirming over his shoulder then craning his neck back to me. Does he have a tic? He kept exhaling over his shoulder. I was intrigued; did I step in something while hunting my prey down the mean streets of the San Fernando Valley? He finally calls out the chair dancing he’s doing as being gassy today & also he is from a very gassy family. I got a fuzzy image of the holidays with the family. He was trying to subtly burp. I got that. Cool.

“How do I feel about children? You mean as a family or laborers in my families sweatshop in New Haven?” More Charmin, senator? Truth was I did want a family. More than anything else I have ever wanted. I wanted to focus all that I am into people who would hopefully, one day, go out and use their powers for good. I have the biological family, the chosen family, the work family, and the Partridge family. I had a lock on “Back-up singers” and caregivers that all had a special place in my heart. I was finally ready at 40 to have a family unit. Children, progeny attendants whatever you want to call them. I was ready to raise.

I hoped that in raising children, I would raise myself. I had always been a selfish impulsive prick. I could leave disaster in my wake better and brighter then most boobs my age. I’d been there, done that and brought back the t-shirt in two sizes (for my fat + fit days) Glib is an understatement to describe me, Crazed is another. Children would allow me to put all the attention I had put into myself to a positive end. My epic life experiences and families would help lift the children up; it takes a village I have been told.

I had always seen myself with a large family. That was how we grew up in CT and I wanted to create something similar. Economics and Biology being what it may, it was going to take extra work and love but above all it would take the right mate to accomplish this with. Michael told me he had seen a similar vision but did the typical blanch one does when finding out there might be five more just like me out there in the world. Silly man, he has no idea.

All of my wonderful family had paired up and reproduced. There are thirteen amazing nephews and nieces with birthdays to remember and events to celebrate. Being as far away as I am in Los Angeles can fray the nerves. The day to day growth of the kids gets away from you when updates aren’t delivered regularly. It is much easier to share around a family dinner table or a get together in state. Time flies and raising kids seemed to occupy and awful lot of it. Notes for later, I would record. I wished for a village that can act locally and think globally I guess. I have a Village People cd I haven’t played in a while.

And sometimes it takes a Village Idiot. Burpie and me made nice and I dropped a few more witty pearls of banter. We clicked on many levels. We had both thought we would have been priests, except for that annoying celibacy thing. We loved music. Our families were the most important things in our lives. Our dreams were huge. We wanted to see the world but above all wanted children. Oh, and grandchildren too.

Well this was going to be tough, being two men and no little lady. We appear to be Biologically Adjacent to speak Angeleno, in the act of conception. There were to be a few extra steps to get our family unit to the amazing holiday card ready cast that my friends had biologically created ad nauseum. We would have to decide about Adoption; Domestic or International? Foster to Adoption; how old the child will we go? Surrogacy; who’s friend to raise a turkey baster to in this above generous gift they were providing? Surrogacy when not related in love or blood; do we find these people on Craigslist, Angie’s List, Facebook? There was to be much to learn but I had a feeling that Michael was the one to make the journey with.

Real it in Spats, I chanted. Let’s not put the station wagon in front of the horse. If this really was a ‘traditional valued’ gay man I couldn’t rush the situation and would have to let this unfold. Guys like this were few and far between. Chill baby, baby, chill baby baby. Really ADD? Vanilla Ice? I’m hipper than that.

Actually, I’m not getting any younger as people would tell me and FYI get a move on when they stop telling you this. It might be the Universe giving you a reality check to start listening and fall into line. Tick Tock, Tick Tock goes the biological clock. Wait, what? I was forty but determined. Many great people I knew personally had started their families late in life. I have energy to boot and an inner monologue that wouldn’t shut up. I am going to rock this fatherhood thing into the next stage of my life and hum show tunes for lullabies.

I held his hand as we walked out of the café. It was in part a thank you for sharing so much of his sweet soul as he had his time on a crazy Christmas Eve. His eyes are illuminating. There was a sense of promise in one so gassy. I saw a fuzzy family unit off in the future, a pin prick of light, each day growing closer and larger. It came into frame and I saw the tall person in the image was wearing a p-coat and an enormous, toothy smile.

OH, SNAP! It wasn’t Vanilla Ice, it was C & C Music Factory. Mmmmm. Things that make you go Mmm mmm mmm mmm mmm. I am too old for ‘oh, snap’ I remind myself. Yet I’m not too old to learn. Papa, Dad, Daddy; I like it. I wonder what I’ll be when I grow up.

Cue the music.

#gay men #adoption #gay dads #love wins

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2dudesgethitched · 9 years ago

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Ketchup, We’re Falling Behind….

It was a lovely Friday afternoon at the Villa. Sun was shining, the Santa Ana winds had whipped thru the San Fernando Valley taking down branches, wires and early Christmas zealots’ tributes. Bright streets were fraught with clutter. The winds had come in at a gusty 40-50 mph and the damage done isn’t just physical. It’s mental too. The warm dry winds, “Devil Winds” make people do crazy things. Studies have been done on how prolonged exposure to the winds make you impatient, frenzied, tired, aggravated, and susceptible to poor judgement.

Contrary to Santa Ana Winds, blowing kisses on Zanna Lu or even light breezes elicits no carnage but the most glorious smiles. Her personality was coming into it’s own. Our daughter was way chill. Hear that honey-when you read this letter, you were the most delightful baby, so calm so loving and so peaceful. Unless you were hungry and then all bets were off. Zanna Lu loves eskimo kisses, chin tickles, cheek scritches and delicate blowing on her face.

Bounds of attention was being heaped on Zanna Lu on this Friday, we were entertaining newlywed & expectant mother Tanya Strykos AKA LaTanya Brown, baddest make-up artist in town. In part of her mommy-prep LaTanya had come by for some hands-on study aids. Guest visits for a newborn are a whole other essay. Briefly, they need to brief and they need to be timely as people’s feelings get hurt. Tanya and Michael had an extraordinary friendship that pulled us all into, a lot like an eddy takes down a cruise ship in the Adriatic. The Strykos were a spicy ginger with a penchant for tattoos wine food and all things New England, and a charming husband ne neuroscientist who baked his ass off. We all were an easy fit.

When Tanya & Mick got together the volume in the room heightened from the laughter and love. They could amuse each other for hours and not be bored. They were blissful in their banter on pop culture, babies, gossip even weather. Like your laundry, they covered everything. I was busy in the kitchen readying some food for a friend. I monitored the playdate with rapt joy. Our family love engulfs with hurricane force. When you are friends with us, you are In. And when you are good friends, family. Ties that bind….

Joan and Kevin, good friends down in Orange County (Santa Ana Ironically) had just had Adeline June, their monster of a daughter (born 8 lbs 3oz, 23″ omg) and were recipients of our ‘Mommy Fridge Fill’. The MFF was a custom package that we offered from Dish It Out! our cooking show/catering service. Delicious entrees, salads, snacks and soups were sent to be enjoyed or frozen. Joan and Kevin loved my turkey meatloaf and quinoa salad. I had pulled the meatloaf out of the oven with the tomfoolery exploding in the next room. A small amount of ketchup smeared on both thumbs. “Yummy,” I thought licking them clean. These meatloaves were going to raise the roof.

Time was getting away from me. I shut everything down in the kitchen making sure that cooling food was out of reach of our rescue Annie. Annie’s palate was relative, if it was accessible she ate it like a drunken relative. Time was short and I needed to be on my way to work. Fridays are notorious for rush hour traffic and with the Santa Ana’s ripping up the Valley I was assured bad drivers and out of order traffic\ lights.

Blocking the door was my husband asking me to hold our daughter while he peed. Smear went the remainder of my right thumb’s ketchup on Zanna’s clean onesie. We just can’t have anything nice I joke to myself. I made mention to my spouse of the extra sauce on Z. Maybe he was listening, maybe he was blowing kisses on Zanna Lu, maybe Tanya had made him laugh I just didn’t know. Michael reclaims the firstborn and off I strode to work. Just like I had imagined there were crazy drivers, congestion and damaged traffic signals. My commute was hellish. Thanks, Santa (Ana winds).

The holiday season is crazy in restaurants what with increased foot traffic from shoppers, holiday parties and the regular yahoos the patronize. The old adage, “One more ‘Fa-La-La’ and you’re out of here” applies minute by minute. I was twenty drink tickets deep in the service window at Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse with a pile of servers awaiting their guests’ tasty libations. The collection of artists, actors, moms, teachers that were the staff resembled my favorite penguins from Madagascar for half a second. Tick, tock, tick tock I was on the clock. Amused I went back to misting glasses and pounding berries for ‘apothecary style’ cocktails. Until my phone blew up.

My fully-crazed husband had sent me pictures of the sullied onesie and spit-up cloth! He followed with several urgent texts informing me he was at a loss with what to do with this blood on the baby. Blood. Baby. Beeep-Beeeep- EEEmmmeerrrgeeeennnccccyyyyyy!!!! Michael had seen the stain on the sleeping angel and went into full-on urgent care mode. He frantically called friend Ryan, the nanny consultant. He frantically called the pediatricians office. He paged/called/shriek-screamed family members, the pediatricians office again, godparents, neighbors, Google and the omens. My phone was coming in HOT.

I had to catch my breath. Now? This was the moment for our tableau? I had almost caught up. I was “in the weeds” as we say in restaurant-speak. I was manufacturing cocktail bliss for joyous revelers and savvy servers all night long while my huzbeast had gone off the edge of Cope Cod. He was gonzo. Kablooey. His fervor impressed as a concerned parent. Also apparent was his fierce Daddy Bear nature. I had to reel it all in. This stopped here amid herbs and boutique gin.

I text him he had mistaken Heinz for hemoglobin. He needed to remember my parting words spoken over our daughter’s head. Ironically, they had gone over someone else’s. The information immediately reset the Doomsday clock. With two short texts the all-clear had been called and the huzbeast had resumed a docile nature. Zanna Lu, when you read this know that your Daddz have sacrificed reason on numerous occasions where your interests have been concerned.

Knowing full well the humor the situation would evoke, my huzbeast threw himself on his keyboard. He told the nice folks on FB what had happened hoping they might relish the story, and that it might take some piss & vinegar out of it. Like mayo, the story spread. Hither and yon came compliments for condiments and shared similar first parent stories. Holy Mole were there good stories.

The pediatrician called back in response to Mick’s messages. Also, to reassure us that first-time parents have reactions like this all the time. It was natural to be extremely excitable about anything to do with your baby’s health. This was a testimony to paying attention & when paying attention make sure you have plenty of dollars and sense.

The laughter has subsided, and time makes all things better. Our family gets stronger everyday, not matter what gets put on it. I guess when life throws tomatoes at you, make ketchup.

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2dudesgethitched · 9 years ago

Photo

Don’t let the smooth taste fool you, fatherhood is work. The adulation, the photo ops all fall secondary to the need for concerted effort of timing and organization. If you were ever a fly by the seat of your pants kind of guy, as I was, you learn fast and hard that if you don’t stack the deck in your favor you will get decked in the end. And I am too competitive to let that hit me. Take last Thursday for example. It was a bright November morning in Sherman Oaks. The holidays are fast approaching and there are lists to write. Our daughter had a doctor’s appointment at 11:30 am for which she was dressed, bathed, coiffed, buffed and well appointed. Bag by the car seat by the door, stroller in car, paperwork accessible in bag. It was also Zanna’s second month anniversary of being on this earth & in our hearts. For every month anniversary in the first year we have committed to snapping a picture in the same setting for a telling piece of sentimental art that we will long cherish and one day embarrass her with. I have insured her collaboration by feeding her just before her photo shoot. The milk buzz will make a more willing model and hopefully bring more smiles than gas. The session goes great and we get the shot and a little spit up. Hey in the creative process, what’s a little regurgitation. All was in order and we would be at the pediatrician’s appointment with time to spare. I might work on another letter for Zanna. I am currently writing a series of essays to our daughter so that some day she will be able to look back on the joy & wonder she brought on a daily basis to her Daddy and Papa’s lives. Maybe it would be better to check in quickly with family on the east coast before the day gets away from us. I have ample time to brief my mother on her 14th grandchild’s progress and attempt a FaceTime with her. She informs me that she can’t speak long as she was at the doctor’s office. We would speak later. She let’s me know that Zanna looked as if she was about to cry, and to have a good doctor’s appointment. I think it might be gas and give her a series of pats on her bottom to bring some relief. Some relief indeed. My gorgeously dressed, bathed, coiffed, buffed and well appointed daughter was no longer constipated and I was judiciously covered in poop. Shirt, shorts, shoes were all covered. There was so much of the matter I thought I was in a swamp. A foul smelling, sticky dark green swamp. My patting had shot the shit, literally, out of the diaper and on to me while my hand unknowingly had returned it to the outside of uber cute outfit. We had just received the sundress ensemble with the matching bottoms from a friend itching to see her in the gift. Wouldn’t she love this moment? I couldn’t dwell because I needed to be on schedule and out the door in five minutes. I needed a plan, I needed FEMA. If I was to jump into the shower and douse us both I might be able to save some time. No, the shower takes too long to come to temperature and then I would want to wash the tub down. Shit may happen, but it also needs to disappear. We were going to wipe this scatastrophe out of the equation. I was on a schedule. We skid into the changing station, I’m going to have to wash that now. Oh look, her delicate little foot has tagged the wall with crap. I’m going to have to wash that. Where is all of this bio hazard going to be contained? It can’t be the adjacent pastel pink linen laundry basket that I had just emptied earlier morning, doing a load of Zanna laundry to get ahead of my day. I guess the floor for now. I strip getting ca-ca on my face. I’m Miranda in “Sex In The City” desperate to yell at Steve. I drop trou and shirt on the floor in front of the changing station. I’m going to have to wash that. I unearth my daughter from the filth she has regaled in. This involves half a container of sani-wipes as there was just so much merde. Front To Back for those of you uninitiated to daughters. Front To Back is how you clean their privates to keep UTI’s at bay. So many people told us Front To Back that we thought we had joined a cult and this was the knowing salutation Clean, coo and clean some more. Wipes are flying through the air like dress shirts in “Gatsby”. Side note: every Sex In The City reference written here will have a literary checkmate. Done. She was clean, cute and suited in a simple onesie. Back in the game!!! Sprint to the doctors and save the day! It is horrible that I was rushing to the appointment. My poor daughter had a date with three needles in the thighs and an oral shot to round her immunization. We would deal with that stress as it comes. I am confident that she will tough it out as long as Papa could deliver her there safe and clean and organized. I swoop up the laundry under my right arm and put my daughter over my shoulder. I wipe wall and floor and chin. I gather all the wipes in my right hand and pull the changing station cover off with my left. I totally got this. I’m large and in charge. Hey Universe, what else you got? I charge to the kitchen and drop the soiled linens in front of the laundry machine. I pivot on the ball of my left foot clockwise to face the trash can. My right foot stomps the pedal to raise the lid. I drop the bio hazard mess of wipes and diaper into oblivion and let the lid fall. At this moment my daughter let something fall too. My tiny baby angel puked. Splat. Tossed her cookies. Reversal of fortune. Back to front. Technicolor yawned. There couldn’t have been a better moment for her to let out the rumbles in her tummy. I hear the spit hit the kitchen floor and relish the slow warm flow cascading down my back, into my underwear, my butt crack. And there it was. The moment I will always remember. The moment I fell even more in love with this little girl. I laughed and looked her in her little face and asked, “Is that all you got Zanna, I can take more…” She smiled in relief. She should be smiling, all those scary pains and cramps were all gone. They were all gone and her Papa had seen her through it all. We made it to the pediatricians appointment on time. I had padded the prep time by twenty minutes for unforeseen calamities like toxic waste and demonic possession. She got her shots and wailed like a banshee on fire for twenty seconds. The days events had been tiresome and she promptly fell asleep in her carrier. I looked around but couldn’t find my binky or carrier so I took a deep breath scooped up my first born child and drove home to my husband.

#gay dads #adoption #daughters #lovewins

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