The Big, Fat, Jolly Red Lie.

I love Santa. And when I say love, I don’t mean with a half-embarrassed sigh of nostalgic irony. No, I absolutely adore that big fat bundle of joy and happiness.

It’s always been thus. Some of my earliest, happiest memories involve snowy December nights spent in lying on my tummy in front of our family’s woodstove, happily drawing picture after picture of St. Nick while Rudolph, or Frosty or even that lame little Drummer Boy played on the television.

And it didn’t end there. My fascination with this round elfin gift-giver endured year round, as I pored  over the illustrate stories of The Night Before Christmas, while trying to finally nail down the right proportions for all those reindeer in my perennially-dwindling stock of fawn brown pencil crayons. It wasn’t until I was in my twenties that I realized my favourite holiday books actually (and incorrectly) depicted graceful woodland deer as Santa’s flighty team, rather than their cloddy, graceless Nordic cousin.

 I much preferred the Bambi-esque team, personally.

 One of my favourite memories is of a childhood birthday party, where one of my friends’ parents had thoughtfully provided a magician to entertain their son’s guests. That poor, brave, man, already facing about a dozen sugar-infused monsters, trying to divert our attention with intertwining rings, card tricks and sleight of hand. He must have been so relieved to reach, at long last, the apex of his programme, where he dramatically whipped the top hat off of his head, and called out, “Children! What shall I pull from my hat?”

 I leapt up, feverish with excitement, demanding an item long-sought after but never achieved: “A plastic Santa sleigh with eight reindeer!”

I still remember the silence, followed by quizzical looks from my sticky-faced peers. Mr. Magic, without missing a beat, admirably replied “A bunny rabbit it is!”, producing said leporidae with a quick flourish before beating a hasty retreat to his shiny red van parked outside.

And now, after a lifetime of cherishing the Christmas, I finally have my own son to indoctrinate into the fold. I had a hell of a good start: from the first year he spent with us, Pre-Schooler N was surrounded by the lush spectacle of holiday décor that festoons our house for the last four weeks of every year. At last count, I had 34 Santas, 23 Frosties, and more reindeer, trees and angels than any sane person should possess in one lifetime.

Not My Actual House. PS: I admire their restraint. 

The  mantle positively groans with several of the round red little fellas, perhaps improbably surrounding the Nativity manger scene as they descend from sleighs, hoist holly and offer candy canes to baby Jesus.

Many of my most cherished decorations were inherited by my aunt and Nan, both of whom adored the seasonal garishness with all the flocking and plastic that the 1950s and sixties had to offer. Ebay and other sources have only enriched my collection of vintage tchotchkes.

If I’d had any concerns that my son would be less enthusiastic about Mr. Kringle et all, I need not have worried. He loves Santa. He loves the flying reindeer. He loves the sleigh. He loves the colour red. And it makes me really happy that he’s revelling in that delicious mystery and magic of childhood fantasy.

Even if it’s all a big fat lie.

It is, I believe, the only thing I’ve ever truly lied to him about. And, despite my heartfelt desire to ignite his imagination with this wonderful myth, it does give me pause. After all, one day he’ll know. He’ll know that I lied to him. That I constructed an incredibly detailed deception, complete with music, candy, toys and roasted dead birds, and wrapped it all up in a shiny red bow.

And I would do it again. In heartbeat.

I was so comforted by the Christmas myth during my own childhood. My shitty parents were nicer, my big sister almost seemed to like me (a rare thing, given that I was three years younger and almost certainly a huge pain in the ass) and the idea that this lovable, chubby elf loved me enough to bring me gifts just made me feel truly happy. When I finally twigged to the fact that it was all make-believe around 9 years of age, I was old enough that I wasn’t devastated like younger kids who learned about it at the playground by some smug bastard whose parents were too cool to allow their kids a little harmless fantasy. I still loved Santa, and the comfort he’d given me through the years, with all my heart.

 So, this once, I will lie to my son. I’ll do so because I’m as honest as I can be with everything else in his precious young life. I will only lie to him this once, and never again.

Except when it comes to the Tooth Fairy.

And the Easter Bunny, of course.

And how we never, ever eat chocolate for breakfast.

And how sex is better if you love the person.

And that my tummy sticks out abit because I drink lots of water.

Alright, so I’m a big fat liar too. Merry Christmas :)

Baby's First Funeral

Ok, so he’s not actually a baby anymore, but Pre-Schooler N is about to experience his first funeral. What a milestone. Someone get out the camera.

Now I totally get that many people think a funeral is no place for a child – in fact, I usually agree with that sentiment. Kids don’t belong at weddings, funerals or birthday parties for anyone over the age of 16, barring a quick appearance looking freshly scrubbed and cherubic before toddling off without protest to play quietly on their own.

Yeah right. I can dream.

But this won’t be your typical funeral. For one thing, it’s more of a memorial, with casual remembrances and conversation. My friend Lorri wouldn’t have wanted anything religious, possessing the sort of New Age-y view that so many of us have when it comes to life, spiritualism etc etc. She talked a lot about “The Universe” and “Putting Things out There” and things being “Meant to Happen.” It’s a common lexicon for those of us who have bugger-all of a clue what goes on beyond our human borders, but feel sort of hopeful that it’s all being run by a consciousness or system nowhere near as fucked up as our own.

It may sound sort of airy-fairy, but I figure it expresses far more humility and curiosity than the born-again nutjobs screaming their spleens out about some vengeful, petty deity who has little in common with the actual writings they profess to cherish. Ah well, they’re just scared, I supposed. But holy shit they’re terrifying, aren’t they?

So, back to the whole funeral thing. I’m taking Pre-Schooler N for two reasons, one practical and one a little more philosophical. The first is that finding childcare will be problematic, and Professor D needs to spend the afternoon marking his students’ essays. Given that this deadly task will undoubtedly require much cursing, ravings, tears and blessed alcohol, it may be best for the wee lad and myself to be absent.  

But even more importantly, Pre-Schooler N has been asking more about death as of late. I've answered him as simply and honestly as I can, but I think of this as a trial run for the inevitable passing of someone he actually knows that may arise during his childhood. Having never met Lorri, he doesn't have much emotional investment in our loss of her.

Actually, if I’m really honest, I suppose  there is another reason I want him there with me. Lorri and I were once close friends. We talked constantly on the phone, went out together on weekends, and were thoroughly enmeshed in each other’s lives. But she was a complex and complicated person, and, sadly, I have a cold streak a mile wide when it comes to issues arising in friendships and relationships. If I feel taken advantage of, or purposefully insulted, or taken for granted, I simply turn off. I don’t yell or scream or carry on, I just retreat. It’s not something I’m proud of, though it is something that has probably saved me a lot of heartache in life.

I’m guessing it comes from a family life that wasn’t a lot of fun. I felt emotionally abandoned, abused and tormented at home, and my response was to just seal myself off. After being told I no longer had a home with them (my parents didn’t like gay people), I think my choice of survival was to just sever my emotional connection to these people who had made it clear they didn’t much like me.

And that probably helped save my life. I wasn’t exactly Stable Mabel back then, so coping with that sort of rejection was waaaay beyond my limited resources.

But the endurance of this sort of reaction in times of conflict has resulted in a sort of ‘three strikes and you’re out’ emotional response that isn’t conscious but is certainly pervasive. I’m not ignoring Lorri’s own responsibility in the faltering of our friendship here, just owning up to my own culpability, and my negligence in not valuing the friendship enough to pursue healing and reconciliation. Something I need to face now that I’m parenting a little human who will test every limit I have, and need me to hold strong.

I would have liked Lorri to have met my son. We’d been in contact over Facebook for a couple of years, and she had offered sincere congratulations at the adoption. We chatted a little, from time to time, and I know Pre-Schooler N would have loved her wry sense of humour, her natural affection for children (despite professing discomfort with them) and her warmth.

So, as paltry a gesture as it may seem, having him there to pay tribute to my erstwhile friend feels like a good and natural thing. He can hear what kind of person she was, and see photos of her, and share the feeling of her spirit as it lingers within those of us who knew and loved her.

Here’s to you Lorri. I wish my son had had the pleasure of meeting you. But I’m deeply thankful that I did.

d

For The Love Of Thomas, or, The Birth of Empathy

I think one childhood development specialist summed it up perfectly when he opined: “All toddlers are basically sociopaths.”

Now, some may balk (understandably) at this comparison. Trust me, they either don’t have children, or they’re the type of parents who prepare photo catalogues of their children’s lunch boxes and cheerfully dismiss Little Tonya’s penchant for smacking her baby sister as a ‘personal expression of personal space and an exploration of physical prowess.’ Well my Pinterest obsessed friend, let me reassure you that not only is your darling angel an asshole, but she’s totally normal.

I mean, think about it. These little bundles of joy are exploding from within, their bodies growing, stretching and straining in every direction, while a cacophony of information is mainlined into their developing brains faster than a sugar rush from licking Tang crystals from the Tupperware jug.

Not that I’ve ever done that. Ok once. My tongue looked like Paris Hilton’s fake tan for a week.

Sadly, this information is fed into a completely different part of their brain than the idea that babies may not make the most ideal punching bags. So just to recap: they’re getting stronger and smarter, but not necessarily nicer.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve loved my son since he arrived, aged 14 months, at our happy home. I loved him when he smiled at me for the first time, I loved him when he pitched tantrums that made subway trains seem positively quiescent. Hell, I even loved him when he barfed curdled milk directly into my mouth.

Let me just repeat that for a moment while it sinks in.

Into. My. Mouth.

Yeah, exactly.

But teaching empathy is just like teaching a kid to crap in the toilet. It needs time, effort and nerves of steel. It’s here that I believe television can be quite a useful tool. And yes I do realize that just saying that out loud may cause a Montessori parent to physically explode, leaving a theoretically unstable anomaly in the time/space continuum that can only be healed with judicious application of Echinacea tincture and sombre readings from the Baby Einstein bible.

I really do believe that the right shows can help a kid realize that their actions have consequences, and that other people have feelings too. Thomas the Tank Engine is a great example of this. Each show, one of the little trains gets themselves into some sort of trouble, and the rest of the episode is dedicated to identifying the problem and making it right. I fucking love that.

I also love shows like Sesame Street, where kids’ emotions are talked about in an easy-to-understand manner, with lots of colour and fun mixed in for good measure. Plus just try to look at Big Bird’s face and not feel happy.

A lot of parents really are against any sort of television for kids. I totally get that. There's a crap load of violence, commercialism and refined sugar jam-packed into that shit, not to mention the 21 minutes of commercials that make up your average 30 minute program. 

We don’t have cable in our house, so the only shows that Pre-Schooler N sees are ones that we watch together, chosen from DVDs or the KIDS section of Netflix (an excellent resource for any parent, by the way). And I’m the first to agree that real-life modelling, books, play and talking are the best route to creating a healthy sense of self-esteem and compassion in wee viewers. But in growing up with shows like the Smurfs, Super Friends and Scooby Doo, I was given the benefit of entertainment and imagination, free of violence and serious conflict, with lots of lessons about sharing, honesty and helping others.

Now it also may be responsible for my lingering attraction to Shaggy, but that’s utterly beside the point. Although… just try to tell me that THIS isn’t the absolute definition of male hotness ever:

Oh shut up. He’s a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, shrouded in smouldering sex appeal and dressed like a god.

Yes, I’m serious.

Oh go to hell all of y’all.

A Family-versary, Part Two

Once the decision to adopt a child had been made, there were months of provincially-mandated classes in order to qualify, followed by a frustrating waiting period that saw the redneck heterosexual couple in our class quickly matched with a child. This, after Husband Redneck stated in one class that his approach to dealing with a child (hypothetically) traumatized by seeing his parents gunned down in the street would be to give him a rifle or first-person shooting video game to let out his frustration.

But they were white, straight, Christian, and, well, straight. So naturally they got a kid almost immediately.

 The instructor had tactfully mentioned that fostering-to-adopt might be the best option for us; Foster parents are given a large role in choosing adoptive parents, and are not bound by the non-discrimination laws governing social workers. Which explained why several  months passed without any potential children being sent our way.

So the decision was made to foster a child that was in the process of being cleared for adoption. There were no guarantees offered, though the case worker did confide that it was likely any child placed for fostering would remain with that family if the choice to adopt was made.

We set up a meeting with our own case worker for Friday morning to discuss fostering a child. She had a few kids that seemed suitable, and would bring their files. As we sat in the living room, discussing each child, it became clear that only one was suitable for our lifestyle and abilities. The others were exhibiting signs of autism and/or fetal alcohol syndrome – needs that were simply beyond our capabilities.

So we tentatively decided on Baby N, and asked if a meeting with him could be set up at some point in the near future. Well, the near future was a little nearer than initially thought. If we were amenable to fostering Baby N, he would arrive that afternoon. In three hours. With nothing more than a few clothes and a couple of toys.

Well shit.

Professor D was conflicted. He had a wicked cold and was in the midst of organizing a major work conference. This was not a good time. But Baby N’s other option was going to be what was euphemistically called ‘24 hour Daycare’ – in actuality an orphanage.

There was no way I was sending this kid to an orphanage.

So Baby N’s previous foster parents lugged over a spare crib, some formula and some baby food. They were heartsick at him leaving, but were caring for another baby whose immune system was so compromised she needed intensive care.  As they already had five older foster kids, and two of their own, Baby N needed to find another home.

It was a hell of a weekend. I napped while Baby N napped, but was so sleep-deprived I lost track of the days quickly. Baby N wasn’t yet walking, but crawled around the house at astonishing speeds, getting into everything that wasn’t baby-proofed (and at that point nothing was) and leaving me an exhausted mess by the end of the day.

After a week of this, it became clear that I wasn’t able to juggle parenting and work and life in general. Professor D had helped where he could, but I was largely left on my own during the long days. We made the gut-wrenching decision to tell Baby N’s social worker that this was beyond us. We had no help, no family, and no friends stepping forward to offer aid, and the future seemed untenable. But then something miraculous happened. Something so magical, so wonderful, that everything changed.

Daycare.

 There are no words to express the absolute rapture that daycare brought into my life. Suddenly I could bathe, nap, cook and get some work done, just like a regular human being! It was an epiphany! And as the days grew, and life settled into a routine, it became clear that this was going to be manageable for all of us. We waited a further week to be sure, before contacting the social worker and asking her to place Baby N with us permanently.

By this point, we had fallen utterly in love with the child. It had only taken two weeks to feel he was inextricably a part of our family, and I couldn’t imagine life without him. His sunny disposition, his curiosity, his bouts of crying, everything about him made my heart full.

What followed was eight months of anxiety, as we waited for the adoption process to proceed. There were plenty of hurdles to overcome, and the outcome wasn’t sure until the moment a judge signed the adoption certificate. It’s only now that I realize how terrified I was that it would all fall apart, and that our son might be taken from us.

Three years later, we are a family. We argue, we laugh, we play, we sulk, we watch videos, we dance to music, we sing songs and we eat ice cream. It’s a beautiful life, and I’m deeply thankful for it. I’ve never felt loved by anyone like I am by my son, and I’ve never loved anything so protectively, so fiercely, so wholly, as I do him.

Is it perfect?  Well, yes it is. It’s perfect in that it’s complicated, and wonderful, and challenging, and joyous, and shitty and all of the things that make up a life. 

Are we treated differently as a queer adoptive family? Yep, absolutely. We had to get through it on our own, without baby showers, family babysitting, doting relatives and all the things that straight, natural birth couples are given in due course.  But by being largely self-sufficient, we've also been mercifully free of the meddling, criticism and all-around hassle that so many other families have to deal with when it comes to attentive relations.  So I’m definitely not complaining.

And now, in an age where we LGBT folks don’t need to play ‘special uncle’ or ‘honorary aunt’ to other kids, we can have our own families, secure in the knowledge that we’re not just some politically-correct accessory to discard in favour of ‘real family.’

So no matter how marginalized we get, or how many times we turn on the TV and hear how we’re ruining our children’s lives, or destined to burn in hell, we still have the family we've made for ourselves.  We still have each other. And that’s something to celebrate. 

A Familyversary, Part One

In some ways it’s hard to believe that three years have passed since Pre-Schooler N came into our lives. That day still seems very fresh in my mind: three women and one squalling 13-month-old entering the house, and my once-placid surroundings forever changed.  My first impression of (then) Baby N was of this wide-eyed, crying infant, dressed in too-small clothes and smelling a bit like McDonald’s french fries.

I asked to hold him, and was relieved how quickly he relaxed in my arms. Fortunately for all of us, his previous foster parents had a large family and extended support system, so Baby N was accustomed to being cared for by several people. He kept up the intermittent crying spells, but seemed curious if a little anxious at his new surroundings. My heart went out to him, not in small part because I knew that his residency in our house was still somewhat in question: Professor D was sick with a cold, and swamped at work, and we’d had no time to prepare for a baby’s arrival – no crib, no food, no nothing. Unless this kid was prepared to survive on low-fat granola and Thai curry, he was going to be awfully hungry.

It had been a long route to get to this point. We’d once toyed with the idea of adopting a child, but I had concerns that my own childhood,  fraught with abuse and homophobia, would possibly manifest if I took on the role of parent. That thought terrified me. But then Baby E came into our lives, and everything changed.

Baby E was the child of two friends who were struggling as their marriage collapsed. Both were in turmoil, so Baby E spent a lot of time at our house sleeping, eating and playing. It was a revelation. I felt such love for this child, and was floored at how his unconditional love of us made me feel… healed somehow, I suppose… from my own childhood.

After the couple’s separation, Baby E and his mother moved in with us, and we all came together as an alternative family, co-parenting this wonderful child in our home. And it was great, really great, for a few months. But then it became clear that Baby E’s mom was an addict, and struggling with her own emotional issues. What started as a caring, involved family unit had evolved to us trapped in our bedroom on the third floor, listening to this woman screech at her weeping baby for hours on end.  

It was a nightmare.

In some ways, our banishment within our own home was understandable:  Baby E preferred being with us to his unstable mother, which only added to her mania and addiction. So she asked us to stay in our room while he was awake, and we complied. One day, now-Toddler E asked me why I didn't play with him anymore, and if I was still his friend. I was at a loss for words. I told him I loved him forever, and hugged him.

That night I talked to his mother about it, expressing my concern that he was feeling rejected, and that we were feeling like prisoners in our own home. She went manic, saying she would move out if it was going to be a problem. Much to her shock, I think, we agreed. She moved out a month later, and we saw Toddler E only once after that. She excised him from our life utterly –  a story all too common with other queer families and individuals who are brought into a child’s life only to be discarded without rights or recourse.  

As traumatized as this experience left us, we knew that we wanted to be parents. And now we knew that we could do it without turning into the frothing maniac we had lived with for two years. So we went to Social Services and started the long process of becoming parents. 

(End of Part One)

Bye Dad.

So, my dad died yesterday. Lung cancer. I know, I know… what a shock that several decades of inhaling tar might not be the ideal conditions for healthy lungs, but who knew?

Okay, we all knew. For a really, really long time.

I had a dream the other night that I was taking a long bus ride. We made a short pit stop, and for some reason my dad was there, with my mother and sister. He was in a wheelchair, with a nurse by his side. I walked up to him and asked him if I could help, and he accepted. He was helpless with a sweet and gentle disposition… qualities I longed for from him as a child. The dream wasn’t much of a stretch: I’d done home care for the ill and elderly before, so it felt natural to change his diaper, get him dressed, stroke his forehead and tell him he was doing really well.

When I woke up, I lay in bed with a profound sense of loss and sadness. My own son had crawled into bed with us sometime in the night, and lay snuggled up beside me, his eyelashes long and dark against his soft cheek. I wonder if my dad ever woke up like that, looking at me beside him, feeling as though his heart would burst with love. Given our strained relationship during my childhood, I find it very difficult to imagine even in the strongest flights of fancy.

But the feelings I felt in the dream… protectiveness, love, tenderness… they lingered. My dad may not have liked me much when I was an effeminate kid, never mind later on as a sissified teenager and openly-gay adult. But I’ve seen his kindness towards others. His generosity. His humour. His way of helping people without making them feel like a charity case. In some ways, it made his obvious disgust towards me doubly hard to bear, but I saw it and, I hope, learned to emulate these humane qualities.

I can’t imagine disliking my son. I can’t imagine my lip curling in disgust at the way he speaks, or walks or cries. I can’t imagine not looking at him, even in the midst of the worst tantrum imaginable, and feel love for him. Not like my dad.

Like any pain or trauma caused in childhood, my dad’s rejection of me has lingered and shaped my personality. My aversion to unfairness, cruelty or rejection is such that I can completely disconnect from a friend or loved one whose behaviour manifests as such. Part survival technique, part avoidance, I think. I just move on, and I rarely look back. Perhaps that’s a gift as well, in its own way. I don’t feel saddled with difficult relationships, and am free of friends who are a drag on my sense of peace and harmony.

I used to think my dad regretted kicking me out of his home. The few times we’d see each other, I fancied there was sadness in his eyes – a lament for his actions and the reality of our history. But last year, at the funeral for a family friend, I realized it wasn’t regret or sadness. He just seemed embarrassed to be seen near me. In some ways it was liberating: I wasn’t failing in forgiving my parents, or in maintaining a separation caused so many years ago by their hatred of gay people. They’d maintained it too.

My sister, who is very close to our parents, is handling everything right now. She’s struggling through her own fear and sadness of losing the dad who adored her. And she’s concerned for her own daughter, who my dad treasured as the sports-playing, rough and tumble kid he always wanted. A while back she asked if I wanted to see our dad before he died. I said that if he wanted to see us, we would absolutely come. Her lack of reply told me everything I needed to know.

My dad excluded me from his life, from his love, from his support and nurturing. And now, surrounded by his wife, his daughter and his granddaughter, he has passed from this world. I inquired about a funeral service, but was tactfully told that it was to be just a small graveside affair, as he wished. No dates, no location, no invitation.

He’s excluding me from his death as well, but in an odd way I’m okay with that. The dusty remains of our relationship as father and son are too fragmented to resurrect at this point. I’m relieved that he passed peacefully, and I’m glad he had his beloved daughter and granddaughter with him. In a way, and despite the sadness I feel at what was lost so long ago, I’m glad they were able to give him the kids he wanted, instead of the son he had.  

A friend of mine challenged me this week, remarking that she remembered my father sometimes being nice to me, and quite nice to her. I pointed out that she was a hot young redhead at the time, and my father was careful to be nice in public. But she was right, in a way. My dad did do some nice things for me. He’d give me lunch money, unasked. He’d bring home treats from their bulk food store. He’d occasionally try to soften the fury of my mother’s continual rage.

But his frequent expressions of disgust towards my effeminacy, towards my orientation, towards my personality as a gay person, were the mortal blows that killed our relationship. Enough time has passed that I can appreciate the things he did, or attempted to do. But the sneers, the expulsion from “his” home, the threats… they did their ugly work and they did it well. The wounds were never healed by a making of amends, or apologies, or explanations, or any show of remorse. There was no love given to keep it alive.

I’m sad. I feel the loss of something I never got to have. My dad was overjoyed that he finally got the ‘son’ he wanted in my sporty, amiable and fun niece. But I never got the dad I wanted… someone who loved me unconditionally, who made me feel like I was of value, who protected me and nurtured me.

Now, in my middle-age, I am reconciled that I never will get that. But at least one of us finally got what they needed, and that’s just going to have to be enough.

As Butch As We Gonna Be

I’ve never been terribly butch. Okay, if I’m completely honest with myself, my degree of butchness falls somewhere on the scale between Charles Nelson Reilly and Miss Piggy (if you’re too young to know who either of those celebrities are, please don’t tell me). I may not lisp or swish, but a lack of sibilant sashaying does nothing to detract from my androgynous voice, arched eyebrows and the ability to suck in my stomach for up to 14 hours a day.

Given my inclinations towards the more feminine expressions of existence, nobody is more surprised than me that my son, Pre-Schooler N, is a little bundle of rambunctious, rollicking, raucous boyhood. Yet, despite my earlier and continuing attempts at introducing baby dolls, tea sets and other non-gender-specific playthings, he has always gravitated towards construction diggers, talking cars and toy trains named after an assortment of British royalty.

It’s not that I don’t like Hot Wheels or Thomas the Tank Engine, but I can’t quite figure out my son’s predilection towards traditionally masculine pursuits. He loves to kick and throw a ball, race around with his friends and generally behave like the boisterous boy that he is. I guess that’s why I've come consider that children are born with an innate inclination towards gender expression, despite  outside intervention or encouragement.  How else can I explain my uber-butchy little kid, whose only interest in Barbie or Ken is to see how fast they can scoot down his toy garage’s ramp or hammer in a plastic peg with their heads?

That being said, I remain convinced that raising a well-rounded child means avoiding the boundaries that might hem him into a single note of gender expression. I do believe that boys are frequently more naturally aggressive than the female of the species. Is this an absolute conviction? No, of course not. Hell, I was a femmie little sissy who loved playing quietly with dolls and wearing colourful clothes while listening to Julie Andrews LPs. And god knows there are (thankfully) a wonderful abundance of girls who play cowboys, frolic in mud and eschew pink fabric as though it were sartorial poison. But there certainly does seem to be a biological component at play.

Case in point: We’re a no-hitting household, full stop. I don’t hit my kid, and don’t generally raise my voice above an imperious reprieve. But historically we’ve had issues with Pre-Schooler N smacking other kids (or occasionally us) when frustrated or angry. And he gives ferocious bear hugs that are positively stifling at times. I can tell he’d love to rough house and wrestle, but the closest I can get is holding him tight while squeeling “Not gonna let you go! Sorry! You’ll have to stay like this forever!”

He loves it.

But I ensure there are plenty of lessons about being gentle, playing quietly and running instead of racing around like an ad for Ritalin Smoothies. Sometimes it’s exhausting, and there are people who insist that a boy’s natural impulses should be allowed to run wild. But I figure we’d all be peeing our pants and suckling at our aged mothers’ breasts if we simply allowed our ‘natural impulses’ to go rampantly un-curbed.

Sometimes it’s not easy. One of Pre-Schooler N’s favourite playmates has been watching violent Incredible Hulk and Spider-Man cartoons since the age of 2, and delights in bellowing out “Hulk Smash!!!!” while breaking shit or pretending to beat other kids into submission with fists, sticks or any other weapon-like item at hand. It’s seriously disturbing to me, even though many parents think it’s “only natural.” Yeah, well when you’re ready to let your kid crap all over your living room without benefit of toilet training or a diaper, I might buy into your conclusions regarding ‘natural behaviour.’

 I was lucky, I guess. I grew up with non-violent cartoons like Scooby-Doo, The Smurfs and the fabulous Super Friends who passed their adventures avoiding capture by innocuous energy nets and trapping their enemies in glowy magical lassos.

Come hell or high water, my kid isn’t going to have his four-year old mind programmed to believe that busting stuff and hitting people is fun, funny or anything other than plain bad behaviour. “Good luck with that,” snarked one mother of a cherubic hellion that is equal parts adorable lovebug and squalling stubborn brat. I don’t think she was being mean, but has rather surrendered to the idea that her son’s more volatile aspects are impossible to curb.

Maybe I’m just more stubborn than some. Or perhaps the idea of future dealings with an overly-aggressive, entitled pre-and-post-teen is just too appalling for me to entertain; 3-year-olds who slap mommy tend to turn into bigger kids with harder fists. Either way, this middle-aged sissy will continue to hand out penalties for aggressive behaviour, and insist on gentle and considerate manners when I have a sneaking suspicion that my little monster would rather be wreaking destruction alongside his less-well-controlled brethren.

But hopefully, when he’s 25 and not doing time for aggravated assault or regretting an abusive relationship, I’ll feel all the effort, censure and time-outs were worth it.

Or I’ll have died of utter fucking exhaustion, and the increasing sense that the sound of my own voice only marginally less irritating than blessed eternal sleep. 

I Now Pronounce You Man and Wife. You May Drink Your Juice Box.

Having given up cable television a number of years ago, I freely admit I’m probably behind the times when it comes to the youth of today. I’ve never regretted my decision – George Brush Jr had just been re-elected and I simply couldn’t stand looking at his smug, simian visage for one moment longer. But it did mean that much of popular culture began to pass me by.

This is not necessarily a bad thing:

It’s not like I was totally out of touch. I knew Britney was Spears-heading the newest movement of Lolita singers, offering up equal portions of Cleavage and Jesus as they humped their way to mega-stardom. And I’d seen just enough of Paris Hilton to invest heavily in the pharmaceutical industry (hey, those herpes ain’t gonna dry up on their own). But I don’t think I realized exactly how far pre-teen sexuality had ventured into mainstream parenting.

My first clue dropped in Pre-Schooler N’s first year of daycare. We’d only been enrolled a few weeks when I overheard a parent talking about one of the boys’ “harem” of girlfriends at said facility. This was done with a knowing wink and suggestive leer that quite literally made my stomach clench.

“Harem?” Seriously?

I mean, Jesus, these kids haven’t even made it out of diapers yet and we’re already matching them up with members of the opposite sex? Of course, the kids themselves go along with it, giggling away because they love the attention and the ability to entertain adults in a novel manner. But I’m mystified as to why we need to start the whole boyfriend/girlfriend bullshit with them while they’re still having naps. 

And while we’re on the subject of naps – I could actually feel my eyeballs straining to exit their sockets when it was recently remarked by one parent that her daughter insisted on sharing a daycare nap mat with her ‘boyfriend.’  Now, call me old fashioned, but I think it should be mandatory that a couple be past the point of calling their privates ‘pee-pees’ or ‘tink-tinks’ before sleeping together.

Interestingly enough, my own son has largely been immune to these match-making efforts. The other parents seem a little more muted about boy/girl stuff around us faggier families. Perhaps they think we’ll be offended by the assumption that our son will be heterosexual, or even that we have big gay plans for his future dating activities.

Both assumptions are nonsense, though. Odds are that Pre-Schooler N will follow his brethren in going ga-ga over all things boobie-related as puberty rears its hideous head. I personally don’t care if he dates a boy, a girl, a boy-girl, a girl-boy or anything in between, as long as he or she is polite, caring and possessed of a better-than-average credit rating (I’m absolutely open to bribery).

The irony here, of course, is that we gay men have for decades been living under the assumption of predatory behaviour when it comes to children. At even the faintest hint of homosexuality, suspicious parental eyes follow our every move as we help tie shoelaces, give piggy-back rides and hug their offspring.

From the age of about fifteen onwards, I simply kept myself apart from children, having been inundated with statistically-unfounded accusations from the Anita Bryants or Michelle Buchannans of this world. They decreed that all gay men were pedophiles, and the world listened. Children must be protected from any hint of homosexuality, they cry, these wee innocents who may be irrecoverably stained by seeing John and Peter smooching at the mall. But hey, let’s start them good and early on the righteous path to pro-creation and suburban tract housing.

"Remember kids, if you squeeze him more than once it’s a sin"

Even now I am careful around other people’s children, carefully scanning for potential homo-hysteria before engaging with kids who couldn’t give a flying fuck who you sleep with as long as you hand them the right flavour of popsicle. It’s second nature to most of us gay guys, I think – not to mention self-protective and smart.

But how truly farcical it is to see society around me shoving their kids into romanticized friendships, assigning gender roles and sexuality and orientation in a macabre sort of dress rehearsal for the horrors to come in ten or twelve years. I’m guessing it would all seem a little less cute to many parents if Little Tammy-Jo decided that their daughter was destined to be her Mrs. I mean, for Christ’s sake, let the little monsters just be kids while they can enjoy it. If you’re that desperate for storybook romances, stick to Harlequin, not Dick and Jane. 

"Hey Dad, I got me two girlfriends now!"

Father's Day, Farther Away

It's still very weird to think of myself as a father. Maybe it's some lingering gender dysphoria from childhood... that message that boys act one way, while girls behave another. So if I liked bright colours, pop music and my grade 7 student teacher, Mr. Sullivan, then I must be a girl, right?

Well, no. I've actually never felt like a girl. And I certainly don't feel like a mom. I guess the closest word in my brain is 'parent,' even though it seems a little, I dunno, impersonal. I do feel like 'Papa,' which is what Pre-Schooler N calls me. It's a name that makes me feel happy when I hear it. I'm comfortable in it. 'Dad?' Well, not so much.

I called my father dad. Once upon a time. Before my girlish gait, ginger curls and generally sissified manner fomented his sadness and, I think, loneliness into a rupture that was as permanent as it was inevitable. Looking back, I think my dad was lonely. He was friendly with neighbours, and kind to the many customers at our family store who adored him, but he also seemed a little isolated... particularly in retrospect.

I think that, in a son, he had high hopes for a comrade, for a built-in friend that would emulate him, and share games of sport with him, and love him in all the suitably masculine ways that regular boys love their fathers. I think that behind his expressions of anger and disgust at the way I turned out masked a deep disappointment that he had lost his hopes for a trusted companion.

Sometimes, when I am lost in thought, in the hour before sleep tugs away my many plans and my trickier memories, I wonder what disappointments will lie between my own son and myself in the years to come. Will he yearn for a manly companion, a stoic patriarch who cheers goals and whistles at female passersby? Will he look at his friends' brusque fathers and feel embarrassed by the effeminate papa who gives him kisses and hugs with such impunity?

Perhaps.

Or maybe not. Who knows?

There's also the possibility that Pre-Schooler N will morph into a staunchly conservative christian crazypants, praying for his homosexual parent's salvation. I believe his own joyful soul and kind heart would preclude such an unlikely event, but there's just no way of telling where these roads and pathways lead.

May life have mercy on this poor child

Surely my own father had no inkling in regards to how deeply our paths would separate. He's now nearing the end of his days, felled by the cigarettes that plagued every family car trip since I can remember, and filled our home with sepulchral wraiths that glowed below every lamplight. But he's surrounded by family who love him: my sister, a stalwart ally whom he's always loved and respected, our mother, married to him for nearly half-a-century, and my sister's daughter, who is more a son to him than I could ever have been.

Niece E has truly been a companion to my father... the companion I believe he always wanted. She excels in sports, is cheerful and kind, and has a natural optimism that reminds me of him. He adores her, as she does him.

And I'm happy he finally got what he wanted. I love that he experienced sunny days of cheering on his granddaughter as she scored the winning goal, and reveled in her interest in the household jobs he always insisted on doing himself. I'm truly glad that he got that out of life, even if it couldn't have been with me, his son. It makes me feel as though I'm no longer responsible for denying him one of his great hopes in life.

It also makes it easier to accept that he is truly no longer my 'dad,' even though there's no denying that his parentage made an indelible mark upon my life.

But today, on Father's Day, I'd like to commemorate the gifts I've carried from him in my own life. Things that I know I learned from him, and that I like about myself. Here's what he taught me, in no particularly order:

How to be generous. Not in a showy, 'aren't-I-wonderful-and-benevolent' way, but in a quiet manner done with a minimum of fuss that puts the recipient at ease, and without feeling like a charity case.

My cat Charlotte and her frequent nuzzling companion 

How to make a first impression. By being genuinely friendly, finding a real pleasure in meeting someone for the first time, and expressing honest curiosity in them.

How to do it yourself. Granted, many of my fathers DIY projects ended in tears and tantrums (particularly if I was corralled into 'helping'), but he always found a way to cobble something together to make it work.

And, most  importantly, how to be kind. My father is a kind person, who is keenly observant of needs and hurts. The fact that he wasn't terribly kind to me can't negate the fact that he was tenderly indulgent to the needs of elderly customers, or the infirm, or anyone not as well off in life as he. I like to think that I'm a compassionate person, and I honestly believe that part of that compassion was learned through observing my father with others.

So, I honour those things I gleaned from him, and I hope I'm passing them on to my own son. I hope Pre-Schooler N grows up feeling my love and my amazement at the good fortune that brought him into my life. I hope that our paths travel closely throughout our lives, with plenty of convergence and shared journeys. But most of all, I hope with all my heart that, at the end of my own life, the love between us is strong,true and known.

Next week: a return to humour as I plan our escape from Pride Day!