Oh phooey, for fuck's sake.

As I hustle the boys out the door each morning, I feel like a cross between Barbara Billingsly and a drill Sargent -- with a little Nurse Ratched thrown in for good measure, given Pre-Schooler N's penchant for needing to check on any real or imagined boo-boos he may accumulated the day before ("Look, it's healing!"). Professor D isn't much faster, to be perfectly candid. Both tend to be distracted easily on their journey to our faithful orange car (named Tangerine, natch). As I bark out "I love you's" and "Okay, time to get out to freakin' door's" to both in (hopefully) equal measure, I'm struck by just how domesticated my life has become.

And it's not likely to get any less so.

In less than two years, I'll be making lunches, signing school forms, attending meetings with rapturously complimentary teachers (oh shut up, it could totally happen) and generally relating to a solid chunk of my surrounding world as, primarily, a parent. A gay parent. And it's that last part that terrifies me a little.

I mean, I'm a middle-aged, effeminate gay man that could perhaps pass for a really ugly butch farmgirl at a distance (I still get "Ma'am"ed several times a month by people who I can only imagine feel a great deal of pity towards this giant, ungainly amazon looming before them). And while I've more than made my peace with who I am and how I present to the world, I'm feeling real trepidation at the consequences of all that for my son.

One of the reasons rural Quebec is such a good choice to raise Pre-Schooler N is that we have a built-in community here of sorts. Professor D's parents live here much of the time, while his sister and her family are close by as well. We don't see a lot of the parents (they're at 9 grandchildren and counting, so the thrill has definitely waned), but Sister-In-Law H has a 2 year old son who plays every day with our boy at the local daycare, and her 5 year old daughter is surprisingly tolerant of the younger males demanding her attention and indulgence. It's also quite a welcoming place for LGBT folks: there's a long-term elderly gay couple who run an antique shop out of their heritage home just up the road, and a superstar clothier who lives with his partner in the posh estates up on the hill. On the surface, there seems to be very much a 'live and let live' attitude towards us.

But kids can be cruel. And their parents can say some pretty awful things behind closed doors about mincing fairies and their adopted children. My stomach recoils just imagining the potential there.

My hope is that Pre-Schooler N's inveterate cheerfulness, boisterousness and upbringing will get him through. Plus he's built like a tank. And the English school here in the village is very, very small (70 pupils in total) so there's the bonus of less anonymity, as well as the awareness that everyone needs to get along or tongues will wag. But I worry. I know what it's like to be bullied, and my heart hopes that my son will largely escape that kind of thing.

Ah well. Until then, my greatest challenge of the week is to stop swearing.  Period. I'd hoped that I could retain my beloved "shit" "fuck" and "jesus motherfucking christ" for times of personal trial and tribulation, but it seems that those wee jewels of personal expression keep cascading out of my mouth every time a commercial for Barney or Dora comes on during the previews section of Pre-Schooler N's favourite DVDs. So it's all "poop", "fudge" and "phooey" for the foreseeable future.

And jesus motherfucking christ that's shitty.

I'm Coming Out... As a TV Parent.

Inaugural post. I'm trying to think of something thoughtful, witty and timeless to say, but I have the theme to Wonder Pets running through my head.

For the un-initiated, Wonder Pets is a children's show that features 'photo-puppetry,' where animators use photographs of real animals to animate the show. The stars are Linny, a talking guinea pig, Tuck, a turtle that wears Aquasocks, and Ming-Ming, a duckling with a slight speech impediment that can inexplicably fly despite possessing two fuzzy stubs for wings.

Each episode is actually a sort of operetta, where most of the dialogue is sung with full orchestra backing. The trio typically gets a call in their brick schoolhouse about a baby animal in trouble, don colourful capes, and hop into their tinker-toy flying boat to race to the rescue. When I first saw the show, I was frankly horrified. Now I'm completely addicted to it.

I've often heard parents say they become hooked on the shows aimed at pre-schoolers, and subsequently mocked them roundly. Now, alas, I am one of them. Since I don't really watch TV (although I suppose DVDs of British mystery programs probably count), I'm surprised at this new-found addiction. I'm also surprised at how well my own childhood favourites have weathered over the decades.

The original Scooby Doo cartoons, from 1969 to 1971, are still a hoot to watch, particularly the ones with the groovy chase scene tunes courtesy of Austin Roberts. I'm a little embarrassed to say I bought the DVD set back when the decision to adopt a child was first made. It came in this trippy little plastic Mystery Machine van case (the wheels actually turn!), and I couldn't resist it. Now, four years later, Pre-Schooler N is absolutely entranced with the show. He's shown far better taste than I did, quickly eschewing the subsequent iterations of Scooby (with guest stars like the Harlem Globetrotters, Mama Cass, Don Knotts nd other 1970s icons).

Posting about Pre-Schooler N's television habits is a bit like coming out all over again. So many parents sniff at the very thought of allowing their precious spawn to be brain-numbed by the boob tube. I'm obviously not one of them. We don't have cable -- or even an antennae -- so it's nice to have total control over what the boy is exposed to. No commercials to worry about, no violence or guns or sass-talking animals for him to imitate or emulate. And I love sharing that time with him, revisiting the shows I loved as a kid, and watching him love them too. It's wonderful watching him act out his favourite scenes, and sing the songs and re-tell stories that he's seen onscreen.

Movies are a whole other matter, of course. Most of the Pixar stuff I've tried to show Pre-Schooler N has elicited a firm "this is for big kids!" refusal from him. He doesn't like scary stuff, or emotionally fraught moments, or sad/ominous music. We went to our first movie ever with him this month, Disney's Frozen.



I flat out loved this film. It was smart and witty, and the music was absolutely fantastic. Turns out the score was written by the same husband and wife team who composed the music for Wonder Pets. Pre-Schooler N was able to sit through the whole thing (with one bathroom break, handily taken during the one scary scene involving snarling wolves). I won't spoil the film for those who might see it, but the best line ever:  "you CANNOT marry a man you just met today."

Now the wee lad loves playing with the little Frozen figure set I picked up online, singing the characters' songs and even making them interact with the great love of his life: Thomas the Tank Engine.

But Thomas is a whole other story, and a whole different post.