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.