Pussy Parenting

Everyone has a different parenting style. Some let their kids get away with murder, some make Colonel Klink look like Captain Kangaroo. I’m trying to fall somewhere in between.

I was raised by relatively strict parents. It’s true they didn’t like me much, given the whole mincing effeminacy thing so highly regarded by Prairie folk whose exposure to homosexuality was generally relegated to Paul Lynd on Hollywood Squares or a visit to the hairdresser. But I do truthfully believe that my mother and father’s insistence on good manners, on being responsible for one’s words and actions, would have been constant even if I were the strapping young boyo they had hoped for.

Thus I grew up knowing how to speak with my elders, how to behave in shops and restaurants, and with a fair understanding that any diversion from these manners would mean swift and harsh remonstrance.

You know, spanking.

Now, to be very clear, I do not believe in hitting my kid. I don’t want to teach him that the strongest person is automatically right. I don’t want him to think that we settle disagreements through inflicting pain – that establishing physical supremacy is the way to win.

I don’t want him to thrill at the subjugation of others, be they people or animals or even bugs.

I don’t want him to be the sort of kid who gets his jollies picking on those weaker than himself.

I want him to be kind.

Of course, other parents don’t necessarily share this philosophy. Just recently we attended a rare birthday party along with several other boys of Pre-Schooler N’s age. I noticed some pretty pronounced differences.

For one thing, several of the boys seemed obsessed with guns. They ran around with various toy representations of the instruments of war, making those charming ‘pew pew’ sounds while they chased each other about the room.

My son has little awareness of guns. We made it very clear early on that our family doesn’t play with guns – or “shooters” as he calls them. He’s certainly curious when he spots them in a store, but he’s mercifully quick to hand me the iPad if one of the videos he’s watching on Netflix or Youtube inadvertently shows one. He knows they’re off limits.

“They’re boys,” said one mother to me, when I explained my position. “They turn everything into guns even if they’re never seen one.”

Which of course, is utterly ridiculous. If every child were so psychically gifted to mimic a device completely outside of their field of experience, I would be up to my neck in lollipop makers and automatic butt-wiping machines (my son hates that not-so-fresh feeling).

It’s not relegated to boys, of course. There are several pre-adolescent girls that seem intent on making life a living hell for all those around them. They order their parents around, they scream, they’re rude and they treat adults like their personal servants. So it’s definitely a gender-neutral attitude towards letting your kids basically do whatever the fuck they want.

And I really, really hate it.

I hate it because it makes me dislike the kids themselves, rather than placing the blame firmly at their parents’ wimpy feet.

I hate it because my own kid sees their shitty behaviour, and has enough sense of fairness to question why he gets in trouble while they go un-corrected.

I hate it because it makes it that much harder to keep Pre-Schooler N in line, while people around me stare quizzically at what they believe to be a non-issue.

I don’t  believe kids can just be left to do what’s natural. They have zero clue how to fairly resolve conflict, how to communicate their needs and frustrations in a socially-acceptable manner or how to generally not be a little asshole when left to their own devices.

"Oh leave them be, they'll work it out on their own."

Bullshit. Hasn’t anyone read Lord of the Flies for fuck’s sake?

 Kids need parenting, structure and, yes, discipline. They need to know who’s in charge to keep a sense of security. They like being liked, and knowing that they’re approved of and enjoyed. Mix that with tons of love, affection and appreciation and they’re happier than pigs in poop.

And certainly happier than a pig’s head stuck on spear.

Raging Bitch Gay Papa From Hell

Nobody warned me. I mean, sure, people told me I would feel protective of my kid, and that I would have to watch for overly-defensive impulses and instincts. After all,  a balanced perspective can be tricky to hold on to when your child’s welfare, emotional, physical or otherwise is at stake.

But nope. Nobody warned me about this new side to my personality.

I got my first clues of it two years ago, when the bilingual daycare that then-Toddler N attended began making complaints about his behaviour. Things had been hunky dory for months, until the sweet, kind and inclusive bilingual daycare worker moved on to a new job. Suddenly, we had reports that Toddler N was being disruptive and difficult with his new worker. Turns out she didn’t really speak English, and was the type of person who hated her job so much that she walked around with a look on her face like she just smelled cat shit.

Luckily it was time for Toddler N to move up to the next level at the daycare, so we relaxed a little. He had a great time there in the summer, until autumn arrived and the regular supervisor returned to take over from the lovely woman who had been with the kids during the supervisor’s vacation.

Suddenly there were problems again. N didn’t play well with others. He didn’t speak to the workers beyond a few simple words. The supervisor started bandying about words like “Attention Deficit Disorder” and “Delayed Language Skills.”

So again we began to observe our son on the sly. Turned out that the bilingual daycare was largely French. The other kids would be gathered around for songs and games while N was left to his own devices. After the song circle was finished, the supervisor (the only worker in the room who spoke English) would then do songs with N on his own.

That was when I first became aware of my inner Raging Bitch Gay Papa From Hell.

I managed to stay relatively cool, despite these burgeoning impulses. I brought in long term, peer-reviewed studies of English toddlers who had been plopped into non-English learning environments, I strategized, I debated, until it became clear that this daycare had made up its mind in regards to my son.

So we had him evaluated, by a fully bilingual child developmental specialist.

He was fine.

Could use a little help with pronouncing consonants. Otherwise totally normal. No signs whatsoever of ADHD etc.

 

Words cannot really express the depth of anger I felt at the daycare… but perhaps expletives like “Fuck,” “Assholes,” or “Shit-eating Dirtbags” come close.

So we moved him to an English daycare, located in a nice lady’s home. And he’s been fine there.

But the intensity of my protective impulses towards my son had unsettled me. On one hand, I was glad that I was able to advocate and, finally, fight on behalf of my boy. I hadn’t lost my temper in front of anyone, or screamed blue-murder, or made a fool of myself. But I had been shown just how primal and atavistic parental protectiveness can be.

It’s going to be an interesting balance to maintain. Let’s face it, my kid has two gay fathers, is of mixed-heritage and adopted. It is just conceivable that he may face more than the regular quotient of assholes in his young life – particularly once he starts school. Certainly we’ve already had clear signs that our son isn’t as integrated or accepted into the lives of extended family as the biological cousins from hetero families.  

Which makes my inner Raging Bitch Gay Papa From Hell start to spark and flame brighter than Richard Simmons at a Fatbusters convention.

But the trick for me is to keep hold of perspective. To let people know that they cannot fuck around with my son without walling him off from a world that is going to bump and jar him from time to time. And that’s really hard for me. People who have only seen my friendlier, welcoming side are frequently surprised to see my temper when I’m pushed too far.

But once I feel that someone is being intentionally cruel or ignorant, I tend to not only burn the bridges… I tear down the village, blacken the sky and salt the earth so nothing will ever grow there again.

And therein lies my challenge. Yes, Raging Bitch Gay Papa From Hell is a necessary and even welcome ally in raising my son. But at some point I need to discover my inner Mediating Peacemaker United Nations Papa.

And holy fuck that’s going to be a tough one.

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)