David Hockney Can Suck My Gay Parenting Activist Dick.

So David Hockney thinks I’m boring. Not only that, but the septuagenarian artist snarked this week that I and my LGBT parenting peers were single-handedly destroying gay culture.

Wow. If I’d known I wielded that much power, I would have begun my campaign against men’s plaid shorty-shorts back when they made their first unfortunate appearance at a Pride Parade.

 Hockney made these hackneyed comments (see what I did there?) earlier this week, while bemoaning the demise of the glorious gay times: drugs, booze, sex and ciggies (he’s also a big pro-smoking advocate). He mocks me and my ilk for wanting to be normal, to be accepted, to fit in.

Well, newsflash Hock: we gay parents don’t fit in. Not even a little.

You know where I would fit in? On Church Street, or, really, anywhere else in the downtown Toronto area. It’s easy to be a gay man there. Sure we might catch the occasional flak from Oshawa tourists who have strayed too far from the Skydome, but by and large we’re as ubiquitous as leather chaps at a Dyke march.

But try parking your ass at a daycare parenting meeting, where some parents (and occasionally the administration) equate male homosexuality with pedophilia, and treat you like a Weight Watchers alumni set loose at the church’s annual bake sale.

Trust me, there are enough crucifixes and headscarves proudly on display to let you know that religion plays an important role in these families’ lives – and my people are generally not amongst the Almighty’s chosen ones, no matter what the ecclesiastic flavour. After all, nothing unites God’s diverse flocks faster than the shared hatred of homos.

Also interesting when filling out medical forms. Or registering my son for school. Or visiting the dentist. Or taking him to sit on Santa’s knee. Or trying to arrange playdates with the suspicious mother of your son’s favourite friend.

Fit in? As if.

If my sole desire in life was to fit in, I would be sitting on a Church Street patio, drinking martinis and debating whether Madonna is a brave pioneer for middle-aged women’s sexuality, or a tacky has-been who should seriously reconsider wearing a matador outfit in public.

If all I wanted was normalcy in my life, I would avoid all family gatherings, and focus on the close group of friends I’ve gathered through the years who don’t make snarky comments, exclude me and mine, or treat non-heteros like second (and frequently, third) class citizens.

I did not become a parent to be normal. I didn’t want to have a life ‘just like everyone else.’ And I certainly didn’t imagine myself to be striving for some sort of heteronormative lifestyle. How utterly stupid to even conceive of such a thing.

I became a parent because I love kids. I love watching them grow. I love teaching them. I love learning from them. And I wanted to be a part of that in a close, intimate way.

I will state unequivocally that it is harder to be a gay parent. You never fit in. You are never totally accepted. You will never be seen as legitimate. You will hopefully be tolerated, occasionally supported and rarely celebrated. 

You fight for every right, and dread the inevitable opposition from religious nuts, bigots and just plain ignorant folk. You out yourself in potentially hostile situations every time your kid says “Papa” and “Daddy” to yourself and your partner in public. Hell, when you’re as femmie as I am, just holding your child’s hand in public is enough to get stares and the occasional sneer.

Gay parenting is not for the faint of heart, or for those looking for normalcy and an easy life. It is activism, every goddamn day, in the most unexpected forums and environments. You don’t want to do it? Mazel tov. Whatever floats your boat. More power to ye.

But holy hell, do not try to tell me that some famous artist rolling around in mounds of cash and his own self-importance has any say over whether or not I am killing gay culture.

I am gay culture, you absolute bastard, and if you don’t like it, you can suck my gay parenting activist dick until you spit rainbows and fart unicorn piss.  

Sorry Virginia, There is no Sanity Clause

But there used to be. Seriously, what the absolute fuck is going on in that godforsaken state? Granted, the standard of sanity was already set fairly low, what with its reputation for gun fanatics, school shootings, removal of protections for LGBT folks and anti-choice legislation. Toss in a healthy dose of climate-change deniers and it’s clear that America’s tenth state is populated largely by mouth breathers and inbred families with plenty of ‘Uncle Daddies’ and ‘Cousin Mommies.’

And now there’s this latest push to legalize refusal of hospital care, education, emergency services or emergency pedicures to poofters and carpet munchers that is so extreme that it could almost be satire.

But it isn’t.

Virginia Governor Bob Mcdonnell’s recent removal of state protection towards LGBT citizens rescinds an amendment made by previous Governor Tim Kaine in crafting in the state’s anti-discrimination laws. Bye bye sanity clause, hello “No Gays Allowed” signs.

It’s hard to imagine any sane legislators looking at the international uproar over Indiana’s recent anti-gay legal push and thinking “Yeah, let’s get us some of that there! Those corporate boycotts and expressions of rage against legislated bigotry are sure to make our lives better!”

Idiots.

The scary thing is that Virginia’s further descent into born-again nutjob territory has managed to make Indiana’s efforts to ‘protect’ Christian businesses from gay customers look positively quaint in comparison.

And so we cross yet another safe travel destination off our list.

Now, I’ll admit, Virginia didn’t exactly rank high up on our list of desirable vacation spots. It’s humid, dull and populated by people who think it conceivable that there were dinosaurs present at the nativity (what with the earth only being 6000 years old). But then again, Professor D’s mom and her relatives are all from this inbred mecca, and there have been several visits over the years for family events, funerals etc.

No more. Can’t chance it with a kid in tow. I shudder to imagine the potential disaster of two gay dads walking hand-in-hand with their adopted son through a mall. Or through immigration. Or anywhere, really.

Harder to stomach are more desirable destinations like Russia, Venezuela, Peru, Egypt or any non-British Caribbean vacation hotspot. A week of Jamaican sun just isn’t worth the chance at 10 years hard labour, nor does a fortnight in Barbados outweigh the high potential of lifelong imprisonment. 

No thanks.

There are still some safe places, of course. Apparently Cuba is pretty cool with LGBT folks, while Mexico balances out the homophobia of Chiapas with relative safe places like Riviera Maya and Puerto Vallarta.

And of course there’s always Amsterdam, where tulips and dykes of all sorts are celebrated.

But what about the rest of the world? I can’t help but think it’s going to be a little tricky helping Pre-Schooler N with geography homework, explaining that we can’t go to so many places simply because we’re a Queer family. He’s already fascinated with maps and globes, asking about different countries and regions. It’s only a matter of time before he starts asking why we can’t go to so many of the places his grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins can (and do visit).

Which opens up a whole new ball of tangled personal politics: how to explain to my son that the support we experience from our friends and families occasionally does not extend to those freezing winter months when one just simply MUST escape the snow for a little holiday. Of course it’s a shame that the homos aren’t allowed here too, but who could argue with this fifty cent margarita!?

I guess I can’t. Nor do I wish to. At some point my kid’s going to learn that even in the current best-case scenarios, we are still very much second-class citizens. And he, like so many LGBT, Aboriginal, Jewish or African folk before him, will still have to occasionally watch his friends and family hand money over to people and institutions who want us to cease to exist. For a cheap margarita. Or a steal-of-a-deal last minute week in the sun. Or just because they don’t actually give a shit, when it comes right down to it.

So fuck you Virginia. You killed the sanity clause, you inbred hillbilly Grinch. 

Oh, and your state flag is too tacky for words. Nyah.

La Dolce Idiota (and Gabbana too)

“How were we built?”

Unlike so many of the unexpected questions posed by my son (“what if grown-ups wore diapers,” or my personal favourite: “How does Thomas the Train poop?”), this is one I’m sort of prepared to answer. All kids eventually wonder where they came from, and, given Pre-Schooler N’s complicated lineage, there’s been quite a lot of discussion, research and introspection involved in providing a response that will satisfy without adding further confusion.

Plus, at least it wasn’t the granddaddy of dreaded queries: “Why don’t I have a mommy.” That one terrifies me, frankly. So this seemed like a nice, easy beginning. I can’t have him believing he came out of my stomach, no matter how many stretch marks seem to indicate the possibility.

“We grow inside a lady’s tummy, just like Auntie H’s baby did before he was born.”

“Oh.”

Several beats.

Then the return to my child’s latest ablutionary fascination: “Do we wear diapers in there?”                                                                                                     

Easy enough, really. Certainly nothing on the scale of poor Elton John, under attack from gay designer duo Dolce and Gabanna this week, who blithely opined that children conceived through IVF were “synthetic” and unnatural.

Now, as an adoptive parent, I truly haven’t formulated much of an opinion when it comes to In Vitro Fertilization. It was never an option in my quest to become a parent, given my reluctance to pass down a genetic predisposition to insanity, bitterness and turkey-waddle neck. But it was the designers’ view that adoption is cruel to the baby’s mother that did stick with me.

Because I get it. I really do. It is cruel that a child is taken from its mother. And certainly our own country has lots of history when it comes to purloining babies from their First Nations mothers throughout the 60s, 70s and even 80s. It’s cruel and inhumane. But it’s also, in my opinion, absolutely necessary.

Because as sad as such an event is, I believe it is far sadder to leave a child in an environment rife with drugs, abuse both physical and emotional, and squalid neglect. And that’s precisely where Pre-Schooler N would be if the province hadn't stepped in and removed him at birth from a woman whose nightmarish existence had already been visited upon 5 other innocent kids, each one now living safely away from her, but scarred forever by the experience.

I met Pre-Schooler N’s birth parents just once, while we were still just his foster family. The birth mother was frenetic and clearly unbalanced at this supervised visit in the Social Services building. It was an exercise in alarm and panic, watching her jamming food into N’s 14 month old mouth until he choked before trying to take him down the hall on her own. It was the second time she had seen him since his birth, given her penchant for cancelling scheduled visits that coincided with frequent topples off the sobriety wagon. The birth father was there as well: an abusive giant, glowering silently while filming the entire event on his iPhone – an action that haunts me to this day.

That is where my happy, cheerful and loving boy might have ended up. And that is the greatest cruelty of all.

I've rarely gotten any direct flak from others critical of our adopting a First Nations boy. But I shave certainly heard the occasional rumblings, passed on by ‘concerned’ friends and neighbours, delighted to witness any emotional fallout from these second-hand salvos.

But it means nothing to me. Not a damn bit.

Not because I know that we did the right thing in adopting our son and giving him a permanent home, avoiding the turmoil of being passed from foster home to foster home or, worse still, back to his dangerous birth parents.  

Nor because my biological grandfather was First Nations, rendering any race-related arguments moot. And certainly not because I’d rather suck shit out of a cat’s asshole than try to live up to a multi-millionaire clothing designer’s idea of normal.

It was the right thing to do because my son smiles all the time. And laughs with great bellyfuls of air and mirth. And touches my face tenderly at night before falling asleep. It was right because he is the most important thing in our lives, and we would do anything to keep him safe.

And there’s nothing synthetic or cruel about that at all.

Just plain wonderful.

My son's Valentine to me

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