Does This Baby Make Me Look Straight?: Confessions of a Gay Dad (11 page)

“No,” Don answers, cutting me off. Another long beat. I can’t let it go.

“Would you ever—?”

“No.” And that’s that. Case closed.

We’re just not those guys
. And that’s okay. I look over at Don, and feel so relieved we have each other. And after all these years that we’ve been able to trust each other long enough to build a family together.
I’m happy
. Isn’t that what’s important? I don’t want anyone else in our bed unless it’s just our kids, who crawl in after a bad dream or for a little morning cozy time.

We get home and I get ready for bed. Brush. Floss. Mouth guard. Eczema cream. Mmm, sexy. Hand cream. Heel balm. Trim the eyebrow hair that looks like it’s trying to get jiggy with the one sprouting out of my ear. Be older, Dan. Anti-aging face cream. Anti-aging neck cream. Eye serum for fine lines and puffiness. Then I see the razor sitting on the counter by the sink.

It calls to me:
Come on, Dan, I dare you. Do it, Dan. Do it. What’re you, afraid?

I lock the door, grab the razor, and drop my shorts. Here we go. First few seconds, no problem. Wow. That
is
smooth. I
am
that guy. I’m that guy!

I take my eye off the ball(s) for one second to smile proudly at myself in the mirror and
ouch!
Fuck! The blade
goes over a bump. There’s so much blood! I wrap with tissue and pull my shorts up. I did
not
just do that . . . I’m not standing in my own bathroom with one shaved ball and a lot of blood and—
shit!
Not only am I not that guy, now I’m the guy who tried to be some
other
guy by shaving his balls instead of owning the fact he’s not that guy and being okay with the guy he is.

I’ll pretend it never happened
, I think.
It’ll grow back
. I put all thoughts of “that guy” out of my head and run out of the bathroom. Don looks up at me.

“You were in there a long time. You feeling okay?”

“Oh, yeah. No. I wasn’t sitting on the—I mean, yeah, I’m fine. I was clipping my—I had my razor and I dropped my—I’m thinking maybe we should get a small fridge in the bathroom—for cold water and maybe some ice. You know?”

He looks at me, oddly
not
surprised that I sound like a crazy man.

“I’m going in to do story time with the kids,” I say, putting an end to the whole thing.

I get to the kids’ room and sit between them on the tiny love seat. Each puts their head on a shoulder. Best moment of the day. Certainly of
this
day. I open my favorite book and start to read: “One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish . . .”

Maybe it was the loss of blood, but my mind raced to another of the boys’ stories about some hunky guy at the train station who came home with them.

“Read it, Daddy!” The kids can tell I’m distracted. I try to focus.

“One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish. Big fish, small fish,
old fish, three-way . . .” Yep. They met this guy at the station. And apparently they almost had sex on the train.

“Daddy! Read!”

I pick up a different book. “I do not like green eggs and ham. I would not eat them in the rain. I would not eat them on a train.” On a train, huh? “I do not like them, Sam I am.” I’m not Sam. Who is Sam? Is he cute? Do you think he’d want to have a three-way?

“Daddy!”

I have to stop. I can’t keep thinking about this. I look at my kids’ beautiful faces. What’s wrong with me?
Why on earth would
I want anything more than what I have right now?

I do not want to be that guy who has a three-way, I can’t lie. I do not want him in my house. I do not want him with my spouse. I’m happy with the guy I’ve got and playing Daddy, wiping snot. I do not like green eggs and ham. I’ve learned to like the man I am. I am not short, I am not tall . . . I’m just the guy with one smooth ball.

D
o you love Jonah, Daddy?” Eliza so innocently asked from the back of the car.

“Why do you ask, honey? Do you think I’m mad at him?”

“No, silly Daddy!” She laughed. “But do you super much love Jonah?” she further investigated. I wondered if I should correct her grammar. It was way too cute. Like when she says “It very hurts.” I’ll hate it when she stops. But that’s what videotape is for, and she does have to get into college.

I smiled as I figured out what this love prodding was all about. Obviously a sly little plan to curry favor with her daddy so she could feel a tiny bit more special than her brother, entitling her, perhaps, to a bigger helping of dessert or an extra sheet of Trader Joe’s dried seaweed snack. (Don’t ask me why the kids love these. I’m just so grateful they’re made of actual seaweed and not some corn-syrupy gummy snack that’ll turn her tongue green.)

“Of course I love Jonah, sweetie,” I said, “he’s my boy. And you’re my girl. I love you both—”

“Just the same,” she finished my sentence with the preschool equivalent of an eye roll. She’d heard this many times
before, just as I’d heard it hundreds of times from my parents when my sister and I used to ask whom
they
loved more. I smiled.

“Yes, honey, just the same. And more than you can ever imagine.”

And then, as she gazed out the window through her Tinkerbell kaleidoscope—the remains of a goodie bag she found under her booster seat—she said, “Even though Jonah doesn’t want you?”

I almost drove into a mailbox. “What, sweetie?” I was unsuccessfully trying to keep the panic out of my voice. She repeated it. I processed the words slowly in my head. What on earth was she thinking? Of course I had to consider the source, yet I suddenly got a sinking feeling I remembered from my first job waiting tables in New York at the Manhattan Chili Company. After a week of watching me drop ponderous bowls of chili on the floor as I tried to balance ramekins of chopped onions on the knuckle of my thumb, the staff prepped me for my inevitable firing. Had Jonah been slipping hints to his sister that “things weren’t working out”; I may not be cut out for this kind of work; and he was going to have to consider “making a change”?

Fuck that. I’m the daddy
, I told myself, my grown-up maturity, self-confidence, and authority at war with a ridiculous yet deep-seated need for my kids’ approval.

“What do you mean, he doesn’t ‘want’ me?” I asked, through my very best trying-to-act-casual laughter. Eliza explained.

“Jonah only wants Papi to put him to bed. Not you. Papi. Only Papi.”

Now I could see where this was coming from. And it was true, around this time Jonah was going through a particularly intense bonding thing with Don. It was amazing, actually, how Jonah would call Don his “buddy” and he’d look for him first in any room. It was heartwarming and sweet. I loved seeing how bonded he was to his papi. Did I have the occasional pang of jealousy? Sure. But I knew kids go through phases. Sometimes Papi is the favorite. “Sometimes” as in “sometimes the sun comes up in the morning.” And
sometimes
Jonah asks for Daddy. “Sometimes” as in “sometimes there is an earthquake in your backyard.”

“Eliza, that’s okay. Sometimes you want Papi and sometimes you want Daddy. And the same goes for Jonah. We all love each other. It’s okay.” And of course what I said to her was true. But if I had to be honest, there are times it doesn’t exactly feel like a warm bath of love when the kids would only seem to want Don to do bedtime, read stories, sit next to them, you name it.

“Papi, can I drive in your car?” Jonah whines.

“Me too!” Eliza pipes in.

“No, Jonah, today you’re driving with Daddy!” Explosion of tears.

Or in the morning: “Papi, sit next to me!” Eliza calls out.

“No, Eliza. Papi sits next to me!” Jonah argues.

“I asked first!” Eliza’s voice gets louder.

“
No!
You got to last time!” Jonah now shouts.

Don squeezes between them on the bench. “Look, guys! You can both sit next to Papi.” The kids smile from ear to ear. So does he, and I’m not sure he’s trying to hide it.

Hooray! Yippee! Papi saved us from having to sit next to
mean, stinky, boring Daddy, who played with us all morning before making pancakes and then balloon animals and who looks like he’s tired and possibly a few pounds heavier than he was yesterday! I’m not actually so shallow as to think the kids don’t love me. Of course they do. One kid inevitably wants one parent over another. And I love Don. And he loves me. But I still can’t help that feeling from childhood, deep within me, of not wanting to be picked last or to be blamed for things I didn’t do.

A while back we took the kids out for pizza. They split a small pie but it was a lot. We packed up Jonah’s extra piece to take home. On our way out of the restaurant we saw a homeless man sitting against a parking sign. Don took the bag with the extra slice and gave it to the man. Jonah had mixed feelings about it, to say the least. But Don turned it into a teaching moment. Last week we happened to be passing the pizza place and Jonah, out of the blue, asked me why I gave his pizza away.

“I didn’t, pal. Remember? Papi gave it to the homeless man,” I explained.

“No!
You
gave it away, Daddy!” He started to cry.

“Oh, Jonah. I get that you want that pizza now. But it was a nice thing for Papi to do. Papi gave that pizza to the homeless man. Not me. Papi.” I tried to stay cool.

Don laughed. “What can I say? I can do no wrong in his eyes,” he gloated. “It’s called diplomatic immunity!” But I wasn’t about to take the rap for someone else’s crime.

“It was Papi, sweetie.
Papi
gave it away.”

“No, Daddy. It was
you. You
gave my pizza to the man!”

“It was not!” I sounded like I too was only four years old.
I laughed uncomfortably. Don found it hilarious. Sure. Because he was the one getting away with murder! How did he do it? I tried not to hate my husband for this innate ability to curry favor.

Lately Don’s been offering the kids his iPod Touch to watch movies or TV or to play a game while they’re in his car. I don’t let the kids watch TV in the car because I think they watch enough television, frankly, and I enjoy my time in the car conversing with them, playing music, singing songs, or just listening to them talk to each other. Is my way better? Natch. I get full points for that one. If I could only get them into my car!

Dan:
“Don. Tell them they can’t watch in your car so that they don’t throw a fit when I say I’m driving.”

Don:
“I’m not doing that. I don’t have the same fear of them watching iPods in the car.”

Dan:
“Um, it’s not a fear, actually. It’s called ‘guidance.’ A healthier choice. But you offer any kid on the planet a car made of cookies, gumdrops, iPods, and baby bunnies, and they’ll want that car!”

Don:
“So what does that tell you?”

Dan:
“Just because they like it more doesn’t mean it’s better for them!”

Don:
“And just because they hate it, doesn’t make it the healthier choice.”

Dan:
“Hate. Wow. Okay.
Fine!
You win!”

Don:
“Feels better to say it out loud, doesn’t it?”

Are we more competitive with each other because we’re both men? I don’t know. I only have my own experience by
which to gauge. I know Don grew up willing to throw almost anyone under the bus, even the bus driver, if it ensured him an A+, front seat, top tier, gold star. And where was I? Just as competitive, fighting to rescue that bus driver under the tire, so maybe I’d get singled out as a hero—possibly with a piece about me on the eleven o’clock news.

But I don’t think I was born this way. It was something I learned. As a kid. The way kids pick up things from parents who want them so desperately to feel like winners because the parents so clearly don’t. Like Jonah, I too have an older sister. But here’s the thing: I don’t recall feeling competitive with her as a kid. I mean, we both clearly waged an unconscious war for the attentions of our parents. But it never felt like my goal was to beat her. I was the baby, a full three and a half years younger, so I was able to squeeze some extra points out of that. I was always singing for my supper, putting on shows, acting like a clown, and generally trying to overcompensate for the fragile, anxious, bed-wetting gay boy in training (GBIT) that I was. I managed to get a lot of attention from my parents, thanks to both the anxiety and the clowning. Did my sister resent me for it? Probably. So I overcompensated. I supported her when she was struggling and I tried to lift her spirits when she was down.

One of my earliest GBIT memories is of her winning the Barbie beauty pageant held by her friends in our building in Manhattan. Even at four I remember feeling a pure joy and relief I’ve rarely felt, if ever, since. I was similarly invested in my sister’s winning a spot on the junior varsity cheerleading squad. I almost cried when she made the squad. Perhaps, sadly, maybe even happier than she was about it.

“Smile more this time!” I’d coach. “Louder! Say it like you
mean
it! And the left leg is starting to lag on the eagle jumps. You’re going to want to watch that.” She’d jump and cheer, then look at me for feedback.

“Good! Do it again!” I’d shout. She’d jump and cheer.

“That’s it! Yes! You’re awesome,” I’d cheer back at her. I remember feeling happy. Like it was us against the world and we would be okay as long as we stuck together. Perhaps seeing nearly everyone else as an obstacle to my happiness wasn’t the healthiest of attitudes, but it did foster a drive to work together with a partner against a common enemy.

So why now all these years later does this competitive drive of mine surprise me so much in my relationship with another man, living, working, raising a family? It doesn’t always feel like we’re working together against a common enemy. It’s trickier, navigating the power in our marriage and our roles as parents. Who decides what? Who compromises? I think there are certain unwritten rules in the straight-parent couples I know. Dad’s voice is heard but Mom’s is listened to. She dictates the schedule, the menu, and the itinerary. The who/what/where and when. And Dad doesn’t even try. But in a same-sex couple? It can sometimes feel like two magnets approaching each other from the wrong sides. Here’s a conversation Don and I have had, sadly, more than once: