Does This Baby Make Me Look Straight?: Confessions of a Gay Dad (16 page)

Case in point: I come home after a particularly discouraging day at work to find the kids painting in their little smocks, swirling vibrant colors against paper clamped to the easel.

“Hey, that’s beautiful! Is that the sun?” I’m genuinely impressed.

“Yes. And the ocean. And a volcano. And a rainbow. See?” Eliza is proud of her work. I am too.

“I love it. May I have it?” I imagine it on a wall in my office.

“Nope. It’s for Papi,” she says, as though I should know better.

“Cool!” I say, forcing enthusiasm. “He’s going to love it.”

“You can have Jonah’s painting,” she offers, without looking up.

“No! Mine is for Abuela!” Jonah announces about his purple swirls.

“What a great idea! We’ll send it to her as soon as it dries,” I say, hiding my disappointment.

There are about two million works of art piled into a giant Tupperware tub in the back of our closet. I can have as many kids’ paintings as I want. But today, damn it, I want them to
want
to make the painting for me. “It’s the thought that counts.” And I’m all about being in their thoughts on this particular day and have somehow deluded myself into thinking that the painting is an accurate indicator of their love and appreciation for their daddy.

A particularly low point for me was a recent Valentine’s Day. The kids and I spent hours the night before, cutting out little hearts, gluing red fuzzies, feathers, and stickers on homemade valentines for classmates, babysitters, and teachers. We even made a beautiful painted frame with “I Love You” written all over it for Papi. We knew Don would
love
it. And he did. But the morning of Valentine’s Day, I looked around the kids’ room, I searched the table, the playroom, even the floor, and nowhere was there even a sign of a valentine for me. I knew it would be best to leave it alone. And a bigger person might.

“Hey, kids! Did you make a valentine for Daddy?” I forced out, half laughing at the absurdity of having to ask (well, of
course
they have a valentine for Daddy) and half sheer humiliation.

“Nope!” they announced proudly.

No? They
didn’t
? I started to feel something bubbling deep within me that I can only describe as a battle hymn. That’s right. My inner Tiger Mom was only wishing I
had
a card I could throw back in their faces to put a little more thought into. I’m tired of them getting off so easy. God forbid they feel a sense of duty and responsibility and gratitude. Damn it. And worse was forcing me to sound like a hundred-year-old curmudgeon blasting “kids these days.” I guess the real question: Why the fuck wouldn’t they
want
to make their daddy a Valentine’s Day card?

I was dying to ask them why. But that’s such a dangerous question. What are they supposed to say?
Because we don’t think of you; because we forgot; because we don’t like you; because you’ve put on a few pounds; because when it comes to the list of people we want to make valentines for, you’re in the C-loop, and we just didn’t get to the C-loop this year
. The truth is, they’re little kids. Who gives a shit? What does it matter? I know they love me. I
know
it. So forget about it. Who needs a stupid piece of paper with my name spelled wrong and a scribbly little heart drawn around it? It’s not a measure of how much my kids think of me—or love me. It’s not. I decided to let it go.

A minute later I was filled with hate. And not just for them. Why didn’t any of the other people in their lives encourage them to make their daddy a valentine? I clomped up the stairs to find Don.

“Do you know why the kids didn’t make me a valentine?”

Don looks up, almost bored. “I’m sure they did,” he says.

“I would know, don’t you think?”

“Maybe they forgot to give it to you.” He knows that’s not what happened.

“They didn’t forget. They just didn’t make me one,” I tell him.

“All right. Couldn’t matter less. It’s creepy for kids to give them to their parents. It’s a holiday for couples. And it’s not even a real holiday. It’s all crap.” Lucky for me, he’s never been a fan of Valentine’s Day.

“Spoken by a man with a giant valentine frame with feathers and tissue and glitter I was up until midnight hot-gluing so the kids could present it to you when they woke up.” I try not to sound bitter.

“Well, I loved it.” He smiles at me. Like that’s supposed to help.

“You’re their parent,” I say, as it occurs to me. “It’s your job to make sure they remember to make me a valentine. It’s a sign of respect.” I like the way that sounds as it comes out of my mouth—laying down the law. Like something a Tiger Mom might say. Or better yet, Anna Wintour.

“I guess I forgot. Okay. But anyway how’s that going to feel? When you know the kids are bringing out a card they made because I told them to?”

“Better than this hot-glue burn feels on the back of my hand.”

I walked out of the room, deciding again to let it go.

That afternoon, I was driving Eliza home from her school Valentine’s candy-palooza and she was stacking all the gifts and cards on her lap. I looked at her through the rearview. She was so cute putting them all in neat little stacks, deciding which lollipops to eat today and which
ones to save. I told myself,
Let it go. Don’t say anything. Don’t say ANYTHING . .
.

“Eliza?” I asked.
Don’t do it!
“It feels nice to get a valentine, doesn’t it?” She nodded, her mouth and tongue bright red from the cherry-flavored heart she was sucking on.
Don’t. Say. Another. Word
.

“Uh, quick question: why didn’t you make a valentine for Daddy?”
You did it, asshole! Couldn’t help yourself!

She looked at me. Very still. Like she was really taking in the question. Like she was about to say,
Oh my God. Daddy. I completely forgot. Will you ever forgive me?

Instead she gave it as much thought or weight as I should have given it in the first place. “Daddy. I have a great idea! If you let me have
one
more candy now, I will skip dessert after dinner.”

And when I saw the whole bag of stupid Disney ads masquerading as valentines in the trash at the end of the night, I realized where my real valentines were. They were fast asleep in their little beds upstairs, open books in their laps, lollipop sticks stuck in their hair, crashed out from all the sugar.

T
hat’s it, huh? If they don’t strip or do drugs, you’ll be happy?” My friend Cara busted me over chopped salads after I announced that I, like Chris Rock, merely want to “keep my kids off the pipe and the pole!” She could easily see through my bluster that I was way too neurotic to leave so much up to chance.

Cara has five kids. She doesn’t even think about parenting as something that needs to be addressed anymore. She feeds them. Gives them clothes. Helps them with their homework. Done. She says they can work the rest out in therapy. I envy her ability to surrender and, when I am with her, try to be just as cool. But it’s not me. I know it’s hard to believe, but I have a hard time with surrender. I’m constantly looking at my kids and worrying about what kind of life they’ll have when they’re grown. They are still too young for us to get any real sense of who they may become as adults. Right now they love to spin till they’re dizzy, jump naked on the beds, and sing “Shake my bootie, shake
my bootie.” One might say they’re a tequila shot away from dollar lap dances.

When Don and I first debated whether to adopt or use a surrogate, I remember discussing how many kids were being born each day that needed families. Foreign adoption was closed to us, so we chose open adoption. People often referred to it as heroic. But there are always more parents wanting to adopt newborns than there are newborns to adopt. There was nothing heroic about it. We wanted to become parents. Not to save anyone. Also, and less obvious maybe, was our discomfort with the idea of surrogacy. We wanted to avoid any awkwardness about a child who would be biologically linked to one of us and not the other. (“Look at little Andrew, he’s got cankles and throws like a girl! That’s got
you
written all over it!”)

But most appealing, I think, was this idea that we would be so filled with gratitude at having been able to have a family that we wouldn’t put as much pressure on ourselves or our children. We thought that after such a difficult and unconventional process, the gratitude would keep us from getting sucked into the rat race and the pressure to excel.

But in time, I’ve realized that it’s not enough. I’ve listened to other parents and watched enough soul-killing reality shows to know how much of it is out of our hands. What if we’ve done everything right? We love them and support them and get them a good education. And they’re socialized and confident and well-adjusted. And then they’re teenagers and have a bad day and look for comfort inside a crack pipe?

All the control I like to imagine I have is just bullshit I do to make up for the fact I actually have so little. The nature-versus-nurture
debate bubbles up again and again. Especially when you’ve gone the route of adoption.

Once my kids were in preschool, I became painfully aware of the
nature
part of the equation. Kids come hardwired with their own drives, interests, strengths, weaknesses, talents, shortcomings, and propensity or aptitude for learning. No matter what I do, I can’t reconfigure the DNA that makes them who they are. Which isn’t to say I don’t believe in the power of the environment in that whole nature/nurture tug-of-war. But so much of what colors the
way
we nurture may also have a genetic component as well.

Eliza and Jonah are surrounded by smart, dynamic, mature kids who’ve been reading since age two. I overheard one dad in the schoolyard the other day bragging about how his son’s Mandarin teacher took him to eat dim sum, “and little Matthew ordered in Chinese! You believe that?” No. I don’t. Another four-year-old in Jonah’s preschool class is already playing the violin. I want to tell everyone to fuck off and let these kids be kids. But that’s just what all the parents say whose preschoolers
aren’t
playing instruments while conjugating verbs in Latin. We’ve been reassured by their teachers that kids learn at different rates and that eventually it all evens out. It’s not easy to see, yet, what kind of learners my kids are going to be. Especially since, like their two dads, they
hate
feeling like they’re being evaluated.

I never learn, though. I’ll be holding up a Montessori board with the letter
A
on it. “What letter is this, Jonah?” He laughs and says, “Poo poo.” That’s appropriate, he is just being a four-year-old boy.
Appropriate
, incidentally, begins with the letter
A
. How hard is that?
When should he know his
alphabet?
I wonder.
Or does he already know it and want me to bugger off?

“Jonah, seriously, what letter is this?” Jonah looks at it, processes it, and decides:
“T!”
He moves on to a giant yoga ball and pounds it with a wiffle bat. I’m pretty sure he’s imagining the yoga ball is my face. Tell me he doesn’t notice the frantic, sweaty look in my eyes that probably makes him want to slam shut and pack it in.

I try to remain calm as I turn my attention to Eliza’s schoolwork. It’s a short reading comprehension exercise. Only two sentences. And then I have to ask her three simple questions. Oh, how I hope she remembers what I’m about to read. I’ll do it cleverly. I’ll make it a game.

“Oh, this’ll be fun,” I say to her, but already she sees right through it. “I’m going to tell you some fun little secrets about a girl named Mary and then I’ll pretend I don’t remember and you can remind me!” I start to read.

“‘Mary went to the store on Monday. She needed to buy a bag of apples.’ Got it?” I ask her, smiling.

Eliza looks at me. She so doesn’t feel like playing this “game” with her daddy. But it’s homework, so she’d better get used to it.

“Shoot. I forgot who went to the store.” I look to her for the answer.

After a beat, Eliza responds, “Bag.” I look to see if she’s kidding. Please be kidding.

“Can I use your iPad?” she asks.

“Not yet, sweetie, let’s just do this one fun activity. Ready? Listen carefully:
Mary
bought
apples
at the store. So, what did Mary buy?”

I should just accept that she’s not into it. Take my cues from my child. That’s the right way to handle this. But how will she get into college if she doesn’t know where Mary went? Everyone knows that
Mary
went
to the store
. I just said it a second ago. She’s buying apples. Mary fucking loves apples. It’s all she ever buys.

“It’s apples, sweetie, remember? And who is buying the apples?” Eliza can’t remember. Can’t? Or won’t. Maybe this is all just a plan to mess with me and make me crazy. If it is, it’s worked. I give up and hand her the iPad.

I wish I could be more like Cara and just leave them alone, but have you ever watched the show
Intervention
on A&E? It used to be our favorite show in that fishbowl kind of way. We were on the outside, looking in. That was until we had kids. But now? I’m in the fishbowl, people. The show does nothing but torment me. All I do is think how all those drug addicts out there have parents. Sure, some of the parents were abusive boozers and drug addicts themselves. I’m not talking about them. I’m talking about the other ones. The ones who may as well be me. The ones who always did their best, put their kids first, had the noblest of intentions, and then found a crack pipe in the bottom of their kids’ backpacks.

Every episode of
Intervention
begins with some twenty-two-year-old smoking crack or meth, shooting up, or inhaling Dust-Off spray. Then we hear about how they sell their bodies for drugs and only come home to their parents when they’ve run out of food or clothes or money for drugs and need a place to crash after a four-night drug binge with homeless crackheads with whom they’ve been
having sex and to whom they are quite possibly engaged to marry.