Does This Baby Make Me Look Straight?: Confessions of a Gay Dad (20 page)

I remember the day Don and I told him we were expecting another baby and we wanted to name it after him. It felt
important to let him know that there was a new life coming into our lives at a time when we were clearly losing another. He seemed to take this in. But I can’t ever be sure.

I never imagined, when we had Eliza, that her grandfather, her “abuelo,” was someone she’d meet a mere
ten times
in her life. That he would become someone she and Jonah would know only through stories and photos. It was the same way I had learned about my grandfathers, who had both died by the time I was two. We have a little book of photos of Eliza taken with my parents, and she used to love to flip through it when she’d be sitting in her car seat. I’d look into the rearview mirror and say, “That’s your abuelo!”—trying desperately to make it stick somewhere deep inside her. So she’d know how much he loved her. So she’d know
something
about him. I knew I’d be doing that a lot with the kids until they both recognized him on their own.

But what about him could I pass along to my kids either consciously or not? With adopted kids, I couldn’t help wondering how my father could become a part of them. Maybe he wouldn’t. Or maybe something about the kind of parent I’ve become, passed on to me from him, would naturally be passed on to them? I could only hope.

As the days crept toward the inevitable, my feelings about both my daughter and my dad were so raw. I wasn’t used to feeling this exposed. Loving them both so completely, unconditionally, and vulnerably was scary. It almost didn’t feel natural, really, to be so open and unprotected. But it was much bigger than me. Bigger than all of us. I think my succumbing to the reality that he was dying was part of nature’s plan.

I was never very physical with my father. But over those last three months I found myself hugging him when I had the chance. Kissing him on the cheek or the forehead. A hand massage. A foot massage. I’d clip his nails or rub his shoulders, far more intimate than I’d ever imagined being with him. But things were different. He’d just look up at me, at all of us, so helplessly. The way Eliza looked up at us from the moment she could focus her eyes.

“It’s going to be okay,” I’d say to him—the way I’d say it to Eliza—as I’d tuck him in. I’d feed him, just as he had fed Eliza those first few bites on his seventy-first birthday. He seemed to take comfort in having me there with him as he ate. The care I gave him felt like something primal. Dare I say, maternal?

But he never stopped being my dad. And I know he kept reminding himself of that fact. One time, he turned to the nurse who’d been living there for over a month and managed to whisper to her, “That’s my son.”

“I know, Julio.” She smiled at him sympathetically. “I know your son.”

His response? “I just like to say it.”

I was his son. He was my father. I was Eliza’s father. But oddly, my role had become the same in both their lives. You see adult diapers on the shelves at the store not far from the baby ones. But it doesn’t really sink in, until you’re living it. And that’s when it sank in for me—the first time I saw my dad wearing a diaper, needing to be changed. And me, averting my eyes out of respect.

He’d hate me to see him this way
, I’d think. But he didn’t even notice because he wasn’t there anymore.

I had always prayed I’d get through most of my life without ever having to see my father naked. You know, beyond the accidental glimpse in a public bathroom or passing by his bedroom at some point in my life. But honestly, what’s the big deal? It’s a penis. Okay, I said it. I was beyond the awkwardness now, wasn’t I? No. Because it didn’t matter what it was called. I didn’t want to see it. Not when it was my father’s.

But there he was, lying on his bed. Half-asleep. And I was the only one there to help change him. Deep breaths. It can’t be worse for me than it is for him, right?

“It’s going to be okay,” I told him, or I told myself. And it was. And I got over it. I got over all of it. Time to grow up. This is what it is. Call it by its name. It’s a “penis.” And this is “dying.”

My dad passed away a few weeks later, in his sleep, with all of us by his side. It was time. The few days before his death, Eliza kept entering his room. I’d pick her up and she’d stare at my father. Almost knowingly. I couldn’t have gotten through it without her. She was a tiny, bright light in the darkest of tunnels. So much life in her. And strength. And humor. She’d lay a little Kleenex down on the bed and ask you to rest your head on it. And just before you’d make contact, she’d pull it away and laugh. A prankster. Just like me. And just like my dad. When he got sick and he quite literally lost what power he had left, his worst nightmare had come true. Not that he was dying—that’s everyone’s nightmare of course—but that he’d become small. Smaller than ever before.

The irony, looking back, is that my father was always quite
big
. He had a great personality, loads of charisma, and a big presence. He loved the act of leading, teaching, inspiring,
supporting, and encouraging. It’s how he was with me. I remember when he taught me to drive. He couldn’t wait for us to get out there and begin his signature, six-month intensive lesson plan. First day, lesson one. He drove me out to a giant parking lot, parked the car, we both got out, and I got into the driver’s seat. He told me to turn on the ignition. I did. He told me to turn off the ignition. I did. He opened the car door and got out and told me to do the same. Lesson one was over. I was furious but I learned how to drive that way. In fact, I learned a lot as a result of his thorough and patient manner. Look at that. He was a pretty damn good coach after all.

•   •   •

The next morning, after I made the pancakes, the kids asked me where I put the box of our dog’s ashes. Together we chose a spot on the mantel by their trophies and dioramas. It was in that moment that I made a decision.

“Come on, guys, I want you to help Daddy with something.” The kids skipped up the stairs with me and into my bedroom. I dragged The Box out of my closet and into the middle of the floor. I told them it was a box of treasures left by their abuelo. Their eyes widened, a mix of excitement and a little nervousness at the mystery and reverence of it all. I told them I wanted them there for support but also as an opportunity to tell them a little about him. I showed them a photo of him. Jonah looked at it and at me.

“That’s your daddy?” I nodded. “And he’s dead?” I know the notion of daddies being able to die is stressful for them. They’re not the only ones.

I impressed upon them that “Abuelo was very old and very sick. And I’m not going to die for a very, very long time.” I said it so my words could be imprinted in their minds, and hopefully into Fate itself. But they were not thinking about that.

“Will you make a box of prizes for us when
you
die?” Eliza asked. She was after more swag. Typical.

“Yes, monkey.” I laughed.
Is nobody upset that Daddy is dead in this little scenario?
“I will make you guys a box with so many wonderful things.” There was a beat. Eliza looked to Jonah, then back to me.

“Maybe you’ll die before Papi?” I didn’t like where this was going.

It was a good time to turn back to the box, which, as it turned out, was something of a time capsule, or a
human
capsule of sorts—a catalog of various aspects of my dad’s personality.

First, a bunch of business cards in a little leather holder. I immediately smiled, because my dad always seemed to put the cart before the horse and get cards printed each time he found a new way of defining his career. “Julio Bucatinsky. Systems Strategist and Counselor” read one. “Julio Bucatinsky. Management Coaching” read another. No wonder when I was ten years old and my dad encouraged me to become a magician, I made “The Great Houdanni” business cards before I ever learned to palm a coin. Eliza wanted to keep this one. I pulled out the cards and handed her the little wallet. I imagined my six-year-old’s business cards, printed in pink, of course. What would they say? “Eliza Bucatinsky. Making bubbles underwater since 2005.”

The second item in the box was a stack of notebooks, each with writing only on the first page. The rest were blank. He had wanted to be a writer more than anything else. I often feel an odd twinge of pride and guilt that I’ve been able to fulfill that particular dream. I turned to the first page of one of the notebooks and was immediately startled by how just the sight of his handwriting seemed to bring him back. I could hear his voice.

The third item in the box was a small netted bag of three cloth balls. A juggling kit. Jonah picked them up. “Look! Abuelo put something in the box for us!”

I swallowed hard. “Yes, Jonah. He wanted you to have those.” Jonah immediately pulled the balls out of the bag and dropped them down his shirt. Just like I used to do when I was a kid.

Next, I found a leather satchel I had bought for him when I was in Italy shooting
Under the Tuscan Sun
. I only now remember buying the beautiful messenger bag, a writer’s bag, really, for my dad. I never imagined it would turn up in my hands again. In one of the pockets of the bag, another business card: “TechMar Consulting Group.” My dad was the only one in the “Group” but that didn’t stop him.

Eliza reached for the last item in the box. It was a multicolored hammock. Folded up. My dad loved tying it between two trees to create a quiet, personal space for him to read or think or smoke a cigar. The kids asked me to put the hammock up in their bedroom. There was no way that would ever work.

I immediately said yes.

I
’m in the kitchen with Eliza and she’s playing a pinball game on my iPad to distract herself as I comb out the knots she accrued in her bed last night. I blew off giving her a shower and shampoo after our day at the beach. Bad call. Eliza has fine hair that’s very,
very
blond. And a day at the beach means it gets gnarly with sunscreen, sand, and possibly a hermit crab or two.

“Ow,” she screams every three or four minutes, “Daddy, stop!” I hate how it hurts her but also suspect she’s developed a penchant for the dramatic from the guy who’s holding the comb. Regardless of the struggles, I usually enjoy this time with her each morning. When we’re not in a hurry it can actually be quiet and intimate, my left hand on her head, the other moving slowly through the strands of hair. But it’s also a tenuous balance to carefully avoid a snag, which is like stepping on a land mine in an otherwise tranquil forest. At long last, the knots are out and her hair is ready for styling. And there’s nothing
not
fun about a full head of blond hair waiting to be sculpted into a style, clipped, tied, or braided.

What is it about gay men and doing hair? Yes, it’s a cliché and a stereotype, which means there’s truth in it. But I
would no sooner allow myself to be defined by my proclivity for liking a cute hairstyle than I would by my proclivity for sleeping with a man. They are among many truths about myself that I’m happy to own rather than deny. Among all the other reasons we were happy to be having a girl, we also knew we’d get to realize a childhood dream: long, silky hair of our very own to brush!

Not every hairdresser is gay. And of course, not every gay person is a hairdresser. That being said, I’d venture to say
most
of us notice hair. We have an opinion about it, whether it’s a particularly cute coif or a hot, ratty mess. If the eyes are the windows to the soul, then hair is the set of drapes. So when the hair equation includes two dads, their six-year-old blond daughter, and a bottle of detangler, the battle for the comb is inevitable.

I hear Don coming down the stairs. I’d better hurry, because he loves doing our daughter’s hair even more than I do and is likely to rip the comb from my hand. He’s a master of the comb-out and I tend to be the style guy. But I’ve hijacked the comb this morning and pray I’ve gotten away with it. I pull the sides of her hair together in the back and start braiding it.

“Looks cute,” Don says. He means it. But there’s also a look in his eye that says,
Lucky bitch, how’d you get to her before I did?
Don dips a comb in some water and starts working it through our son’s hair. Jonah’s is short. He’s a boy. So he’s done in about four seconds. I pretend not to gloat that I got to Eliza before he did. He pretends not to care. But he does. And I do. Way too much.

When I was a kid, I used to put my footie pajamas on my
head and pretend to have a mane of golden hair cascading down my back. I’d flip it with my hand the way I saw Cher doing on her variety show. My laid-back, hippie parents tried to take the free-to-be-you-and-me approach and allowed me to dance around the house “tossing my salad” this way and that—but I could tell they were concerned. They wanted me to learn to love the hair I had. Or maybe they were just embarrassed when they had company over and I’d offer to let them twist my pj’s into a chignon. Don once told his Irish Catholic mother he wanted to be a hairdresser when he got older and she promptly explained how his only chance of
getting
older would be never to mention such a ridiculous idea again. But that didn’t stop him from wishing for a head of princess hair he could style as his very own. That and a deluxe Julie Andrews scrapbook. A guy’s got to dream, huh?

If only we could spend more time doing the things we gays like to do rather than scrutinizing ourselves, criticizing and defending our choices—to be a hairdresser or designer or opera buff or flight attendant. (Actually, I don’t get that one. I hate to fly. I hate being in a confined space with so many strangers coughing and farting. And get your own damn pillow—what do I look like?)

So. We’re gay dads. And we like doing our daughter’s hair. There are worse things fathers could do. Right? Well, for Don it actually may be the worst thing he could do. The other day, I discovered him snipping away at Eliza’s bangs with a pair of pruning shears. Or was it a nail clipper? It may as well have been a butter knife!