What if They're Gay?

My wife is pregnant. Very. Three days past due. We already have twins—which, I suppose is obvious, if you’re here. This blog has gone quiet, and if it weren’t for a friend asking why there haven’t been any posts in over a year, it would likely remain that way. The fact is, life is busy. Raising Jackson and Logan over the last two years has taken time, along with switching careers and putting the finishing touches on a graduate degree. Oh, and expecting a third. 

I’ve always wanted to post things when I had (or thought I had) something interesting, insightful or funny to say. Perhaps that mission has satisfied my own needs more than anyone else’s. But today, as the Supreme Court began to consider whether or not gay people should be allowed to marry in this country, the impact it could have on my family is top-of-mind.

Here in Massachusetts, where we live, it isn’t an issue; gay marriage has been legal for quite a while. In full disclosure, I have close family members and friends who are gay, so, yes, I am very much in favor of gay marriage. In even fuller disclosure, I didn’t always feel that way. Quite the opposite. I used to say and believe things that I am not proud of. 

“You are such a faggot.”

“Get a load of those dykes.”

“If gays marry, what’s to stop someone from marrying their dog?”

The first two are bad enough. The third? Cringe-worthy. But all are variations of things that came out of my mouth at one time or another. In my heart of hearts—believe it or not—I never felt animosity towards gay people. But to say I felt comfortable around them wouldn’t be accurate either.  I am grateful that my world was opened up to the ridiculously-coined (yet oddly-amusing ...this is a whole other blog post altogether) term “gay lifestyle.” Though, to be honest, it proved to be a lot less exciting than the media leads us to believe. I've sen no shirtless dancing, no scenes from Cinemax After Dark. From my vantage point, it involves quilting and lots of episodes of CSI, but that’s not the point. 

The point is, this country seems to be shifting its attitude towards granting two consenting adults the right to commit to one another in a manner that at least validates their relationship in a legally-binding way. Today, as friend after friend—many of whom I know to have consistently conservative voting records—began changing their Facebook profile picture to the red “equality” sign, it really hit home how many people are beginning to either change their stance on the issue, or finally becoming vocal about it. And I am one of those people. 

I wasn't the only one...far from it.

I don’t consider myself tied to either political party, though both have ideas that I support. Even though I have been in support of gay marriage for a while, I’ve never given it a voice beyond conversations with people who I know will agree with me. I’m tired of worrying about whether or not someone thinks different of me, based on my ideology of something I believe to be so obvious. Keeping quiet about it is a disservice to loved ones who could use every supporter they can get. Should that lead to a series of "un-friendings," so be it.

So what does this all have to do with my kids? I don’t know if Jackson and Logan are gay, nor do I know whether or not our little girl to-be, Elise will be. What I believe to be true is that there is nothing they can do, and nothing we can do to them to change their orientation. But, to be honest, I hope none of them are.  Please don't confuse the previous sentence. To Jess and me it doesn’t matter, and we will make sure from the moment our kids can understand the concept, that we support them, love them and accept them as they were made. Who they love is only as important as the kind of person they love (no Kansas Jayhawk fans, please...some Missouri-boy biases are impossible to shake). 

What sparks my desire for straight kids is knowing the road ahead of them will be vastly more difficult if they aren't. Who wants things scribbled on their kids' locker, beaten up, mocked? Who wants them to go through life knowing that there are only small pockets where they can hold the hand of the person they love without dirty looks, sneers, things whispered under breaths or much, much worse? That the idea of not going on seems more doable than dealing with the hateful shit from people they so desperately wished liked them.

But the optimist in me hopes that the coming weeks will continue to chip away at the iceberg. You have to be optimistic, right? I don’t have the greatest faith in human beings—especially when it comes to a topic that can bring out such vitriol. But perhaps we’re turning a corner. A corner that will allow my kids, your kids, all kids, should they be gay, to someday not only have a license saying they’re OK, but to enjoy the oft taken-for-granted luxury of affection without retribution. An environment where "It Gets Better" videos aren't necessary.

I mean, if a closed-minded asshole like me can change…

“A world so hateful someone would rather die than be who they are

And a certificate on paper isn’t gonna solve it all, but it’s a damn good place to start

No laws gonna change us, we have to change us”

--Macklemore, “Same Love” 

TV Lessons Come In Many Forms

You often hear of the raised emotionality of women after giving birth. While hormones and other biological things I’m not smart enough (or too lazy) to understand play a part, it could also be argued that having kids---biology or not---just changes your sensitivities. Despite unfair assertions from my junior high gym coach, I do not have estrogen streaming through my body parts. However, like my wife Jess, I’ve found certain things ignite a wave of emotions that would have once elicited indifference or sarcasm. This was never more evident while catching up with “Sons of Anarchy” during a “the kids are asleep, let’s jam in as many episodes on DVD as humanly possible” marathon. 

Before going any further, it’s fair to let you know that I’m going to spoil a TV show, so you may not want to read much more if you:

• Are a “Sons of Anarchy” fan who hasn’t seen Season 3
• Plan on watching “Sons of Anarchy” at some point 
• Don’t want to read a story about loving your kids and a fictional outlaw motorcycle gang led by a man who is way too pretty to effectively lead any outlaw motorcycle gang, fictional or otherwise. 

So for those of you who don’t plan on watching the show, here’s the situation. Jax, the aforementioned pretty-boy, is a new father. His 10-month old son, Abel, is kidnapped as a form of revenge against the motor cycle club. After a really long series of events not worth mentioning, Jax learns Abel is Ireland. So he and almost the entire club board a local cargo plane and arrive in Ireland (really, don’t ask), where he learns that Abel was sent to an orphanage and adopted (God dammit, I swear this is a good show even though it sounds lame as could be). 

After getting a lead on the whereabouts of the happy, well-to-do couple who adopt Abel, Jax tracks them to an open market. He sees them and is ready to pounce and reclaim his child. One problem: Jax’s conscience goes from a whisper to a roar. He considers the life he is leading and how that will impact his kid. He sells illegal guns, consorts with horrible people and he is a murderer. Jax would like to walk away from this life, but knows that will never happen. At least not anytime soon.  

From afar, it’s clear the couple is already in love with Jax’s boy. Abel looks happy, too. In this family, he won’t be subjected to violence, gunshots, seedy characters and the absence of peace that Jax voluntarily immerses himself in. Abel will be taken care of and sheltered from bad. He won’t have to watch his father being dragged out of the living room by police. Nor, in all likelihood, will he ever come home to find his father murdered. The couple represents comfort and calm.  

They stroll closer to Jax, vacant of the possibility they may be mere seconds from the most horrific moment of their lives. As they approach, Abel looks Jax in the eyes and smiles the way any baby who hasn’t seen his Daddy in a while would.  Jax is close enough kiss the child on the cheek and strong enough to take him with ease. Instead, he stands motionlessly, purses his lips, takes one last look at his boy and lets him pass slowly away.  He gets ten months. That’s it. Jax trades off ever getting to know his child to offer him a better life. 

Here is a dad—albeit fictional---who does bad things to people. And he knows he does bad things. The only pure patch in his life, the only thing keeping him in touch with his own humanity is that little boy. He loves his son so much, yearns so badly for his child’s well-being that he will let complete strangers care for Abel in a way that he knows he never can. 

A year ago this scene would have touched me. Probably would have made me think. But it wouldn’t have gotten inside me. But two weeks ago, watching on my couch and expecting drug deals and gun fights, there I was a mess.  Not a tear trickling down the side of my check, but shaking  and crying to the point that Jess was concerned.  The scene rocked me to my core. I imagined those soul-saving smiles Jackson and Logan flash when I come home from work and how it would feel to see other people taking my place. Knowing that in a short time, the memory of me would be erased from their minds for good. But worse, knowing that I wasn’t good enough for them. What a hell. 

I thought about what I would do to protect my kids from danger. I'm not kidding even a little when I tell you I’d jump in front of a bus, even kill another person if I had to. But to save your kid…from yourself?  It just leveled me. 

Perhaps a child’s greatest blessing is forcing you to examine the impact of the shitty things you do. For all the books, the warm and fuzzy news reports and daily Facebook links about the wondrous miracle that children are, a fictional murderous biker named Jax Teller offered the clearest example of the most fundamental parental truth: They are more important than you.  They change you, these kids.

"Get Back Here!"

It’s been a while since I put fingers to keyboard, which is disappointing. "Where have you been?" See the photo above. This is the kind of thing Jess and I deal with everyday, now. While Jackson was violating our TP supply, Logan was off doing something else. Life has a way of stealing what once seemed like an endless supply of idle time. Fact is, what little time Jess and I seem to have these days is spent staring off into a blank space and contemplating how busy we used to think we were.

Or judging other parents on Facebook.

Our boys are now almost 11 months. Flopping on the floor has turned to crawling, which is a neat thing until about five minutes later, when you come to the obscene conclusion that you have officially lost any semblance of control. They move wherever the hell they want, banging, prying, pushing. If it is expensive, delicate or full of voltage they want it in their mouths. “For fuck’s sake, (insert name offending child),” is the phrase that pays in our house. The mobility issue really is a challenge, as anything you need (not want….wants don’t mean shit no more) to do requires equal parts coordination and foresight when dealing with them solo. Consider this:

We three are in the nursery after a diaper change. I need to go into the adjoining bathroom to wash my hands, but have to  shut the bathroom, so they don’t go in (more on that later). But I also have to make sure the door to the nursery into the living room is shut, because I may have forgotten to put up the baby gate in the living room, which leads to the kitchen where the pots, pans and poison are.

So the nursery door is shut, I’m in the bathroom with the doors shut, while Jackson and Logan pull down a wicker basket full of books they cannot read, but do enjoy scattering over the area of the nursery floor. OK, now my hands are clean. I grab one kid and run out of the nursery, into the furthest end of the living room and race back into the nursery to:

• Get there before  the kid I just brought into the living room.

•   Slide into the nursery before the kid who I left in there slams the door shut and morphs into an erupting door jamb, requiring me to plead for him to move, or hope he is on his ass and I can open the door slowly, as his terry clothed bottom slides with the door.

"Gotcha! Shit, no I don't"

OK, got the kid and bringing him out into the living room. Oh, but remember how I didn’t put up the baby gate between the living room and kitchen? Baby 1 is now doing a terrible John Bonham impersonation with the veggie steamer. So I scoop him up, as the other sneaks in to take over the shitty drum line. This life is a virtual game of Whack-a-Mole.

To offer a real-life example of how complicated these two gaining their God-given independence has become, allow me to share with you the fact that I use the bathroom. When one must go, one must go, regardless of whether you have twins who can move and get into stuff. Recently Jess left me alone with them, which is fine. I can do this. Usually.

So, we’re playing and having a grand old time when Mother Nature ordered a Bullet Train through my lower intestine. This was one of those, “I might not be able to live this down if I don’t move quickly,” situations. However, there are kids to think about. So off to the races we go. Trying to balance my physical situation and my moral obligation not to let my children wander aimlessly into danger, I grabbed them as quickly as possible and placed them in the nursery.

Upon securing the door leading to the living room, I bolted into bathroom to do what had to be done. In my haste to avoid a poop-filled Saturday morning. I realized I hadn’t completely shut the bathroom door. As it slowly swung open, there stood two smiling children. (Note this is the first time anyone has smiled while I dropped a deuce.) Within seconds, the darling cherubs  were exploring every square inch of the bathroom and all its toys: toilet brushes, garbage cans, toilet paper, toilet paper holders. Anything that wasn’t fastened they wanted their hands on. From the pot, with pants around the ankles, I grabbed stuff one-by-one, putting them in the one place that I could reach/they couldn’t reach. This is the actual photo of the aftermath:

 

Keeping kids out of places they shouldn’t be and extracting things that don’t go in their mouths out of their mouths requires more time than we could have ever anticipated. And not even the bathroom offers a moment of peace. So if you don’t see another entry for a while, just assume they started walking.

Real Quick...

Nothing to note, other than we are going on our first plane ride with the kids on Wednesday. Stay tuned...this could be an epic disaster....which means a wonderful blog entry.

Ten Years Past Tragedy, Six Months Of Joy

I’m not an overly political person. This isn’t to say there aren’t things I don’t care about, there are (on both sides of the so-called “liberal” and “conservative” line of demarcation). But, when it comes down to it, folks is folks and we’re all just trying to get through this thing in one piece. Furthermore, I think most politicians are out to serve themselves and kick up a decent vig to the parties who got them where they are. As a result, I don’t promote politicians. When the topic of national or world events come up and people want to get all hot and bothered by it, I tend to either keep quiet or diffuse the situation with non-partisan humor.

But as the 10^th anniversary of 9/11 approaches, I can’t help but to take a deeper look at the kind of world around my family. Ten years ago, I had just turned 30. Celebrated on a big party boat on a lake, helping Anheuser-Busch’s stock climb to historic heights. Less than a month later the world changed forever. Fast-forward to now and I find myself with newborn twins. Specifically newborn twins who will turn exactly six months on September 11. I so badly want to celebrate this day, but know that the rest of the country will be in a somber, mood of reflection and remembrance.  And so should I, I suppose. Six months is a huge benchmark, yet it falls on the ugliest day of my lifetime.

It hardly seems fair. Everyday I’m surrounded by a double-dose of love and beauty I never thought possible. These two creatures who don’t know any of the bad stuff about me, don’t know my weaknesses, simply light up when I come home from work. They grab me around my neck and squeeze. They’re now at an age where their personalities are blooming. They react to things, laugh, play, grab. Most gratifying is that they are recognizing one another and desire each other’s  company.  How could the world be that bad?

Reasons to celebrate...

But it is at times. There are bad people out there. From people who would hijack an airplane, to the guy who lets a door close when there is someone behind him with their hands full. How will I break it to these two guys who only know a miniscule atom of this world? You want these perfect creatures to only know the joys of safety and unconditional love ,not the filth and lies and sadness and evil. But they will. Not all at once, obviously. But little-by-little, the wall protecting their innocence will be chipped away. Hopefully little-by-little, anyways. And unfortunately for them, it'll bee chipped away a lot quicker than it did for me, and at the speed-of-light quicker than my parents. They are coming into a world that is drastically different than it was just ten years ago.  Perhaps if Jess and I do our jobs, that wall won’t be destroyed completely.

As 9/11 approaches we will celebrate Jackson and Logan reaching six months silently. This isn’t to say we’ll ignore our own memories of how we experienced that horrific moment. But at least for us, there will be a specific reason to embrace joy. Why let bad people ruin good?

Stroll Your Way To The Poor-House

Jess and I are looking for a new stroller. Did you know that they are expensive? You may. That means you have looked for one. I’m not going to go into a long diatribe about how fancy they’ve become. Yes, it’s a joke. Yes, it’s embarrassing. But until you have two kids and a really hard-to-maneuver, bang every doorway, knock over a few racks at the store, accidentally send an old woman to the hospital  (that may or may not have happened) box on shitty wheels, you are in no place to judge. Actually, you can judge all you want. And I can tell you to take your judgy, non-twin-havin’-ass to  Inconvenienceville (also known as Kansas).

When you have twins, the options are much more limited and the stroller companies know this. They are keenly aware of how difficult it is to push multiples around and anything that makes the task even a little more manageable will cost. I would bet large sums of Similac that an alarming percentage of people who peddle their kidneys in the underground organ market are parents of multiples.  If Chris Hanson could pull himself away from smugly asking passive-aggressive questions to pederasts in well-lit kitchens for two episodes, he might have an Emmy-winning investigative report on his hands.

The stroller we want is really, really expensive. However, it is simpler to navigate, lighter, easier to put away, and doesn’t make you want to throw it in front of a train once a day. And if you’re thinking right now, “He’s making excuses to justify what essentially is a luxury,” well you’re right. And I hate you. Don’t ever expose my shallow nature. How dare you?

Regardless, this is gonna happen. I want this stroller. Jess wants it more. So we’re saving money to buy a motorless vehicle that will cost more than my first car. Which had an engine. Not a good one. But an engine.  Though in the stroller’s defense, it will probably be a hell of a lot more reliable than my ’76 Celica, which my friends affectionately called “The Turd”. But back to the original premise, which is twin-stroller manufacturers deserve a Tabasco enema. In honor of their putrid business practices, I have comprised:

The Top Ten People With Darker Souls Than Twin Stroller CEOs

10. The bastard who tightens the public bathroom toilet paper dispenser so it always breaks off after 1.5 sheets. 

9. Commissioner of the “National Puppy-Kicking League”.

8. Clowns. There’s something going on there, I just know it.

7. The Black Jack dealers they bring in when everybody at the table is winning and having fun.

6. Whoever encouraged Yoko Ono to sing…what a cruel joke to play on the planet.

5. Anyone who operates a business with a sign out front that reads, “No credit? No Problem!”

4. Whoever thought those metal snaps on onesies were a good idea.

3.  Me, when someone in front of me is buying 391 scratch-off tickets and all I want is my friggin’ gum.

2. The “It’s been .000000000005 seconds since the light turned green, let me blast my horn” guy.

1. Donald Trump’s mirror.

"Do it for the kids...and me!"