Save The Children

I’ve had enough.

I’m tired of being treated like some freak that needs to be carefully sidestepped at every election as if supporting my marriage is touching the third rail. I’m tired of the rhetoric that “gay marriage” will be taught in classrooms across the land and small children will be exposed to sexuality in inappropriate ways if equality is given to all.

The children, oh, please, save the children.

The newest ploy in California to take away equal rights is to use Massachusetts, my home state, as an example of all that will go wrong. Children will be “forced” to learn about gay families.

They may even be exposed to a book, “King and King,” that on one page? Shows two men kissing.

Oh, the horror. I have to admit, any time my kids’ see my wife and I give each other a peck, they do shriek in disgust. The same way all kids do when they see their parents express affection.

What makes me the angriest is not the stones they are throwing at me- bring it on- but the effect it has on my kids. My kids aren’t gay. They have gay parents. Should their teacher have to send out a permission form every time one of my kids mentions his parents? If they draw a picture of their family, does it require parental notification?

Is that what we want in our schools? A lock down on anything different?

The people so concerned with the “children” are clearly not concerned with mine at all. While it’s fine for my son’s fifth grade teacher to come in and share pictures and stories about her heterosexual marriage ceremony, it’s suddenly all about sexual behavior when a lesbian or gay man does it.

I will admit, all my kids did, in fact, talk about our wedding at school. It was historic, it was about social change and you know what they discussed? The chocolate fountain at the reception. The giant bouquets of hostess Twinkies, ho ho’s and cupcakes.

They are kids. They have lives they want to share with their friends. Why should they be singled out for different treatment because of who their parents are? Can you even imagine anyone recommending doing this to kids of interracial marriages?

Proposition 8 supporters are running ads with little children asking their heterosexual parents about men with men, and women with women. Funny thing is, with all those heterosexual teachers at school, some parading around with pregnant bellies, and I have never once had my kids ask about heterosexual sex practices.

Nor do they come home and ask, Mommy? Can a man and woman get married? And it’s not solely because kids are awash in 24/7 media images of men and women together, often sexually, but because they don’t really care.

They care about their worlds. Soccer games. Playdates. Chocolate fountains.

And so what if kids do come home and ask about gay families? If you’re really such a bigot, just spew out all the hateful things you have to say about homosexuality. See it as a teachable moment.

Son, if you grow up to be gay, we’ll disown you, the church will shun you and in fact, you’ll burn in hell. Now go do your homework.

I’m tired of being treated like some leper that will infect children with horrible values simply by being acknowledged. I’ve got news for those folks- I’m a parent, first and foremost. I’m also a wife, a writer, a neighbor, a friend, a colleague, and a pretty damn good cook. I coach my son’s soccer team, I fold laundry and I make my kids brush their teeth. I volunteer at the school on occasion even though on top of it all, I’m a big ol’ lesbian.

The kids don’t care. They just want someone to help tie their shoes, or pick out a library book.

Save the children? Don’t believe it for a second. They only want to save a hateful way of seeing the world through very narrow eyes.

A Deep, Man Voice

Every time I hear it, I look to see if Walter is here. If someone has come in the door I didn't know about.

A deep, man voice.

It's Ben's. His voice has almost completely changed into a deep baritone. I don't expect it in my house. I have little boys. Babies, really. Not almost grown men with hairy legs and voices with resonance.

The words that come out of the madly growing body don't quite match the maturity of the sound.

Jake! You smell like farts! Doesn't scream responsibility and social awareness. When those words come out, I'm never surprised, or caught off guard. It's the single words, or the chatting with the cats- to whom he is enormously polite- that I find jarring.

Who is that man?

My son is going to be thirteen this fall. Most of his friends will have bar or bats mitzvah's. They have studied long and hard a difficult language and how to read from the Torah. Even with candy studded events or sparkling disco balls twirling, there is a moment of being welcomed into the community as a man, or woman. A full member.

Of course these kids are still kids, by our American, modern standards, but there is something powerful about having to work for something that has a long tradition. The process does change them.

As an atheist, I'm not sure what makes the most sense for my boys. We attend the Unitarian Universalist church but have become lax in the last couple of years. But I'm not sure I want the passage to manhood be marked by some religious event.

I don't believe in religion as much as I don't believe in God. I think Karl Marx was right in that religion is the opiate for the masses. It sooths people into accepting plights they should never accept.

How does my son transition into being a man? The physical changes are clear. The emotional ones are harder to define. He has more responsibility now than before and more freedom.

And he still tells his brother he smells like farts.

It's going to be an interesting year, with this growing young man in my house. He will need to learn to be a part of a community, to be kind when it's hard to, to lose at times and graciously win, remembering the sting of being on the other side. He needs to do for others outside himself- more than buy a slice of pizza for a pal out of cash. He needs to start to understand there are great injustices in our world- and has been for centuries.

He will need to understand some people will hate him without even knowing his name.

At the same time, he is exploring a body full of new and amazing sensations. With all the tingles, excitement and joy comes responsibility. First loves. Heartbreaks.

He's not a baby anymore. All these years and you'd think I'd be prepared. I'm not. His deep voice, though, startles me back to reality.

I have a young man in my house.

With much to learn.

On a Quiet Walk Home

We're walking back from Perkins Cove tonight, slowly, chatting, talking about school. Ben, Zachary, Jake, Jeanine and I.

A guy in a van drives by. Shouts out. Stops.

Guy says, Hey hey hey woman....

We have our KIDS with us.

I smile, wave and say, Thanks, we're all set.

He stays.

No really, we're good.

I like your friend, he says to me.

Yeah, I like her too. Bye!

Guy finally drives off.

Jeanine pulls the boys in taking advantage of a teachable moment. If you ever see any of your friends talking to girls who are not interested...

That's so weird, Ben said.

It's what women have to live with, Jeanine said. Did I look like I was looking for a guy?

Ewww, all the boys said in unison.

That's how it feels to have someone check you out, I said. It's not nice.

It's a moment that will stick in those three, white, privileged boys minds. I'm grateful.

Even if it didn't feel very good.

It's Sunday? Already?

It's been days since I've written. I miss my blog! But it's been good for me to take the break, to reach inside and to sit with a lot of big feelings that come up.

Ms. Moon, it was indeed refreshing and eyeopening.

As of Friday, though, it's been Moms' Weekend. Every year, for a weekend, the Moms and kids come to Ogunquit, Maine to stay at our house for a weekend. We eat, we drink wine, we eat more, we talk and talk and talk...

It is shocking to me, often, how many people don't take the time or care to know about their deepest inner selves. To think about and discuss interpersonal relationships. Not my Moms. We all get into the minutia of life and laugh on our way there.



We have the setting, that's for sure.

It is intimate and we have a chance to check in about our kids, where they've been over the last year, and our daily lives. More than that, we have time to both sit quietly on the beach with each other and take turns playing with the kids.

And did I mention we eat?



I don't mean to brag but we are all great cooks. Not good cooks, but great cooks. One cooks amazing desserts and Brazilian food- well, really, any ethnic food. One is the salad queen but please don't ever think salads are all she can do. One doesn't do the kitchen much but when she does, a great spanakopita comes out.

We love each other and over the years have come to delight in this treasured weekend.

I am truly blessed.

Saltines

It is funny what evokes a long ago image. An instant of flavor, or smell or the way the sun is setting in the sky. It's never expected, and as I have learned in the last few years, sometimes welcomed, sometimes not.

Yesterday, it was the saltine crackers Ben pulled out.

I haven't had saltines since I was pregnant. Miserable, nauseous, I chipped away at saltines while wetting my lips with Ginger Ale. It was one of the few times in my life food was absolutely the last thing I wanted to be around.

I remember being in my office at the software company with those crackers and getting a phone call from a woman who was looking to start a support group for pregnant lesbians. My name had been given as a contact, something I did not remember signing up for.

It was the beginning of the moms group I hold as my family today. Thirteen years and ten kids later, we're still at it.

I remember my mother and how she would make careful little sandwiches with saltines. She'd spread peanut butter on one cracker, jelly on another and hand them to me to press together.

The jelly oozed out of the tiny holes signaling the perfect pressure. The extra salt on the cracker made it ever so slightly a savory snack rather than sweet. Finger sandwiches for the seven and under set, although she always had a few herself.

A simple box of Saltines on a hot day when having your mind move from one image to the next is enough to break a sweat.

LGBT Families Day: Rights or No Rights, We’re Still Parents

Fall soccer forms due August 8th, doctor’s appointments for summer camp forms and dinner cooked- but not yet eaten- by 4PM today. There is a little league baseball game and Zachary is pitching. By the time we get home, the baseball player will be too tired to wait another twenty minutes for the water to boil, the pasta to cook.

It’s another day of parenting. Not incredibly exciting or sexy but incredibly rewarding. I often am too tired at the end of the day to remember all that I did- the pick ups, drop offs, uniforms cleaned and lunches packed. But it always feels good.

Except when it doesn’t. Like when someone is sick, fighting about doing his or her homework or arguing over a toy.

Today is the third annual blogging for LGBT families day. Most of the posts are in the morning because we’re all too tired by night.

I find it fascinating that my neighbors have more rights than I do. I don’t see them as particularly better parents- or worse- we’re all simply trying to get our kids to bed at a decent hour and everyone to brush their teeth.

The only reason those parents have more rights is because they are heterosexual. They get to be married and recognized federally and internationally. There is no question about parenthood, or rights, or visitation, or inheritance or all the other rights heterosexuals enjoy in this country.

Not for my kids. My kids are being raised in a somewhat unusual family. My wife Jeanine and I decided many years ago that we wanted to have a family. Women all over the country were starting to have kids on their own, going to sperm banks and buying the best fit on paper.

Or at least what we thought was a good fit. It’s a complicated decision, to say the least.

We were reading about the ground breaking second parent adoption cases and realized we could have a baby. Raise a family. Things we never thought were possible when we were young lesbians, coming out in a world not so friendly.

We talked about it endlessly. We talked about names, how many and how we couldn’t wait to teach them how to throw a ball.

We also talked about what we valued, how we wanted our kids to be in the world. How we wanted strong girls and thoughtful boys. We talked about how we would deal with the homophobia they would face.

We never expected the reality. The long nights of wakeful babies ready to play at 3AM or the time that Ben, our oldest, was so nervous at his preschool graduation he threw up all over Jeanine.

Who had lifted him to her shoulders.

We did not expect to find such an accepting community. Or how our families of origin would open their arms to us. (Especially those Iowa people.)

We prepared endlessly for the “Where’s my Daddy?” question. The answer ended up being a simple, but firm, We are your parents, assuring our sons that in fact, they had parents like everyone else.

Because we are the boys parents. It may not have been either of our sperm, but we indeed created these kids. We chose to do it and it was not a simple process. There was no support in the greater world for our decision and while a loving community cushioned us, we were also denied insurance payments. We sought out a LGBT friendly doctor. We researched the best hospital to go to that would accept the other parent without question.

There are no “oops” babies in our house. AND we’ve always been clear this was a choice, a choice we made not only for ourselves but also for our children.


We’ve worked hard to create a family to address the kids’ needs. To have positive male role models, indeed surrogate dads to step into their lives. Sometimes, we’ve been right.

Sometimes we’ve been wrong. Pretty much like every other parent in the neighborhood.

In some ways, it is not any different at all. We all worry about high fevers or the cost of college. How to get them to pick up dirty socks or use the potty.

The only real difference? Some of us have rights, and some of us don’t. The irony is, it’s not going to stop us from raising families. Being parents.

Or putting our very tired starting pitcher’s to bed.

After all… I’m here. I’m queer. And I have to get to bed before 9:30PM or I’ll never be able to get up with the kids.