Deep Thoughts

I am driving Hannah home from Circus Juventas, a youth circus arts school where she takes a trapeze class on Tuesday afternoons.  Just as we were getting into the car, she had said something about me being stupid.

“I don’t like that language,” I say.  Again.

“I didn’t mean stupid stupid,” she equivocates. “I meant it in the good way.”

“It sounded like stupid to me,” I say.

“I don’t really think you’re stupid,” she says. “But you can be annoying and embarrassing sometimes.”

I’m not sure we’re really getting anywhere.

I stop at a red light.  And I hear her say, “But . . . deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep . . . ”

The light changes.

“. . . deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep . . .”

I am being chanted a mantra. My mind wanders.  We come to our cross street.  I turn.

“. . . deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep . . . “

I negotiate the frozen ruts and mounds of snow, trying to avoid the worst bumps.  We come to our house.  I pull up in front.

“ . . . deep down inside, I really love you,” she says.

I laugh.  “I love you, too,” I say.

Verdict

Hannah and I have been tangling, on and off, off and on, pretty much since Christmas.  On Saturday, I took her to a dance clinic at her school, led by the dance team for younger students. I dropped her off, then went back at the appointed team to watch as she and the other kids performed their hip hop moves. Afterward, I took her to Subway for a sandwich.

I’m not a fool, so I asked her what she wanted EXACTLY.  She told me.  I ordered it.  A toasted twelve-inch sandwich on Italian bread with turkey, shredded cheese, orange cheese and mayo.  She went to find a table while I paid.  I brought the food to her and sat down on the stool next to hers.  She took the bag and gave me a look of disgust.  Apparently, I had ordered in NOT EXACTLY the right way. I had said “orange cheese” as opposed to “cheddar cheese.”

“You are so not cool,” she said.

Oh, you don’t know the half of it, I thought.  I was uncool before uncool was uncool.  I am part of Square Nation.  And darned proud of it, too.

But still, it bugs me just a little, to be deemed so not cool by someone who is so not yet seven years old.

Book Launch Party

After calling and pricing out eight potential venues, I have set a date for my book launch party.  The results of my calls:  too expensive, too expensive, too expensive, unavailable, annoyingly unhelpful, wrong atmosphere, too expensive, EUREKA.

The EUREKA is Franklin ArtWorks, an old movie theater in Minneapolis that has been made over into a gallery and performance space.  It’s cheap, which was essential.  (“Since your event is in May, you don’t have to pay for heat,” the staff person told me.  Pray for a warm spring.)  It’s got a great bakery across the street and a flower shop on the corner.  It’s got space for the reading and the musical performance that will be part of the event.  And space for the signing and for the reception.  And it doesn’t require me to use a specific caterer (or, for that matter, any caterer).  It doesn’t even require me to use their chairs.  I could bring my own if I wanted to.  Which I don’t.

So here it is: a book launch party for She Looks Just Like You on Sunday, May 16 at 3:00 p.m. at Franklin ArtWorks in Minneapolis.

A Piece of Paper

“Sarah and I got into an argument yesterday,” Hannah tells me as we are driving to school.

“About what?” I ask.

“She said two men or two women can’t get married, but I said they can.”

“You’re both right,” I say.  “Two men or two women can’t get married in some places, but they can in others.”

“Like where?” Hannah asks.

“Well, they can’t get married here in Minnesota,” I say.  Hannah knows this.  She also knows that Jane and I did get “married,” but that “the government doesn’t think it was real.”

These are the things we have to explain to our children.  We’re married, but we’re not.  What you know to be true in your life is not true in the eyes of the government.  Sometimes the government is wrong.

“But two men or two women can get married in other places like Iowa or Massachusetts.”

I remind her of a long-time friend of ours who moved to Massachusetts with his partner and got married there.  Hannah is intrigued.

“Did they get a piece of paper?” Hannah asks.

A marriage license?  I don’t know where she’s going with this.

“Yes,” I say.

“Did they come back to Minnesota and show it to the government?” she asks hopefully.

In her mind, this is probably all that is needed.  Maybe the government here in Minnesota doesn’t know that gay people can get married in some places.  Maybe they just need to be informed.  Maybe life would be better if it followed the logic of first graders.

“I don’t know,” I say.  It may be worth a try.

Adopting Your Own Child. . .

. . . is something you don’t have to do any more in Washington, DC and, soon, New Mexico.  American University Professor of Law Nancy Polikoff writes about the new laws that recognize two adults who intentionally and consensually conceive a child through donor insemination as . . . parents.  Polikoff is the author of the new book, Beyond (Straight and Gay) Marriage (Beacon Press).

Mommy’s Little Helper

“You’re not my real mother,” Hannah says to me in her matter-of-fact way as I am taking her to school.  I have been expecting this, sooner or later.  Hannah has known for years, of course, that Jane is her birth mother and that I adopted her.  We have shown her the pictures from the adoption, her little two-month-old self held in my arms and then in the arms of the judge.  She knows her adoption story. 

I am, by legal decree, her real mother.  I carry in my wallet a piece of paper verifying this.  I think about taking it out and showing it to her. 

 “I’m not?” I say.

“Nope,” she says happily.  “Mommy is.  She’s the one who had me inside her.”

“So, what am I?” I ask. 

“You’re her helper.”

Her helper?????  She couldn’t have chosen partner?  Friend?  Even Dad?  But helper?  I feel like Alice on The Brady Bunch.

“Hmmm,” I say, as a truck passes in the next lane.  “I’m pretty sure I’m your Mama.”

There is a pause as Hannah looks out the window and picks at the High School Musical stickers she has pasted on the glass.

“Tell me a story,” she says.  She wants the next installment of Makena and Her Pet Unicorns, an endless tale that involves fairies and invisible castles and lots of pregnancies and an army of mice.  I oblige, because that is what she wants.  I suppose, that is what helpers do.  And it’s definitely what Mamas do.

Sam I Am

Years of research have concluded that children of GLBT parents are, surprise, surprise, pretty much like children of heterosexual parents.  With a couple of exceptions:  they tend to be more open to non-traditional relationships, and they tend to be more willing to accept some fluidity in gender roles.

Except my kid.  Which could be because she’s six or it could be because I’ve failed.  I’m not sure. 

Hannah brings a book home from school every night for reading practice, little 16-page paperbacks about Jordan and his soccer team, or Sally, who plants beans in the garden with her mother and watches them grow.  Or Sarah, who is afraid of the barking dog she has to pass on the way to school.

“Where’s Sarah?” Hannah asks, looking at the pages.

“Right there,” I say, pointing.  And there she is, little Sarah, dressed in a striped shirt and what can only be described as dungarees.  Little baby dyke Sarah.

“That’s not Sarah,” Hannah says.  “That’s a boy.”

“No, honey,” I say in my explain-the-world voice.  “That’s Sarah.”

“She looks like a boy.”

Well, she does, I have to admit.  But she also looks a lot like many girls used to, before 6-year-olds began dressing like 16-year-olds. 

“That’s kind of how girls used to dress,” I say.  “We just wore regular shirts and jeans.”

Hannah considers the picture, mentally weighing her capacity to tolerate gender fluidity.

“I’m calling her Sam,” she says.

Marshmallow Monday

We killed the television, sort of, about two weeks ago, when I got sick and tired of fighting with Hannah about turning it off and, this time, Jane got sick and tired of it, too.  Hannah loves television – she loves story, really, and television combines story with all those nifty moving pictures and a heavy dose of teen culture.  But she finds it almost viscerally impossible to turn it off.  I’ve tried all the techniques I know of: 

1)  advance warning (“After this show, we’re turning it off.  In five minutes, we’re turning it off.  One minute, and we’re turning it off.”);

2)  rational talks (“When I ask you to turn it off, I need you to do it without arguing.”);

3)  threats (“It goes off now or no TV tomorrow.);

4)  doing it myself, usually precipitating fury or tears.  Or both. 

But television is masterful at hooking its audience, and the Disney Channel, her favorite, is especially so.  “More to come” means a few seconds of credits from the last show, leading directly into the opening sequence of the next show.  Ads are strategically placed so as not to interrupt the transition from one program to another.  It’s brilliant, really, in an evil sort of way.

But one flying remote too many, and the television is now off.  OFF.  It was Jane who did it, finally, as it had to be, since she loves television nearly as much as Hannah, although she leans more toward PBS and Glee than Disney.   We have unplugged the cable (note:  not cancelled) which has the effect of killing all reception.  The television is still available for videos on Friday night, when we like to eat pizza and watch a movie together.  And Hannah can watch a movie on Saturday and Sunday, should she choose to do so, which, of course, she does.

Once the TV was off, it became immediately obvious that we would need to come up with some alternate activities, so that we wouldn’t simply move from arguing about television (with it on) to arguing about television (with it off). 

On the first Monday of the first televisionless week, Jane suggested that we build a fire in the fireplace after dinner. 

“And roast marshmallows!” said Hannah, who might just love roasted marshmallows more than The Suite Life of Zack and Cody. 

And in this way, Marshmallow Monday was born.  It’s followed, for those who might be wondering, by Too Much Fun Tuesday (which, last week, included a dance party in the basement to Bobby McFerrin’s Circlesongs, on a scratched CD, which caused random stuttering in the music, making it, at peak volume, almost rap-like) and Reading Wednesday. 

Thursday’s still up for grabs.

Tip du Jour

“What piece of advice would you give to grown-ups?” I ask Hannah.

I’m expecting something vaguely philosophical, something that falls into the kids-say-the-darnedest-things category. Something about kindness or world peace or helping everybody.

But this is what I get:

“If you think someone’s a robber, don’t listen to him.”

Can’t argue with that.

How You Doing, Dads?

The National Institutes of Health has funded a new two-year study on how parenting impacts the health of gay men.  Hint:  they’re more tired.

But this study is important because one in five gay male couples nationwide are raising children, a stat I found surprising, given the still relatively low visibility of gay dads.

The study will look at stress levels, lifestyle and health habits, relationship dynamics, peer networks, and exposure to antigay discrimination.  Starting with data showing that health risks (substance abuse, depression, HIV/AIDS) are already higher for gay men, the investigators — Colleen Hoff at San Francisco State University and David Huebner at the University of Utah — want to know if parenting encourages gay men to reduce risk factors or if it increases health risks and risky behavior. 

So, OK, aside from the health risks that seem to accompany parenting (bi-weekly colds; eating your kid’s munged-up, leftover food because you just can’t cook another dinner; wiping off spit-up with your sleeve), maybe it’s just possible that stable, sustained, loving and socially-supported family relationships make us healthier (or at least happier) people. 

I’ll be curious to see the results of the study. But going out on a limb here, I’ll wager that parenting makes gay dads:  more exhausted, less likely to take health risks, more worried, more focused on the future, more concerned about peanut allergies and exposed electrical outlets, and more involved in the PTA.