I am the eldest of four boys. Other than my mother and my
two daughters, I have never lived with a woman. Many female secrets remain a
mystery to me – particularly all that sex and hormones stuff.
Good Mormons are expected to be celibate until marriage.
They can’t even go on dates until they’re sixteen years old. Because I skipped a grade in junior high, I didn’t turn sixteen until the end of my junior year of high school. (Grade
11, for all you Canadians out there.) I never kissed a girl until I was 23, or
a boy until I was 26. For innumerable reasons, I was an especially awkward and
confused youth.
In contrast, my ex is ten years younger than me, and much
better adjusted. Apparently Lutherans are less traumatizing than Mormons. (Even Missouri Synod Lutherans.) Jason grew up with two sisters, so he was familiar with womanly ways and wiles.
When we started the roller coaster adoption process many
years ago, we had to take thirty hours of parenting preparation classwork
together. (Do they make biological parents take a class yet?) This included
playing the adoption version of “Who would you rather…?” to explore each
other’s assumptions and preferences. For example, would you rather adopt a
sibling set or an older child? Open adoption or closed? Medically fragile or attachment
disorder?
My favorite advice came from a physician friend: “Go for the
moms on heroin. It doesn’t harm the fetus, and she’ll never get clean and sober
in time to fight you for the baby.”
One day at work, when I had been in my new job with the Washington
Attorney General’s Office for a couple of months, I was waiting for a meeting
with my supervisor and three academic employees. I had already worked closely with
all four women, and one of my clients took the opportunity to ask me about my
family. I told them I had a then-7-year-old son and two 10-year-old daughters. As
invariably happens, someone asked if the girls are twins. As usual I said no, they were born two weeks
apart and adopted separately, one at birth and the other from the foster system
three and a half years later. The girls are very different, and I described one
as “ten going on six and still playing with dolls,” and the other as “ten going
on sixteen,” and made a comment about wishing I could delay puberty.
Afterwards my supervisor took me aside and told me my
oversharing was unprofessional. Months later, when my employers were looking
for ways to get rid of me, they sent a belligerent letter to my PTSD therapist asking for
her opinion on whether this puberty episode demonstrated my judgment was too
impaired to practice law. When they illegally fired me, this incident was one
of their pretexts.
This strange obsession exemplifies the “closety” culture at
Attorney General Bob Ferguson’s Office, despite the presence of numerous LGBT
employees. It reflects deeply rooted societal bias, and constitutes
discrimination. Employers generally cannot intrude into employees’ personal
lives, and many of my former colleagues are fiercely protective of their own
privacy. For example, unlike me, my
supervisor did not have numerous large portraits of her children hanging in her
office. But inclusion means LGBT individuals and people with nonobvious
disabilities are entitled to discuss their identities and their families if
they choose.
Unlike visible traits like race and gender, a gay dad has to come out every day. The quintessential “heterosexual privilege” is that a straight lawyer is free to casually refer to meeting his wife and kids after work without raising eyebrows, but if I mention going on a date with a man or describe my family, I risk being accused of “flaunting my sexuality” and “bringing up personal stuff.” Nevertheless, I am more and more convinced I am not the first father, gay or straight, single or married, who has told someone at the office that part of him wishes his daughter could stay a little girl just a little bit longer.
Unlike visible traits like race and gender, a gay dad has to come out every day. The quintessential “heterosexual privilege” is that a straight lawyer is free to casually refer to meeting his wife and kids after work without raising eyebrows, but if I mention going on a date with a man or describe my family, I risk being accused of “flaunting my sexuality” and “bringing up personal stuff.” Nevertheless, I am more and more convinced I am not the first father, gay or straight, single or married, who has told someone at the office that part of him wishes his daughter could stay a little girl just a little bit longer.
Bellingham schools provide health and sex education
beginning in the fifth grade. For unknown reasons, they schedule this class for
the penultimate day of the school year.
Last year when my daughters got home from school on their
special day, I asked what they had learned in health class. Rosalind said
it was “amazing.” Upon further probing, she reported one of their classmates
had a seizure, and everyone watched as the emergency team arrived with the
ambulance. Neither girl remembered how far the teacher got, and the school
didn’t have time to reschedule sex ed before summer vacation.
This year I took matters into my own hands, and signed the
girls up for Seattle Children’s excellent two-part “For Girls Only” class.
The first Monday night we learned about what girls
experience in puberty. I was the only male in a room with 50 preteen girls, their
mothers, aunts, and grandmothers. The creator of the course, a nurse who wrote
the text Will Puberty Last My Whole Life?,
was amazing. She candidly answered all kinds of awkward questions. I never
realized there was so much to know about tampons. Ask me about her great
Macgyver tips for menstrual emergencies.
The next week was much more awkward. The
topics included “What boys experience in puberty,” and “Sexuality and sexual
reproduction.” The instructor left her diagram of an erect penis displayed on
an easel at the front of the room while she answered various questions about
dating. For a whole hour. Fifty tween girls, their mothers, aunts, and
grandmothers, and I all sat together pretending I have the crotch of a Ken doll.
Several years ago, when I finally
accepted puberty was inevitable, I told friends about my secret plan. All the parenting
books describe a common dynamic of teen girls butting heads with their
mothers, while staying Daddy’s little girl. My darling daughters have two
fathers. My plan was to redirect all their hostility toward my ex, and
encourage them to stay Papa’s little girls. (Jason is “Daddy.”)
The other day a friend asked “How’s that working out for you?” So
far there’s bad news and good news.
Puberty is indeed horrible. Eleanor is already in the throes
of hormonal craziness, and the random Dr-Jekyl-and-Ms.-Hyde mood swings are
killing me. Yes, I know adolescence is about staking out your own identity.
Apparently this involves bad hygiene, drama queen eye rolls, and hiding under
the covers with your iPhone as you snapchat with friends and binge-watch
Netflix. As the Baroness tells Max in The
Sound of Music when he asks how she intends to approach marrying into the Von
Trapp family, “Have you ever heard of a wonderful thing called boarding school?”
On the other hand, there are glimmers of hope. Unlike your
stereotypical gay man, I have never had a close female friend. Eleanor has
always been my baby, but now she’s also interesting to hang out with. We have many
shared interests – she’s been my go-to theater date for years. Eleanor’s best
friend says we argue like a married couple. Meanwhile, our witty banter at the
dinner table is lost on her brother and sister.
Recently Eleanor and I were both excited to learn about this fall's revival of Will & Grace. We’ve
agreed she gets to be Jack, and I’m Karen. I guess puberty isn’t so bad.
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