2 Dudes Gettin Hitched

If I Have Gay Children: Four Promises From A Christian Pastor/Parent by john pavlovitz

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll have gay children.

I’m not sure if other parents think about this, but I do; quite often.

Maybe it’s because I have many gay people in my family and circle of friends. It’s in my genes and in my tribe. Maybe it’s because, as a pastor of students, I’ve seen and heard the horror stories of gay Christian kids, from both inside and outside of the closet, trying to be part of the Church. Maybe it’s because, as a Christian, I interact with so many people who find homosexuality to be the most repulsive thing imaginable, and who make that abundantly clear at every conceivable opportunity. For whatever reason, it’s something that I ponder frequently. As a pastor and a parent, I wanted to make some promises to you, and to my two kids right now…

1) If I have gay children, you’ll all know it.

My children won’t be our family’s best kept secret. I won’t talk around them in conversations with others. I won’t speak in code or vague language. I won’t try to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes, and I won’t try to spare the feelings of those who may be older, or easily offended, or uncomfortable. Childhood is difficult enough, and most gay kids spend their entire existence being horribly, excruciatingly uncomfortable. I’m not going to put mine through any more unnecessary discomfort, just to make Thanksgiving dinner a little easier for a third cousin with misplaced anger issues. If my children come out, we’ll be out as a family.

2) If I have gay children, I’ll pray for them.

I won’t pray for them to be made “normal”. I’ve lived long enough to know that if my children are gay, that is their normal. I won’t pray that God will heal or change or fix them. I will pray for God to protect them; from the ignorance and hatred and violence that the world will throw at them, simply because of who they are. I’ll pray the He shields them from those who will despise them and wish them harm; who will curse them to Hell and put them through Hell, without ever knowing them at all. I’ll pray that they enjoy life; that they laugh, and dream, and feel, and forgive, and that they love God and humanity. Above all, I’ll pray to God that my children won’t allow the unGodly treatment they might receive from some of His misguided children, to keep them from pursuing Him.

3) If I have gay children, I’ll love them.

I don’t mean some token, distant, tolerant love that stays at a safe arm’s length. It will be an extravagant, open-hearted, unapologetic, lavish, embarrassing-them-in-the-school cafeteria, kind of love. I won’t love them despite their sexuality, and I won’t love them because of it. I will love them; simply because they’re sweet, and funny, and caring, and smart, and kind, and stubborn, and flawed, and original, and beautiful… and mine. If my kids are gay, they may doubt a million things about themselves and about this world, but they’ll never doubt for a second whether or not their Mommy is over-the-moon crazy about them.

4) If I have gay children, most likely; I have gay children.

If my kids are going to be gay, well they pretty much already are. God has already created them and wired them, and placed the seed of who they are within them. Psalm 139 says that He, “stitched them together in their mother’s womb”. The incredibly intricate stuff that makes them uniquely them; once-in-History souls, has already been uploaded into their very cells. Because of that, there isn’t a coming deadline on their sexuality that their father and I are working feverishly toward. I don’t believe there’s some magical expiration date approaching, by which time she and I need to somehow do, or say, or pray just the right things to get them to “turn straight”, or forever lose them to the other side. They are today, simply a younger version of who they will be; and today they’re pretty darn great.

Many of you may be offended by all of this, I fully realize. I know this may be especially true if you are a religious person; one who finds the whole topic disgusting.

As you’ve been reading, you may have been rolling your eyes, or clicking the roof of your mouth, or drafting familiar Scriptures to send me, or praying for me to repent, or preparing to Unfriend me, or writing me off as a sinful, evil, Hell-bound heretic… but with as much gentleness and understanding as I can muster; I really couldn’t care less.

This isn’t about you. This is a whole lot bigger than you.

You’re not the one I waited on breathlessly for nine months. You’re not the one I wept with joy for when you were born. You’re not the one I bathed, and fed, and rocked to sleep through a hundred intimate, midnight snuggle sessions. You’re not the one I taught to ride a bike, and whose scraped knee I kissed, and whose tiny, trembling hand I held, while getting stitches.

You’re not the one whose head I love to smell, and whose face lights-up when I come home at night, and whose laughter is like music to my weary soul. You’re not the one who gives my days meaning and purpose, and who I adore more than I ever thought I could adore anything. And you’re not the one who I’ll hopefully be with, when I take my last precious breaths on this planet; gratefully looking back on a lifetime of shared treasures, and resting in the knowledge that I loved you well.

If you’re a parent, I don’t know how you’ll respond if you find out your children are gay, but I pray you consider it. One day, despite your perceptions of your kids or how you’ve parented, you may need to respond in real-time, to a frightened, frantic, hurting child; one whose sense of peace, and identity, and acceptance; whose very heart, may be placed in your hands in a way you never imagined… and you’ll need to respond.

"Ducks, Bears & The Autumn Chicken: An Imbrogio Clots."

(This is a letter by our good friend’s father Tee. It vividly conveys living with Cancer and the love of a family. It serves as a reminder of the frailty of life, the beauty of love and that good ribs are hard to find. Hold your dear ones close, time’s slipping from us all.)

Spelling Dad from ADD.

  “How do you feel about children?” he asked me on that magical Christmas Eve in 2008. We are at too large of a table for two people on a patio of ribbons, decked halls and twinkle lights. Ooooh, pretty lights sparkle so. We waited for our coffee drinks under trimmed trees, gay apparel donned. The crowd at Aroma Café was heavy with packages, burdens from the shopping that is a draw to the Tujunga Village part of Studio City. I love the idea of a hamlet in the land of hams. I need more irony in my diet. People banged about like cattle down a chute. Calling Temple Grandin.

 My ADD is self-diagnosed and provides me ample amusement; sometimes others get to share in the joy that is my rambling. The stream of consciousness that I surf regularly makes me a fine Improv actor but an ineffective bureaucrat. Years later someone would shout “Squirrel” and I completely understood a cartoon dog’s pov.

 Christ, he just asked me something. Focus, Hubble, focus. If my self-narration annoys feel free to substitute Neil Patrick Harris voice or Sara Jessica Parker’s. My patter might be more palatable. How do I feel about children?

 Michael’s bright blue eyes, red cheeks and pale pallor defined the ‘Richie Cunningham’ description our mutual friend Rob had promised. Ha. Red, white and blue. He’s pretty cute, shivering in his p-coat. The lyrics to “American Boy” popped up. Stifle, silly ADD, stifle. Listen to the cute boy who is saying all the right things. I had arrived early to the date. I had armed myself viewing all the pictures he had posted on his MySpace. He had a butt-load of friends and loved the beach. I knew we had at least that, Tom & Rob as common denominators. He was tall, handsome and quirky. Our previous phone conversation confirmed quirky.

 “Hello, Villa Cosa Nostra, Michael speaking, how may I help you?”

“Is this Michael Vinton?”

“Tis I” Tis I. Tis I? I’m calling a boutique timeshare and got transferred to a Renaissance Faire Restaurant?

“This is Tony Spatafora, Rob Hahn’s friend.” Beat. Beat.

“Oh. Hi..”

“I know you’re at work, is this an okay time to talk?”

“Let me put you on hold for a second? Thanks.” Boom. Gone.

 He is so Googling me now. I think. Or he’s shuttering his work-hag so he can come back to the call a little more centered. I can’t wait to hear what comes back on the line.

 “Heeeeyy, “ a much cooler cat returns. “How ya doing?”

“Fine. “ Eyeroll. Stop Spats, don’t be such an egotistical putz. “Rob Hahn said to give you a call and that we should probably get together.”

“Yeah. He said.” Ice, ice baby. Who sang that, I wondered “So, what’s up….”?

Saints preserve me.

“Listen, I know you’re at work. Why don’t you give me a call when it’s convenient and we can set something up?”

“Cool, man.” Oh, this kid is killing me. Did I mention that my angel is 14 years my junior? Yeah. Apply considerable mockery here, I deserve it.

“I’ll just get your cell, and get back to you.”

“Fine, ” I’m not finished playing with my food, “but let me ask you three things: Dog or cat?”

“Dog.” He’s confident.

“Boston or New York?”

“…New York.” He vacillated.

“And finally, like garlic or love garlic.”

“LOVE garlic.” He wins. I spit game like no other. Who sang that damn song??

“Okay. You may call me back.”

Laughter.

 I thrive on acid tests and omens. I believe The Universe will give you signs when you are falling behind in it’s choreography. You are encouraged to free style only so often. Don’t waste your moment to jump in the abyss. Your pants can only get wet one of two ways when you dance. Go big or go home, I think I’d read that on some ones Friendster. I am so full of myself I should hang Charmin off my belt.

 I had seen him heading to the café from a quaint store in the Village. In fact he had stopped in the window in front of my to check his hair. The afternoon was windy. Norman Rockwell snow falling lightly would have completed the picture. Oh, my. He is a cutie. Those eyes were so blue. I stalked him down the sidewalk praying there would be more preening to mock later to my besty Sue. He walked like a man, firm and grounded while sporting an angel’s face. These omens are good. I couldn’t wait to hear from ‘Tis I’ what made this guy tick.

 Michael turned around in front of Aroma to find me, hot on his heels. He laughed and I gave him the big loving hug I like to share with my nearest and dearest. I wanted to warm his heart on this holiday night before we both had to race back to work. I would learn later that he really welcomed that hug as it was to be his first Christmas away from his wonderful family in Charlotte, NC. He was a little sad and in need of some familiar love. The guy has the big heart of a softie I would learn. Tick tick tick, boom goes the heart.  

 I thought he was shivering. He kept squirming over his shoulder then craning his neck back to me. Does he have a tic? He kept exhaling over his shoulder. I was intrigued; did I step in something while hunting my prey down the mean streets of the San Fernando Valley? He finally calls out the chair dancing he’s doing as being gassy today & also he is from a very gassy family. I got a fuzzy image of the holidays with the family. He was trying to subtly burp. I got that. Cool.

 “How do I feel about children? You mean as a family or laborers in my families sweatshop in New Haven?” More Charmin, senator? Truth was I did want a family. More than anything else I have ever wanted. I wanted to focus all that I am into people who would hopefully, one day, go out and use their powers for good. I have the biological family, the chosen family, the work family, and the Partridge family. I had a lock on “Back-up singers” and caregivers that all had a special place in my heart. I was finally ready at 40 to have a family unit. Children, progeny attendants whatever you want to call them. I was ready to raise.

 I hoped that in raising children, I would raise myself. I had always been a selfish impulsive prick. I could leave disaster in my wake better and brighter then most boobs my age. I’d been there, done that and brought back the t-shirt in two sizes (for my fat + fit days) Glib is an understatement to describe me, Crazed is another. Children would allow me to put all the attention I had put into myself to a positive end. My epic life experiences and families would help lift the children up; it takes a village I have been told.

 I had always seen myself with a large family. That was how we grew up in CT and I wanted to create something similar. Economics and Biology being what it may, it was going to take extra work and love but above all it would take the right mate to accomplish this with. Michael told me he had seen a similar vision but did the typical blanch one does when finding out there might be five more just like me out there in the world. Silly man, he has no idea.

 All of my wonderful family had paired up and reproduced. There are thirteen amazing nephews and nieces with birthdays to remember and events to celebrate. Being as far away as I am in Los Angeles can fray the nerves. The day to day growth of the kids gets away from you when updates aren’t delivered regularly. It is much easier to share around a family dinner table or a get together in state. Time flies and raising kids seemed to occupy and awful lot of it. Notes for later, I would record. I wished for a village that can act locally and think globally I guess.  I have a Village People cd I haven’t played in a while.

 And sometimes it takes a Village Idiot. Burpie and me made nice and I dropped a few more witty pearls of banter. We clicked on many levels. We had both thought we would have been priests, except for that annoying celibacy thing. We loved music. Our families were the most important things in our lives. Our dreams were huge. We wanted to see the world but above all wanted children. Oh, and grandchildren too.

 Well this was going to be tough, being two men and no little lady. We appear to be Biologically Adjacent to speak Angeleno, in the act of conception. There were to be a few extra steps to get our family unit to the amazing holiday card ready cast that my friends had biologically created ad nauseum. We would have to decide about Adoption; Domestic or International? Foster to Adoption; how old the child will we go? Surrogacy; who’s friend to raise a turkey baster to in this above generous gift they were providing? Surrogacy when not related in love or blood; do we find these people on Craigslist, Angie’s List, Facebook? There was to be much to learn but I had a feeling that Michael was the one to make the journey with.

 Real it in Spats, I chanted. Let’s not put the station wagon in front of the horse. If this really was a ‘traditional valued’ gay man I couldn’t rush the situation and would have to let this unfold. Guys like this were few and far between. Chill baby, baby, chill baby baby. Really ADD? Vanilla Ice? I’m hipper than that.

 Actually, I’m not getting any younger as people would tell me and FYI get a move on when they stop telling you this. It might be the Universe giving you a reality check to start listening and fall into line. Tick Tock, Tick Tock goes the biological clock. Wait, what? I was forty but determined. Many great people I knew personally had started their families late in life. I have energy to boot and an inner monologue that wouldn’t shut up. I am going to rock this fatherhood thing into the next stage of my life and hum show tunes for lullabies.

 I held his hand as we walked out of the café. It was in part a thank you for sharing so much of his sweet soul as he had his time on a crazy Christmas Eve. His eyes are illuminating. There was a sense of promise in one so gassy. I saw a fuzzy family unit off in the future, a pin prick of light, each day growing closer and larger. It came into frame and I saw the tall person in the image was wearing a p-coat and an enormous, toothy smile.

 OH, SNAP! It wasn’t Vanilla Ice, it was C & C Music Factory. Mmmmm. Things that make you go Mmm mmm mmm mmm mmm.  I am too old for ‘oh, snap’ I remind myself. Yet I’m not too old to learn. Papa, Dad, Daddy; I like it. I wonder what I’ll be when I grow up.

Ketchup, We’re Falling Behind….

 It was a lovely Friday afternoon at the Villa.  Sun was shining, the Santa Ana winds had whipped thru the San Fernando Valley taking down branches, wires and early Christmas zealots’ tributes. Bright streets were fraught with clutter. The winds had come in at a gusty 40-50 mph and the damage done isn’t just physical. It’s mental too. The warm dry winds, “Devil Winds” make people do crazy things. Studies have been done on how prolonged exposure to the winds make you impatient, frenzied, tired, aggravated, and susceptible to poor judgement.

 Contrary to Santa Ana Winds, blowing kisses on Zanna Lu or even light breezes elicits no carnage but the most glorious smiles. Her personality was coming into it’s own. Our daughter was way chill. Hear that honey-when you read this letter, you were the most delightful baby, so calm so loving and so peaceful. Unless you were hungry and then all bets were off. Zanna Lu loves eskimo kisses, chin tickles, cheek scritches and delicate blowing on her face.

 Bounds of attention was being heaped on Zanna Lu on this Friday, we were entertaining newlywed & expectant mother Tanya Strykos AKA LaTanya Brown, baddest make-up artist in town. In part of her mommy-prep LaTanya had come by for some hands-on study aids. Guest visits for a newborn are a whole other essay. Briefly, they need to brief and they need to be timely as people’s feelings get hurt. Tanya and Michael had an extraordinary friendship that pulled us all into, a lot like an eddy takes down a cruise ship in the Adriatic. The Strykos were a spicy ginger with a penchant for tattoos wine food and all things New England, and a charming husband ne neuroscientist who baked his ass off. We all were an easy fit.

 When Tanya & Mick got together the volume in the room heightened from the laughter and love. They could amuse each other for hours and not be bored. They were blissful in their banter on pop culture, babies, gossip even weather. Like your laundry, they covered everything. I was busy in the kitchen readying some food for a friend. I monitored the playdate with rapt joy. Our family love engulfs with hurricane force. When you are friends with us, you are In. And when you are good friends, family. Ties that bind….

 Joan and Kevin, good friends down in Orange County (Santa Ana Ironically) had just had Adeline June, their monster of a daughter (born 8 lbs 3oz, 23″ omg) and were recipients of our ‘Mommy Fridge Fill’. The MFF was a custom package that we offered from Dish It Out! our cooking show/catering service. Delicious entrees, salads, snacks and soups were sent to be enjoyed or frozen. Joan and Kevin loved my turkey meatloaf and quinoa salad. I had pulled the meatloaf out of the oven with the tomfoolery exploding in the next room. A small amount of ketchup smeared on both thumbs. “Yummy,” I thought licking them clean. These meatloaves were going to raise the roof.

 Time was getting away from me. I shut everything down in the kitchen making sure that cooling food was out of reach of our rescue Annie. Annie’s palate was relative, if it was accessible she ate it like a drunken relative. Time was short and I needed to be on my way to work. Fridays are notorious for rush hour traffic and with the Santa Ana’s ripping up the Valley I was assured bad drivers and out of order traffic\ lights.

 Blocking the door was my husband asking me to hold our daughter while he peed. Smear went the remainder of my right thumb’s ketchup on Zanna’s clean onesie. We just can’t have anything nice I joke to myself. I made mention to my spouse of the extra sauce on Z. Maybe he was listening, maybe he was blowing kisses on Zanna Lu, maybe Tanya had made him laugh I just didn’t know. Michael reclaims the firstborn and off I strode to work. Just like I had imagined there were crazy drivers, congestion and damaged traffic signals. My commute was hellish. Thanks, Santa (Ana winds).

 The holiday season is crazy in restaurants what with increased foot traffic from shoppers, holiday parties and the regular yahoos the patronize. The old adage, “One more ‘Fa-La-La’ and you’re out of here” applies minute by minute. I was twenty drink tickets deep in the service window at Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse with a pile of servers awaiting their guests’ tasty libations. The collection of artists, actors, moms, teachers that were the staff resembled my favorite penguins from Madagascar for half a second. Tick, tock, tick tock I was on the clock. Amused I went back to misting glasses and pounding berries for ‘apothecary style’ cocktails. Until my phone blew up.

 My fully-crazed husband had sent me pictures of the sullied onesie and spit-up cloth! He followed with several urgent texts informing me he was at a loss with what to do with this blood on the baby. Blood. Baby. Beeep-Beeeep- EEEmmmeerrrgeeeennnccccyyyyyy!!!! Michael had seen the stain on the sleeping angel and went into full-on urgent care mode. He frantically called friend Ryan, the nanny consultant. He frantically called the pediatricians office. He paged/called/shriek-screamed family members, the pediatricians office again, godparents, neighbors, Google and the omens. My phone was coming in HOT.

 I had to catch my breath. Now? This was the moment for our tableau? I had almost caught up. I was “in the weeds” as we say in restaurant-speak. I was manufacturing cocktail bliss for joyous revelers and savvy servers all night long while my huzbeast had gone off the edge of Cope Cod. He was gonzo. Kablooey. His fervor impressed as a concerned parent. Also apparent was his fierce Daddy Bear nature.  I had to reel it all in. This stopped here amid herbs and boutique gin.

 I text him he had mistaken Heinz for hemoglobin. He needed to remember my parting words spoken over our daughter’s head. Ironically, they had gone over someone else’s.  The information immediately reset the Doomsday clock. With two short texts the all-clear had been called and the huzbeast had resumed a docile nature.  Zanna Lu, when you read this know that your Daddz have sacrificed reason on numerous occasions where your interests have been concerned.

 Knowing full well the humor the situation would evoke, my huzbeast threw himself on his keyboard. He told the nice folks on FB what had happened hoping they might relish the story, and that it might take some piss & vinegar out of it. Like mayo, the story spread. Hither and yon came compliments for condiments and shared similar first parent stories. Holy Mole were there good stories.

The pediatrician called back in response to Mick’s messages. Also, to reassure us that first-time parents have reactions like this all the time. It was natural to be extremely excitable about anything to do with your baby’s health. This was a testimony to paying attention & when paying attention make sure you have plenty of dollars and sense.

Now the joy of a holiday is found in the traditions. Hanging of the wreath, carving of the pumpkin, burning down of the shed. We appreciate the holiday that much more through repitition, let's just keep beating that pinata (dead horse) until the candy falls down and makes everything sweet. Melonball Thursday is no exception. The Unofficial Holiday celebrating Silliness has been in existance for twenty odd years. It's innocent and humble beginnings have endured the test of time due to it's traditions. The thursday before Easter must be appreciated with silly tales, melonball cocktails, melonball shots and/or melonballs themselves. Like a wise girl in my highschool year book said in her quote, "I graduated just to be silly." Some much of life can be missed if we don't stop and laugh about the flight we just slept through, or the puddle we fell in, or how that silly identity theft blew over in three years.