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Welcome, Advocate readers!

AdvocateScreenShotSome of you may find yourself here after following a Google trail from the Advocate piece, “The New Lesbian Dad,” by Abby Dorsey, published earlier today. Welcome!  (And old LD readers: hey, look! and also, comment, if you feel compelled!)

I’ve been publishing this blog since not long after the birth of our first daughter, ’round about 2006.  I don’t do any SEO, nor do I tag or categorize posts in much of a sensible way (whimsy carries the day!). But to help you follow up some of the questions Dorsey’s piece may have raised: you could check out posts under “Nomenclature & taxonomy” (sensibly titled, exploring naming and such), or “Anima animus” (obscurely titled, but about gender).

Of course the Best of page collects material I think represents a good range, well-done.

Ask whatever questions you like in the comments here! Or connect directly via my contact page. And thanks for stopping by.

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Into the woods

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We’ve spent the better part of a week up in the woods at a very generously loaned cabin in the Sierra Nevada foothills, and in a brilliant display of irony, on the last night here, the WiFi kicks in.  It’s been a fascinating learning experience: because Mrs. Dad and I had anticipated working nights when we were here, and because cell and internet access have been spotty but not consistently inaccessible, its elusiveness held our attention.  Here we are attempting to remedy the “nature deficit disorder” * rampant among us all, big and little, and we wind up in a background wrestling match with internet connectivity.

We were like those sad-sack pigeons (were they pigeons? some sad bird) in that experiment (did B.F. Skinner do this? some craven behavioralist). First, birds were rewarded with a food pellet for pecking a button. All went well; before long they figured out that when they were hungry, a simple peck on the button would deliver the goods. Next, the pellets were consistently withheld. At first the birds pecked and pecked, to no avail. But eventually they figured out the pellets weren’t forthcoming, so they gave up. Meh. But in the third iteration, the pellets were delivered at utterly randomized and inconsistent intervals, whether the bird pecked at a button or not. Sometimes the peck worked, sometimes not. I’ll spare you the gruesome details. But suffice to say, the pigeons went berserk.

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“It’s okay, sweetie.”

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Note from mom, found posthumously.

 

A note from a father to a son, posted on FCKH8.com’s Facebook page (and their Twitter feed), has gone viral and is going viraler even as you read this. It was written by a dad to his son after he overheard his son talking to a friend about how to come out to his parents.  I first saw it at The Good Men Project, in a post by William Lucas Walker. According to Parentdish, “FCKH8.com founder Luke Montgomery said the letter was mailed to them by Nate, a high school student in Michigan.” Bless Nate; bless Nate’s parents.

These publicly shared moments, in which straight parents express their love and understanding of their gay children, are becoming more and common, thanks to the concurrent (and not at all coincidental) growths of social media and mainstream support of LGBT people. They’re also bittersweet. Sweet, surely life-changing (and sometimes life-saving) for the kids of these parents, who are hearing them now. Bitter for those of us whose parents neither knew nor understood this hugely consequential facet of us, or at least not at the time we were young, vulnerable, and in deepest need of their understanding and approval.

I say this as one such who, at the time, considered myself lucky. I felt sure that my parents wouldn’t have disowned me, had they known the truth about my first love. But what they would do or say, I didn’t quite know. I sensed that they would be disappointed and not understand, which was more or less the case.

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Some notes on gender and parenthood

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Herewith, some notes on gender and parenthood, by way of organizing some thoughts and soliciting dialog in advance of a panel I’ll be speaking on.  These notes also provide attendees a place to which to be able to trace various threads, should they like, or carry on the conversation we started.

This Friday I have the honor to be speaking  at the Dad 2.0 Summit alongside four other really smart panelists and in dialog with the great folks assembled in the room. Our moderator is Parent Hacks founder/author Asha Dornfest; co-panelists are National At-Home Dad Network President Al Watts, therapist and Father’s Forum founder Bruce Linton, and Huffington Post senior columnist Lisa Belkin.

The question organizing our chat: Can parenting ever really be gender-neutral? Framed in the program thusly:

When it comes to parenting, mothers are held to an unreasonably high standard, while the bar for passable fatherhood is disproportionately low. As fathers strive for greater credibility as parents, the gap between those standards is diminishing. But will that gap every truly disappear? And is this the only way dads will ever be perceived as having a truly equal footing when it comes to raising kids?

Below, some notes on things I consider axiomatic and fundamental, but worth stating explicitly, since so many of us come from so many different standpoints.  Also, some postulations about gender, parenting, and the relationship between pubic and private sphere power.

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Godspeed

I am thinking about my sister today.  

This February, three days before her eldest son’s birthday, it’ll mark three years that my sister communicated, through her best friend (the woman who married my beloved and me on the steps of San Francisco City Hall in 2008), that she didn’t want to hear from me or about me, “ever.”  For her own reasons, which surely made sense to her at the time–I’ve only been able to make sense of them from a novelistic standpoint; the indirect, unlikely path the heart picks through grief–and evidently they continue to work for her  now (or at least so I hope; otherwise, what a tragic waste, a pointless denouement to a far bigger tragedy).

 ’Til now, though writing is a deeply therapeutic map-making enterprise, I’ve not written about it here, out of a vain hope to keep a door open, a light on.  But “ever,” I’m starting to consider, is longer than a few years. I will leave the door open and the light on, but it’s time I got up and went about the business of being and healing myself.

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After Newtown

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Leveled, like so many.  Staring at my children, whose age range is precisely that of most of the child victims of the mass shooting at the Newtown, CT school earlier today.  Breath knocked out, and here I am at the other side of the country, with two living children.

As often happens when I am working with particular diligence to grasp the dimensions and implications of some change or challenge in my everyday life, I had fallen into a quiet here.  This sets up (as often happens) a dilemma: which image/ thought/ event should be the one to break the silence?  This time: heart-rending national tragedy and the need to process it–the desire, even to invite collective processing of it.

I collected a list of resources at a post at Lesbian Family, by the way. Among the many, I found this Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration PDF, Tips for Talking With and Helping Children and Youth Cope After a Disaster or Traumatic Event, to be the most effective combination of succinct and detailed, particularly regarding age-specific reactions immediately and over time.

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7/30: Post-prandial

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Self-portrait: After the Thanksgiving feast, Berkeley, CA.

The above scene is the dining room at my brother-in-law’s,  also effectively known as my back yard. Of interest to no one except my cat, who can’t read, is that the critter to my left is Emma, also known as She Who Can’t Stop Raiding My Cat’s Food Supply.

We co-house with my brother-in-law and his family, but in the cheating way, since by now (after 5 or 6 years in the same duplex) we have our own discrete homes on the shared lot. They’re heavy investors in our home, and we share finances and water bills and vehicles and lawn mowers and waffle irons and the gargabe & recycling cans and, up until recently, a phone bill (my brother-in-law’s tweens began to have their own cell phones and the number of accounts just got an eensy bit too much to manage).

We have neatly printed lists, sequenced by general food category and aisle, for our two local grocery stores (the mainstay, Trader Joe’s, and the organical produce source, Berkeley Natural Grocery), and we alternate taking on grocery runs for each household weekly. The cashier usually gapes at the groaning shopping cart (to the brim! every time!) and I have but to say: “Co-housing for the win!” It being Berkeley, they pause a beat, get it, and then tuck into the multi-family haul.

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3/30: my lady love

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Mother of my children, people watching, San Francisco, CA.

How do I love her? I would count the ways, but they’re countless, so all I can do instead is paste up confetti piece after confetti piece onto a pastiche-collage that will take me a lifetime to complete, and even then it will be incomplete. She once heard from a psychic that we’d been lovers many times over in past lives. This iteration was different, though. I apparently told her, last time around: this next time I will be different. You will have to find me in a new form.

And so she did. She thought she was looking for the man who would love her well and for the rest of her life, and instead she found me.

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