If you haven’t read this – http://nerdyapplebottom.com/2010/11/02/my-son-is-gay/ – please go read it and then come back here.

Who are you in this story? Are you the little boy? Are you the mom, fighting to make a world for her son in which he doesn’t have to be ashamed or afraid to be himself? Or are you Woman A, B or C? I read this story and I said to my husband, “If I post this to Facebook, chances are, so many of the women and men who really need to read this won’t.” He said something to the effect of, “Sadly, the women and men who really are like Women A, B and C won’t recognize themselves as being so.”

I read it and was enraged. I hated Women A, B and C just as one might expect I would. (I’m not the “Bless that poor, ignorant soul’s heart” type. I’ve tried. I know my mother would be proud if I were, but I’m not. I’m like a furnace. I’m constantly burning, and certain things really stoke my fire. Like bad freeway drivers. Much to my husband’s chagrin, I’m the bird-flipping type. Don’t get me started.)

I felt my heart break for that little boy. I thought of my best friend, who knew he was gay at five years old. I thought of 4 or 5 other men I know who said they knew by 4 or 5 they were “different”. Whether or not this little boy grows up to love men as opposed to women, he knew, he KNEW that was going to take flack from the kids at school for wearing that costume. And he sucked it up, and with the support of his mom, he wore it anyway. That thought alone makes me tear up even now.

Think about this: When a little girl dresses as a boy, people think it’s adorable and many have a “you GO girl” attitude about it. When a high school girl decides male-only sports teams are sexist and fights to be on the football team, it empowers girls everywhere and makes national news.

Sadly, a boy who has to fight to join a girl’s cheerleading squad (and I’m not talking about the boys who stand there looking studly and hold the girls up on their shoulders) or to wear makeup if it makes him feel more attractive, or who wants to dress as a girl for Halloween, has to deal with a double standard. Who cheers him on, except for the gay and the gay-friendly? Not the school board members. Not his peers. Not his town.  If he’s lucky, his parents will. So many don’t even have that.Let’s take out of the equation the gay factor.

Let’s pretend that these women (Woman A, Woman B and Woman C) aren’t secretly scared out of their minds that their little boys aren’t going to grow up gay. Mkay?You know what’s left? It’s sexism. Why on earth would a man (who’s superior, right?) want to dress as a woman (who’s inferior), or do things associated with being a woman, such as cooking or cleaning or wearing makeup to cover a blemish or knitting or whatever? Because MEN, being the stronger sex (yeah, ok, right – anyone who’s carried a baby knows this is BULL. SHIT.) must also be manly, must also appear strong and must only wear colors associated with being a manly man, and must enjoy trucks and football and yada yada yada. Those are the rules.

The whole thing makes me want to scream. It’s all so OLD. These are old, tired ideas and they destroy people. This kid wasn’t hurting anyone! He didn’t bring a gun to school. He didn’t pull anyone’s hair or tell them they were fat. He didn’t cheat or steal. He wanted to dress as Daphne for Halloween. HALLOWEEN, people! When creativity is supposed to be rewarded. When fancy can take flight. When the whole point is to be something you’re not, so you won’t be recognized.

But that’s not my point. Let’s take Halloween out of the equation, as well.

Another mom on a forum of which I’m a member said this: “If (child’s name withheld) was gay I would still love him just the same. But until he was old enough to comprehend what he was doing, I would not let him go out in public dressed as a girl. I definitely wouldn’t look down upon or insult a child or it’s (sic) mother for that. If they want to do that, that’s cool… But I wouldn’t.”

This is a fine example of a woman who doesn’t recognize herself in the story I’ve linked. She believes she’s open minded. She believes she’s a progressive mom, doing what’s right for her child in this world. She doesn’t see that she’s Woman A in a more open minded woman’s clothing.

She says, “If others want to do that, that’s cool. But I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t allow my child to dress like that in public.” Let’s pretend I’d had the balls to address her personally and to have asked her, “Why wouldn’t you do that?”

I imagine she’d say, “Because I just wouldn’t. It’s just not something I would do. Others can. But I wouldn’t.”

But why wouldn’t you?

“Because that’s my choice! That’s theirs and that’s fine, but I choose to raise my son this way!” But whyyyyy do you choose that?

puhKOOOOOOSH! She explodes. Little bits of Prada loafer, a few strands of formerly perfectly styled ash blonde hair and a shredded country club membership are all that’s left. Okay, that was mean. Sometimes I’m mean.

I didn’t ask her why, though. I kept calm, typed a few responses aimed directly at her (within my entire response to the initial post, some of which is pasted here and refined a bit) and then deleted them, but eventually responded, “If you wouldn’t allow your child to dress that way in public, you are, perhaps without even realizing it, judging those who do.”

I also said, “You make a choice every day of your life between two things: Love and Fear. That’s it. You choose to decide with love that your son will be what he’s going to be, or you choose to fear other people’s reactions to it, or fear that he will become something you don’t want him to be, etc. Though it goes against my nature (I was raised by a fearful mother, who loved me intensely but kept my life very small), I’m going to try my hardest to raise my son with love and only love. If my son ends up loving Dora more than Thomas, then that’s who he is, that’s his choice. And I’ll stand behind him, 100%.”

And all of that’s true. I am going to try. Part of trying to be a better person is to dig deeper and to admit to yourself your failures at doing so.

Recently, we were in Palm Springs visiting my best friend and his partner, who are two of the tallest, loveliest men anyone could ever hope to know. They have friends all over the world and both are close with their families and have never been anything but loving and supportive to me and my little family. I owe them my undying gratitude and love. And they have it. My best friend was my Man of Honor at my wedding and his partner performed the ceremony. They are uncles to my child. Now, if you don’t know about the Gay Uncle, let me tell you.

They like to shop.

Each time we see these two, we get gifts for the baby from them. Now my baby, who is nearing 6 months old, looks more like a toddler now and is wearing 18-24 months size clothing. He’s grown out of a lot of clothes before he’s even gotten a chance to wear them. Those clothes go over into a box that I will either forward to my sister in law, who’s becoming a foster mom (Applause for her, please) or to a consignment shop. After reading the story of the five year old and his monther, I started thinking about clothes and colors and Women A, B and C and what sort of world I would like for my son. And I remembered the lavender and pink sparkly shirt. In the box. Never worn.

We talked about it a bit when the uncles gave it to us. One of them said something along the lines of “She doesn’t want him to wear that one because it’s got pink on it, I bet.” And we all laughed it off.

But I didn’t. I didn’t want him to wear it. Because it was lavender with pink sparkly, rounded-off words on it. In my mind, it was plainly meant for a girl. So while I loved the thought and my son is always wearing the other shirts and onesies they’ve purchased for him, that shirt went right into the box. I can defend myself and say that it’s because it was Size 6 Mos, but the truth is, I didn’t even try it on him to see if it fit.

I’m Woman A. And I didn’t even know it.

You make a choice every day between two things. Fear and Love. And now I ask myself, “what was I afraid of?” Was I afraid other people would look at my son and not know whether he’s a boy or a girl? Who cares, right? So you correct them. “Actually, he’s a boy.” No harm done. Was I afraid that after correcting their assumption, I would get a blank stare, an uneasy smile and a re-glance back down at Declan and the shirt? Was I afraid some little old lady with the best of intentions (because those little old ladies with the best of intentions always know the most about your baby and how you should raise it, have you noticed?) would say “Well, you’ve got him in a girl’s shirt! Why’s he wearing a girl’s shirt!?” ?

Was I afraid of having to answer that question?

I know one thing, I certainly wasn’t afraid that wearing the purple and pink shirt would MAKE him gay. You can’t make someone gay any more than you can make someone straight. (Not even through religion. If I thought you could, I would have had Gay Uncle No. 1 in church with me every Sunday in college, in hopes that he would “turn”, and one day marry me.)

Every single minute, of every single day of your entire life, you will make a choice between fear and love. I’m not afraid of what my son will be. I love him. My son will be what he will be. My best friend will be what he will be. Your son will be what he will be.

When will we all just let them be?

I regret my choice of letting fear dictate whether or not my son wore that shirt. I regret worrying about what others would think. Thankfully, I was presented with a choice of whether or not I should write about that choice. Whether or not I should tell the truth about what I perceive to be a weakness in my character. I choose to talk about it. I choose to tell this story so that others might think back to a time when they bought an inferior stroller or pack n play because the better choice only came in pink, or to a time when they judged another mother for buying her son a toy kitchen instead of a work bench to hammer on. So that others might realize, as I realized, that Woman A is every woman, caught off guard perhaps, not at her best moment, but not evil, either. Just a woman who needs to find herself in a story about another woman, like I did.

Today I’m choosing love.

My son was born through a cesarean section. He’s healthy and has a great set of lungs on him. We were supposed to give birth on the 19th, but when we went in for our last scheduled OB appointment, the missus was showing early signs of preeclampsia. Rather than risk things getting complicated, our OB sent us straight to the labor and delivery ward, and things got started.

I suppose their birthdays are always a bit of a surprise in most cases. I’m feeling a bit guilty, too, because I had a hidden hope that this would happen pretty much exactly the way it did. As they say, be careful what you wish for.

We’ve been in the hospital, and will be for 2 or 3 days while the missus recovers from them cutting into her abdomen. The boy latched on and has been sucking away all night, which is a great sign. And, as every new father has, I’ve become familiar with the tarry, black poos already. I’ve also had my first panic attack during an hour while the nurses took the boy away to give the missus and me some time to sleep. The panic wasn’t about him being away from us, but from visions of the drastically altered future life I’m embarking on.

How do you make sure you’re the perfect balance of father, friend, and husband? How do you devote everything to this new life in your house without losing track of your own life? I suppose the answer is: you just do.

I’ve loved this boy since he was little more than smudges on an ultrasound picture, but that love was nothing compared to what I feel now when I look into his tiny face.

Today, though, he decided to be really lethargic. I know they slow down their moving as they run out of room, and I know some days are slower than others, but all the things we usually do to get him bumping were useless today. It was nerve wracking, to say the least.

Ultimately we went to the Labor and Delivery ward at our hospital and had them do what’s called a Non-Stress-Test. They hook up dopplers to Donna’s belly and trace his heart rate over a period of time, and then have her drink ice water, and sometimes they use a “zapper” which is a thing that vibrates like an electric razor, to get him to react.

Last time we had an NST, he punched at the doppler and kicked at the zapper. This time he tolerated the doppler, but we could tell by his heart rate and such that he was reacting just to the ice water…eventually.

It’s still a bit weird, but the L&D girls said he had a “beautiful trace, just perfect” and our OB had them send us home after only about 40 minutes. I guess I’m happy with that, but it’s still a bit unnerving to have these slow downs.

35 weeks and 4 days down, only 1 week and 3 days til he’s officially “full term”. Fingers crossed.

• Donna finds squatting positions very uncomfortable
• I find the “slow dance” position comforting, but stressful on my lower back and legs
• I hate most of the kneeling, hands-and-knees positions because they made Donna’s face all red and flushed, plus getting up and down into them is a real chore
• Donna felt really comfortable sitting backwards in an office chair with no arms – we have no such chairs in our apartment – I saw no such chairs available in our birthing room – I need to get a chair
• The complications possible from an epidural seem much worse than the pain it is meant to block
• Most of the pain meds available during labor have side effects I dont want my son to experience
• I dont want Donna to be in pain more than is necessary

It’s a tough balancing act, it seems, between pain management and scary chemicals. We know natural child birth is painful and a lot of exhausting work for the mother (and her support person, really, but in a different way). But, even with all that information, I’m not daunted. I cant wait to meet this child of mine, and I think Donna, while scared out of her mind, is also intensely curious about her own limits of what she can handle through this process of giving birth to a tiny human.

Exciting, scary, worrisome, gruesome (c-section graphics, ew), rewarding, tense, fingers-crossed, thoughts going through my head these days…

In rats, when one group was fed sugar water equivalent to soda pop along with a rat-chow diet, and another group was fed a HFCS-water solution equivalent to 50% of the HFCS found in soda pop with rat-chow, and both groups were constrained to the same caloric intake, the HFCS rats gained 48% more weight – most of which was around their abdomen – and they showed higher blood triglycerides. These are the bad cholesterols that are related to increased risk of heart disease, stroke, etc.

I think my mom tried to keep us kids from snacking too much, but with permissive friends’ parents, and schools, her work was undone. I am a junk-food junkie through and through. I’m addicted to caffeine, sugar, carbohydrate-laden foods, and grease. Sitting down to a “meal” of plain potato chips with sour cream ranch dip and a diet Pepsi, followed by a cookie or some candy, makes me a happy man. I <i>want</i> to make changes to my diet, but it just seems impossible. My recent forays into cooking fresh foods have helped, though: Drive-thru food has lost a lot of its appeal. I dont want my child growing up with obesity in his future.

When I was a child and teenager, until I turned about 25, I was thin as a rail and it seemed like I could eat anything I wanted, I averaged 135 pounds when I was 19. Around age 26, I started to pack on pounds at an alarming rate. Luckily, I was still in the military at the time, so I was able to fight my expanding waist line with easy access to gyms, and I averaged 175 pounds up to 180 when I was released from duty. After I finished my enlistment, though, I got a physical job as a cable tv install technician, and I got my weight from 185 back down to 165. That only lasted a few months, outdoor physical labor is unbearable in Phoenix. I ended up with a desk job after 2 years of art school, and weighed back into the 185 range. After 11 months of riding a desk, and with a newly pinched nerve in my upper back, my weight jumped to 255. That’s right, 70 pounds gained in less than a year. I got surgery to remove the disc that was pinching the nerve, and lost the desk job, and also lost about 15 pounds by controlling my portions. Since then, my weight has bounced around between 230 and 245, with brief stints in the 225 range.

I dont love a lot of varied foods, but the foods I do love, I love a LOT. I dont get enough physical activity because I’d rather sit at my desk online than go outside for walks alone during the day. Donna wants to get more exercise, but physically cant do much more than work and come home and do the minimum stuff she needs to do. She has only gained about 5 pounds since getting pregnant, which means she’s actually lost a lot of body fat in order to balance out the 25 pounds or so of Declan et al.

I dont want Declan to be fighting this battle when he’s in his 30s. Hell, I dont want to be fighting this battle anymore! I had hoped to be below 200 by the time Declan was born, but that’s only 5 or 6 weeks away…and here I sit at 245.

So, my resolutions for Declan (I hope Donna agrees):

• No HFCS
• Limited Sugar
• Limited Saturated Fat
• Limited Carbohydrate-laden snacks
• Lots of fresh veggies
• Lots of fresh fruits
• Lots of outdoor activities

I hope these things are sufficient to help him build a lifetime of better habits than I have.

Last night, though, we experienced a class that was about how our lives change as a couple after the baby is born. It talked about all the old things, how to talk, how to listen, how to voice your thoughts and feelings, how to get to know one-another. Basic couples therapy stuff, just done in different terminology to make it more post-baby-new-parent-centric.

What annoyed the bajeesus out of me is that it was done as a workshop. I hate workshops. I learn really quickly, and I learn with thought-based exercises and by absorbing information from the printed page and lecture. When it comes to hands-on doing-based learning, I get bored very quickly. When I get bored, I tune out. It’s been something I’ve had to deal with since I was little (or more like my mom had to deal with) and I expect to have to deal with it with Declan.

I was already feeling a bit grumpy because Donna was a bit more fractured than normal, making her seem manic, but I had internalized that and tried to keep it from showing. She cant help it, it was not her fault at all, and my being grumpy wasn’t likely to be helpful at all. So I did the worst thing and just got quiet. Donna noticed my quiet, and read it for what it was, and said “Am I being too manic for you right now?” to which I answered “Yes”. Right then, she stopped, apologized, breathed a bit, and we held each other and kissed before moving on to class.

Then, we get to class and not only is it a different instructor, but the chairs have been moved into a circle, the desks removed, and it screamed workshop. Donna even said “I have a feeling that with the chairs this way it means group participation” or something to that effect. She was right.

Luckily, we didn’t have to really interact with other couples, it was more guided interaction with each other…but it still irked me like crazy. We had sheets of paper with suggested conversation topics – most of them things we’ve talked about a lot when it came to open-ended points, and almost none of it relevant to the raising of a baby, which is what we paid for this class to be. It got my stubborn up, and for half of one of our conversation periods I just kept saying “I hate this, it’s pointless, it’s stupid” etc instead of just tucking in and doing it. For Donna, who does learn well in workshop environments, I should have just done it…but the mindset I was in at that point, I just couldn’t.

I can understand them believing that giving us couple-tools will help make our household a more peaceful place to raise a child, but this class is “Babycare”, learning to change diapers, feed, and interpret your baby’s body language.

If I wanted couples counseling, I’d go to couples counseling.

What the classes seem to be about, more than this general and specific information, is teaching you how to fool your brain into ignoring the pain messages it’s getting for a while longer than you would normally. All that “hee-hee-hee-hooo” breathing and visualization is for one thing: get mom’s mind off of the fact that something the size of a cantaloupe is passing through something only accustomed to things the size of a cucumber.

They should have slideshows projected around the birthing room with constant streaming from cuteoverload.com instead of me blowing my morning breath all over her…

Mom told me that I had hiccups in utero. A lot. Apparently a hiccup is the first sound mom ever heard from me as they were walking me back from being weighed, etc. She knew it was me because of the hiccup sound coming from the hallway.

Donna read a horrible story on a message board she frequents about a woman whose baby was stillborn. The cord was wrapped around the baby’s leg, which had caused it to essentially suffocate. This woman had experienced hiccups from her baby up until that point. Her doctor had told her that hiccups were a sign of cord compression. Because of this story, Donna worries a bit about Declan’s hiccups.

I had hiccups so much I kept my mom awake at nights before I was born, and I seemed to turn out pretty OK, so I hope the same holds true for my son.

On another note, that boy is getting rambunctious! I dont know what he’s doing in there, but it feels like he’s practicing martial arts or something. Spins, punches, head-butts, flutter kicks…maybe he’s a natural karate kid. Sometimes when Donna spoons me, I get woken up by him kicking me in the back. Of course, when that happens, I have to turn over and put my hands on Donna’s belly, and enjoy feeling him moving around.

Last night I said to Donna “I wish you were translucent so that I could see what he’s doing in there” and I meant it. Sure, it would be weird if we all looked like those glass-fish, but I want to see my boy! I know Donna feels like time is rushing, but I want it to move even faster. 8 weeks cant go by fast enough for me right now…

She said, “Since everyting else about your pregnancy is healthy, ve vill hope, ve vill try to get you to 37 weeks.”  (Those of you who can, feel free to read that in a Russian accent.  I love my doctor. )

Okay. So, there it is. 37 weeks is my new goal.  We are “hoping” to get there. 37 weeks is what is medically considered full term, or in other words, the baby is developed enough that he/she is not considered to be a premie.

This means I have a little less than 8 weeks left. Does this sound like NO FREAKING TIME AT ALL to anyone else? I know I’m not alone here. 8 weeks is less than a half-semester. 8 weeks is a little less than two short months (and we know how fast the last two months just flew by, right?)

Okay, /panic.

It’s time to dig in. Time to start checking off items on lists. Time to set up the co-sleeper so Oliver gets used to it. Time to start freezing meals. Time to start buying diapers.

Time to admit this lovely, long-awaited child is actually going to come out of there, one way or another.  Time to be a mommy. Wow.

Freaking Wow.