GuySpy

"Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out, Daddy."

The basic goal in raising a child is to try to create a self-sustaining creature. As a parent, you protect your kid in order that he might live long enough to be able to protect himself. Of course, to a certain class of parent, this protectiveness becomes an issue in itself, and we laugh at those folks, calling them “helicopter parents” because of the way they hover around their kids at playgrounds, helping them navigate every challenge, be it climbing equipment or dealing with territorial five-year-olds. As much as we know they’re not doing their children any favors in the long run, we have all gone into that vast gray area between over-protective and negligent.

When I learned I had to go to Paris on business, well, being a red-blooded American homosexual who likes shopping, wine, and art, I was thrilled. Then I realized this would be the first time I was away from my son for more than 18 hours since we got him three years ago. At that time, the experience of having been in three homes before he was two made him extremely clingy. That was fine. When you’ve been waiting for a child as long as we had been, you’re a little inclined towards abundant affection yourself.

We’ve gone through a lot of experiences since those early days where we three clung to one another, and Mikey has grown into a very confident kid. He has begun to worry less about being with his papa and daddy, and more about fitting in with his friends. A few weeks ago, his preschool was doing one of its “Wacky Wednesdays,” which are always almost painfully un-wacky. Anyone with a four-year-old can tell you that “crazy hair” and“mismatched socks” are not a wacky look – they’re the default. On this actual “Wacky Wednesday,” when everyone else was supposed to wear their pajamas to school, Mikey wanted to make sure that everyone else was wearing theirs too. Then we had the idea that it would be even cuter if he wore his polar bear slippers to complete the ensemble.

"We're in pajamas at school!" "Heavens, how wacky!"

Mikey wasn’t so sure. “Will other people wear slippers too?”

When we arrived at school and passed teachers and parents, each of them pointed out Mikey’s slippers and enthused about how cute they / he / we as parents and stylists were. We glowed. Mikey began hiding behind us. Every compliment fed our egos and worried Mikey. And rightly so: When we arrived at the classroom, we found plenty of his classmates were in their pajamas, but none were wearing novelty slippers.

“Can you please let me wear shoes?” he begged.

Of course, we want to raise a kid who isn’t afraid of being different and standing out, but that’s not done by forcing him to wear something he wasn’t sure about in the first place. In art and in life, you have to learn the rules before you break them.

I didn’t know how he would react to the news that I was going to be gone for five days. I knew, however, that I couldn’t tell him any news too far in advance. When I told him that Grandma and Grandpa were coming to visit, he left the conversation, opened the front door, and set off down the street to go meet them. I had to explain to him the meaning of “in two weeks.” Knowing this, I waited for the day before to tell him that I was going to be out of town.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Paris,” I said. We had gone there as a family two summers ago, and we talked about it a lot.

“Can I come too?” he asked.

“No, I have to be there five days for work,” I said. Everything he can’t do with me – be it go to a grown-up party or actual work –is “work.”

“Will you eat lots of snacks?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “You mean like when we were in Paris and ate snails?”

“Yes,” he whispered. “But don’t tell anyone.”

He knew that while snails are delicious, to other four-year-olds, they’re yucky. I said, “Yes, I’ll have some snacks in Paris.”

No snails were consumed during the writing of this blog. Alas.

“No,” said Mikey. “You can go to Paris, but only have snacks in Paris with me, please.”

“Okay,” I said.

And then Mikey used some of the French he knows and said, “Mousy.”

That was that. I had planned everything from a distracting after-dinner trip to Baskin Robbins, to a demonstration of how we could video chat every day over Skype. His only concern about me being away is that I’d be having fun doing something he likes to do with me. Snacking.

Now, I’m in Paris and I’m having a marvelous time. It’s not as much fun to shop and dine by yourself, but it is nice to be able to walk through a museum at your pace. With Mikey, he’d be as likely to see how fast he could run through the Van Gogh room as he would to spend several minutes giggling at the big balls on Alfred Jacquemart’s statue of a rhino.

And yet, I look at the Parisians and their adorably precocious kids, hanging out in the cafes and in the playground at Jardin du Luxumbourg where we took Mikey, and I miss my family.

And I really miss snacks.

Family Guyd: Snackless In Paris

GuySpy

"Heil Twizler!"

My son turned four last month, and it took two weeks to open all the gifts, one to three presents a day. It’s a tradition we’ve had since his first birthday with us, when he turned two and our friends’ generosity was so overwhelming that we had to institute that policy. It seemed to work. As a result, some months later, on Christmas morning, we have video of Mikey coming into the living room, seeing his first tree with a heaping bounty of wrapped presents, opening one and playing with it, ignoring all the others.

Opening one present at a time ensures that each gift gets a moment to be truly treasured, not tossed aside into the heap of wrapping paper as he leaps to the next one in an avaricious frenzy. Everything he received he still plays with a month later, but one has become his addiction.

Candyland.

This was not Mikey’s first board game. For some holiday or birthday or perhaps for a Tuesday, I gave him a Thomas the Tank Engine board game. Mikey loved it, but decided the way you play it was to crash the trains into piles of cards while screaming, “Oh no! We’re falling to our doom!”

Eventually, the cards were lost and the little plastic trains entered their new life as bath toys just the right size to clog the drain.

When anyone asked what Mikey wanted for his birthday, I talked about his current obsessions, but I never suggested games. When he tore open the wrapper and saw it was Candyland, he got very excited until I explained that it wasn’t a huge box of candy. It was a game. It took him a moment to calm down and come up with a Plan B for what to do with it.

“Can we play it now?”

If you haven’t played it recently, there is no strategy in Candyland. The youngest person goes first, picks a card, and if it has two red squares, he goes forward two red squares. If there’s an ice cream cone or a lollipop, you go to that square. He grasped those rules early enough, and then it became important to him to win.

The problem with a land made of candy is that it occasionally leads to Tim Burton making terrible remakes.

Mikey is competitive. I thought all preschool boys were, until I was in a room with a bunch of them and tried to motivate them to get ready for dinner.

“Who is going to be the first one to wash his hands?” I cried.

Mikey tore off in a flash, and the others wandered after or stayed where they were, looking at me bemusedly. So I know that my son is particularly competitive, and I love it because it means I can get him to do almost anything if I make it a game. And now, here was an actual, real game. So of course, Mikey wanted to master it.

Picking cards off a deck is obviously a matter of luck and Mikey is lucky, so he handily won the first couple of games. That thrilled him so much, he threw himself into a victory dance. I wanted him to keep on enjoying the game, so the next time I shuffled the cards, I surreptitiously snagged a couple of the candy cards, which would send a player to the final stretch. With what I imagined was dexterous slight of hand, I would slip one onto the deck as I picked my card, so Mikey could pick that card next and win the game.

Mom really enjoyed Family Game Night when the meth kicked in.

My mom is as competitive as her grandson. Her game is Bridge, and she lives to demolish her opponents and earn gold master points in serious tournaments. A day after my trickery, I told her about Candyland, and my sneaky method to make sure Mikey wins.

“I can’t ever remember letting you win any game,” Mom replied, and then acknowledged. “Though I don’t think we tried to crush you either.”

I thought it would be good to let Mikey almost lose before slipping in the cheat. Lend the game a little drama. It could have gone better, I concluded, as I ducked the flying cards, figures, and board. Mikey went behind the curtains and sulked. After a few minutes, we talked about being a good sport and how no one wins every single time. He said he understood.

The next day, he asked Ian to play with him. They were having a fine, close game, when Ian was distracted by a text message. As he looked away, he saw out of the corner of his eyes Mikey slip one of the candy cards that I used to ensure his victory into the deck. Ian confronted him on the cheating, and Mikey rightly pointed out that I did it too. Evidently, my slight of hand was not as slight as I believed it to be.

By Mikey’s request, we still play multiple times a day, but we play it straight with no bending of the rules for any reason. Sometimes when you draw a candy card, it sends you back. Sometimes one of the players in a close race gets a lucky streak. Sometimes you land in licorice and lose a turn. Sometimes you almost win, and then you end up losing; and sometimes, it’s the reverse. I’ve been in the real world long enough to know that most people cheat if they think they can get away with it, but what I forgot is that it’s more fun not to.

Family Guyd: Candy Everybody Wants

Every kid wants to be big. And then they end up dancing with Robert Loggia.

I don’t mind getting older, but the only people who are really excited about it are kids. Our soon-to-be four-year-old son is still at the age where you get better every year you’re alive. I pointed out how strong he was, and he said, “I’ll be even stronger when I’m five in kindergarten!”

“Yes,” I acknowledge.

“Or when I’m … eleven!” he added.

“Sure,” I say. “You’ll definitely be stronger when you’re eleven years old.”

“And even stronger when … I’m … a million!”

The magic of getting older makes certain rules easier to enforce. We were at Target the other day, picking up one particular toy he was getting for no particular reason, and then, not surprisingly, he found another, a huge double-barreled pump-action squirt gun. He asked me if I thought it was cool. We’re still thankfully at the stage when he thinks that his dad is the expert on what’s cool. I am well aware that this is a temporary phase, and soon enough he’ll understand that what’s cool is what I don’t like.

"Just a small slice, mommy dearest."

That occasion, his fourth birthday, is next month, and he’s been excited about it approaching since his third. So are we. When you think about being a parent before you’re one, birthday parties are one of the things you picture. Pin the Tail on the Donkey, face painting, pony rides, clowns, and, of course, the cake. We didn’t have him for his first birthday, so we don’t have that classic cake-in-the-face pic other parents have. That still makes me a little sad, thinking of a time when Mikey existed but we weren’t in his life yet.

We made up for it on his second birthday, three months after he came to live with us. A bunch of friends coming together to celebrate our new parenthood, a couple months before the official adoption, including my parents flying in from across the country. Bubblemakers, gift bags, barbecue, the whole deal. He spent most of the day naked with his grandma chasing him across the lawn with a swimsuit in hand.

We took Mikey with us to Europe last year, and came back just a few days before his third birthday, so that’s all the time we had to plan. We ended up having about a dozen friends over for pizza and Ralph’s cheapest cake with Lightning McQueen on it. There are folks out there who wouldn’t even consider that a decent playdate, let alone a birthday party.

These guys are frequently seen at kids' parties. And in my nightmares.

Now we’ve become aficionados of the kiddy birthday, and we’ve seen costume characters, princesses, petting zoos, bouncy houses, water slides, organized workouts, food stations, and a cake that exploded like a volcano. They were all fabulous, but really, we’ve come to realize that all we need is cake with lots of frosting, some pizza, and some friends. That third birthday was perfect.

The mother of one of Mikey’s best friends in preschool posted on facebook recently, “Is it really necessary that I invite EVERY CHILD who has invited him to their party?” Like in all aspects of parenthood, opinion was divided. Most folks seemed to agree it’s not “necessary,” but the more the merrier. You’d think we’d know by now that the more, the more tantrums.

Do you remember why Maleficent put the curse on Sleeping Beauty? She wasn't invited to the party! It's etiquette, people.

There are some other etiquette hurdles to overcome when doing the joint birthday party. We’re both inviting the same number of kids and hoping the same number turn up, and we’re making it clear to the people that we’re inviting that no one expects them to buy a present for the birthday boy they don’t know. The theme of the party, pirates, is something the two boys both agree to, as is the principal fun-time activity, face painting.

Family Guyd: Four Candles

"Sorry, honey, we're out of week old gruel. How about one of kitty's hairballs?"

Some parts of parenting aren’t tricky. You shouldn’t spank. You should play with your kids. You should kiss their boo-boos. You should listen to their stories. You should tell them not to pick their nose or grab their teachers’ boobies. The harder lessons to teach are the ones that take awhile – how to be patient, how to put yourself to sleep – and are not so obvious.

When it comes to eating, unless you’ve completely given up and serve nothing but pizza and French fries, most of us try to serve a healthy variety, switching things up with different vegetables, different spices, different preparations, to broaden our kids’ palates. Inevitably, the ancient discussion begins with the tyke uttering the words he doesn’t know yet is a cliché: “I don’t like this.”

Strategies and results vary, but most parents cycle through threats and bribery, until the kid gives the food a tentative lick. Sometimes the child will enthusiastically go for it after that. I’ve seen it happen, as recently as last night, with a slice of mango that looked strange and slimy before it went down. More often, this obligatory taste is followed by a stubborn refusal to eat more.

The reason I’ve adopted that phrase when the battle over a particular foodstuff is over is that I want Mikey to understand that eating is a learning experience. Your taste-buds don’t know what to make of unusual foods until they have to be trained.

The same is true of all sorts of activities, and this is where parents have to draw different lines in the sand. Initially, we want to sign up our kids for every activity, sport, and club that we come across. Of the three after-school activities offered at Mikey’s preschool, we were informed he was interested in all: dancing, music, and gymnastics. I’m enough of a cynic to note when I’m probably being milked, but indulgent enough not to care much. If Mikey wants to try something, that’s all we need to hear.

I see evidence all the time that he’s getting something out of gymnastics. The springs of his bed and our patio screen door have all suffered for his craft. Somersaults and handstands are typical means of locomotion around our house. And as for music, we get monthly CDs in his cubby so we can play the tunes and sing along. Half the slots in our car’s CD changer are filled with kids’ CDs, which might make you the gentle reader recoil in horror until you look at the other ones. In his collection is Ziggy Marley and Willie Nelson’s duet of the old spiritual “This Train.” In our collection is Barry Manilow’s rendition of “I Can’t Give You Anything But Love, Baby.” Which I sing out loud with gusto and no idea what key I should even be attempting.

"Let's sing another nursery rhyme about 18th century politics and smallpox!"

Dance, that’s a little different. Like his dads, Mikey loves to dance. There doesn’t need to be music for him to jump up and grab our hands and say, “Let’s dance!”

My dancing’s received mixed reviews from the public. There are those, like my brother, who say it’s not fit for decent folk, and there are others, like my husband, who think I’m Nureyev if he had talent. It’s hard to know who to believe, but I’m leaning towards Ian’s opinion. My son thinks that I’m awesome because I’m all ham.

Now, you’re thinking that if you’re not sure about the lessons your child is receiving, shouldn’t you check it out yourself? Ian did that, and reported back that it consisted of Mikey and two other kids from the preschool class, shuffling around inside, while the rest of the kids – those whose parents weren’t paying extra for the privilege – ran around the playground, shrieking with joy. We asked Mikey if he still liked his dance class. He swore he did. It was about that time we were invited to the recital.

The theme was classic rock and roll, with the title “At the Bop.” The pamphlet we received in the mail asked us to bring our little dancer to a local high school gym on Saturday at mid-day. The boys’ costume was jeans and a plain white T-shirt, and it was suggested to add an additional bopper look to slick back their hair.

Our boy has hair that drifts from afro to dreds. Slicking it back is not an option.

In period costume and non period hair, we arrived on the scene. Our preschool was represented on stage by Mikey, one other boy, and one other girl, but there were three other preschools who joined them to fill the ranks. About 30 girls to 5 boys.

"Let us … entertain … you …"

Like all the other parents in the audience, our video camera and still cameras were raised, anticipating capturing our prodigy as he took flight with pirouettes, plies, grand jetes, and maybe a little soft shoe. There was one boy, conspicuously placed by the teacher in the middle, who evidently only answered to the stage name “Jack Sparrow” and danced with the girls, except for the girl from our school who glared at him. The other boy from Mikey’s class burst into tears and was taken off stage two minutes into the performance. The other boys from all the other preschools, including Mikey, stared at one another and the audience. Minute after minute.

For 45 minutes which felt like 45 hours in a hot auditorium.

Family Guyd: So You Think You Can Parent?

GuySpy

"Ingredients – manhood, finely diced …"

It’s summertime. I know this because I looked at my calendar yesterday and saw “Mikey’s Hawaiian Luau Popluck Summer Kickoff” listed for today. This is the preschool potluck for which I have to make a main dish.

I could have made a side dish or, better yet, a beverage, which would have required no work at all. Just lower in the crate of juice boxes and you’re done. But on the sign-up sheet, no one had volunteered to make a main dish and someone had to do it.

Besides, I’m a new member of Mikey’s school’s PPG. That’s Parent Participation Group, which is kind of like the PTA. We meet once a month with the school administration to organize events and talk about policy. Since “Participation” is part of the name, I figure I need to jump on the main dish making.

Of course, a moment after signing on the dotted line, it occurred to me that I’ve never made a Hawaiian main dish before. Or eaten one. Or been to Hawaii. I knew from an Elvis movie that luaus involved giant pigs on spits and an optional grass skirt and coconut bra. I contacted the school director and was informed that the dish didn’t have to be Hawaiian, just kid-friendly.

"What a kid-friendly potluck! And the flamingo adds a touch of class!"

I’m not sure what it means for food to be kid-friendly. I just know my kid is food-friendly.

A few nights ago, Mikey asked if he could have something with his dinner, but he couldn’t remember the word. He mimed peeling and said it involved scooping. Ian and I threw out our guesses at the game of charades: A spoon? A scooper? A shovel?

“No, I remember now,” Mikey said. “Can I have an … artichoke?”

Earlier, he had been making his own appetizer, a little sandwich composed of a sliver of nori seaweed folded over a smear of hummus. “You know what would also be good?” he mused. “Do we have some … goat cheese?”

Not that all of his tastes are so sophisticated. This morning before preschool, I asked him if he’d rather have juice or yogurt. This is an old parenting trick I picked up from my own parents. Give your kid lots of this-or-that choices so he feels like his opinion counts. It works well as long as he sticks to the two good options.

“I think … I want …” Mikey pondered and then grinned, “M&Ms!”

Candy is the most kid-friendly of all foods. Research has shown that our taste buds before adolescence are much different than in our adult years, suggesting that kids don’t just have immature palates, they have alien ones. What is insanely sweet to us — Pixy Stix or those cheap unmarked two-gallon plastic jugs of neon red, yellow, and green juice-flavored beverages you will never see in Whole Foods – just tastes about the way things should taste to them. One of the jobs of parents is to steer them clear of that stuff as much as possible until their habits and taste buds agree on something good and good for them. It ain’t easy.

Obviously, Mikey’s has had M&Ms. To be precise, he’s had them exactly once, two months ago. As I mentioned in a previous blog, we went to a particularly bad hotel in Santa Barbara for our anniversary, but Mikey remembers it fondly and brings it up from time to time.

“Remember the hotel we stayed that there was M&Ms? Let’s go back there, okay?”

In thinking about what kid-friendly main dish I could make, I considered a big bowl of candy. If the Hawaiian Potluck Luau Summer Kickoff were a popularity contest, I’d win, hands down. I want the kids to like what I made, but I want it to be actual food, so I did a little cookbook digging and came upon a recipe for fettucine with pancetta, asparagus, and peas. I’m sure there will be kids who don’t go for asparagus, but the rest of the meal sounded like a winner for a main dish.

Bob's ego was too fragile to be mocked by the two little girls. Then he got an idea for what to make for dinner.

The recipe serves 4, and there will be 35 kids. So, now I’m doing math, which is never a good thing when it comes to me and cooking. When I was first dating Ian, I decided to bake him a cake. Since the cake mold I got was half the size of the one in the recipe – because I was just baking it for the two of us – I halved all the ingredients, and then I wasn’t sure if I should half the baking time or temperature or both. When I pulled my masterpiece out of the oven, it collapsed like it was rejecting a kidney – did I mention it was a red velvet cake? So I popped it back in the oven at 110 degrees for eight hours while I slept. In the morning, it was perfectly shaped and impenetrable by anything short of a diamond drill. Ian loved it and used it as a door jam for a couple months.

So, today was the potluck, and, as expected, the dish got mixed reactions. The teachers and parents raved and came back for seconds. Most of the kids ate the pasta and peas. One five-year-old at our table volunteered his critique: “I don’t like it. I don’t like asparagus.”

“I don’t like asparagus either,” Mikey chimed in.

“We eat it anyhow,” I said. “Do you know why?”

“Because it makes us big and strong?” Mikey asked.

“No,” I whispered in his ear. “Because it makes our pee stinky.”

Mikey, wide-eyed, finished off his bowl. You gotta know what motivates a three-year-old.

Family Guyd: A Course In Food

GuySpy

Last week, I described my antagonistic relationship with California’s number one attraction. No, not Napa, Venice Beach, Yosemite, Hollywood, the Golden Gate bridge, or even the agent who convinced the world that Ryan Seacrest possesses any kind of charm or charisma. I’m talking about Disneyland.

Despite my dislike for the idea of the place, I am unable to say no to both my son and a great deal on two-day park-hopper passes, so I drop $350 on the three of us.

Plus hotel. I had bought two-day tickets so we would want to stay overnight. I had heard good things about the Grand Californian hotel, the only one connected to the parks, but evidently, other people had heard good things about it too, and with sufficient demand, they could charge 400 hundred bucks for their littlest, viewless room. A suite will run you $1,500 at least.

When I booked the tiny, viewless room, the woman chirpily verified every spelling with a phonetic alphabet based on Disney characters: “Mr. Peterson, that’s P as in Pocahantas, O as in Oliver, T as in Tigger, E as in Eeyore, R as in Roger Rabbit, S as in Simba, O as in Oliver, and N as in Nana?”

She also asked if we were celebrating something special. Always on the lookout for a possible freebie, I said yes, and told her that we were celebrating the two-year anniversary of our son’s arrival as a foster child. Which was actually true.

For the next couple of weeks, we brandished the promise of a weekend in Disneyland and the threat of not doing it as the ultimate carrot and stick. It was a powerful card, and no doubt we overplayed it. You could see it in Mikey’s eyes, some instinct that said that the tickets were non-refundable and we wouldn’t get the deposit back on the hotel room, so he was probably safe not eating all his green beans. But just to be sure, he ate them anyhow.

We told Susan and Lee, psychotic Disney fans and parents of Mikey’s buddy Lucas, that we were going, and they reported that Lucas had never been so well-behaved than when the prospect of Disneyland was revealed. We arranged to see them on Sunday.

We arrived at Disneyland mid-morning Saturday, and entered the vast lobby of the Grand Californian. Mikey, of course, had begun the litany, “Where is it? Where is Disneyland?” and we knew the timer was ticking before too much anticipation detonated something thermonuclear in scale. There was no wait in line, but the girl checking us in disappeared for a couple of minutes.

Multiple orgasms, Disney-style.

“Congratulations,” she said when she returned. “We like to honor certain families celebrating a special day with us, and we have selected you.”

We later saw lots of folks celebrating birthdays and anniversaries, and even one bride and groom in their tuxedo and gown wandering the parks, but we knew we won the jackpot. They upgraded us to a suite and gave Mikey a backpack full of plush toys and snacks. Could Disney buy my affection with such things? Damn straight.

The Grand Californian is charming – and roomy if you’re upgraded to a suite – but it is really about its location. You step out the doors and you’re swallowed up by the sea of humanity washing through Paradise Pier in Disney’s California Adventure.

"I can see the desperation on the real housewives of Orange County from up here!"

There is an old-timey boardwalk carnival atmosphere to Paradise Pier with its focus on a 150-foot-tall Ferris wheel hanging over the water, emblazoned with Mickey Mouse’s ubiquitous mug. The cages come in two varieties: stable, traditional platforms, and ones that swing wildly throughout the ride. Obviously, Mikey chose the latter, and screamed “Oh my God!” throughout, and then chose to do it again. Over the next two days, we did train rides, two shooter rides, bumper cars, face painting, whirling teacups, puppet shows, and a spectacular nighttime water show called the World of Color, where they project lasers on sheets of mist spraying up from the lagoon.

Food at Disneyland beats the hell out of the defrosted burgers seen in typical theme parks. For lunch the first day, we picked up some lunch box picnics at Sonoma Winery; miso-marinated salmon, soba noodles, fresh veg. We had dinner at the Napa Rose, which has one of the best-designed wine lists I’ve ever seen, and a breakfast buffet the next morning, where various D-list Disney characters like Chip, Dale, Rafiki the blue-assed baboon from The Lion King, and some other assorted background mammals, go from table to table for hugs and photo-ops. Mikey was in ecstasy and the buffet wasn’t half bad. Even the characters Mikey didn’t recognize – like a big bear and a little bear from a 2003 movie we haven’t seen called Brother Bear – were greeted with hugs.

“Are you lost, little bear?” Mikey asked with genuine concern when he saw the little bear on his own. “You need to find your daddy.”

We carried our son, who was nearly delirious with overstimulation, to the car mid-afternoon on Sunday and he was asleep in his chair before we hit the first slow-moving mile out of Anaheim. He woke up when we were pulling into our driveway, and when he realized he was home instead of Disneyland, Mikey burst into tears.

He’s pretty much recovered. I don’t know when we’re going to buy an annual pass, but undoubtedly, it’s in our future. There’s just so much to do in Los Angeles besides shlep down to Orange County, no matter how admittedly wondrous Disneyland really is. We have parks and zoos, swimming pools and parties, and aquariums and farms, and Mikey is wildly enthusiastic about them all.

Though this weekend, we were leaving a carnival charity event, and Mikey said thoughtfully over his third mini-cupcake, “It was really fun, but I thought there’d be more rides. There were only two.”

“Yes,” I admitted. “I thought there would be more rides too.”

“Oh!” he said, as I snapped him into his car seat. “I know where has lots of rides!”

“Where?” I asked with a smile.

That’s a dad’s job. To ask the dumb questions sometimes.

Family Guyd: Disney & The Parent Trap, Part 2

GuySpy

"We're all a little mad here, darling."

A lot of grown-ups go to Disneyland without kids. I am not one of them. In my days as a singleton and in my days married-without-kids, if you gave me 300 dollars and six hours to spend as I liked, Anaheim and the Happiest Place On Earth would not enter the picture, not even a little.

I am called an annoying Pollyanna even by people who otherwise like me, but even so, I’ve never been a great fan of amusement parks, water parks, bowling alleys, carnivals, parades, raves, concerts, cruises, hootenannies, the city of Las Vegas, or any other gathering with no other purpose other than enforced merriment. I excuse the existence of quiet bars because I like a smart cocktail, and loud clubs because I like dancing, but my attitude has been to Hell with the rest of you. And you can take Christmas with you.

"I know you're excited about Disneyland, son, but you're dressed like a lunatic, so I'm going to hit you with my shoe."

Like I said, I recognize that I’m not in the majority on this. At Disneyland, they even have Gay Days. I don’t know exactly how it works, but, apparently, if you’re gay and go there during the gay days, it’s like a G-rated Pride – as charmless as that sounds. The fact that a sizable group of us wanted to fight for our right to go to Disneyland and hold hands and go steady even when we can go to a club in West Hollywood and have an orgy speaks to me of the primal level that the Disney magic works on.

So, I get it. I’m like the jerk who doesn’t like chocolate or It’s a Wonderful Life. If you’re with me, you call me unsentimental; if you’re against me, you call me heartless. I’m fine either way.

And then, like they say, you have kids. As you might’ve heard, things change.

My friends Susan and Lee, I suspect, would get an annual pass and go to Disneyland twice a month even if they didn’t have a kid. But they do, and their son is one of our son’s best friends. Susan and Lee make their own beer and cheese, so we have our kind of eating and drinking fun while the kids play. But two years ago they began pushing the boundaries of our friendship in a sick and perverted way, suggesting we go to Disneyland together. I pointed out that our son, Mikey, at barely two-years-old, was too young, and besides, I’d rather stab my testicles with a fork. They gently pushed and prodded and waterboarded, and finally, we relented.

It was the fall of 2010. I remember the moment we got off Highway 5, when I said to Mikey, “Look, there’s Disneyland.”

He vomited. It had been a long car trip. We changed him into his one spare shirt, and rolled him out to Downtown Disney where we met up with Susan, Lee, and Lucas. Mikey seemed to be feeling better, and we realized he probably needed something caloric to replace what he had vomited, so we bought him a Smoothie. I don’t remember what kind, except it was red. Obviously, you know what happened: He dropped it on his spare shirt.

The sign outside Disneyland. Or Dante's Inferno. I forget which one.

Fortunately, Walt Disney foresaw this and made sure that you could buy a T-shirt every four feet in his happiest of all happy lands.

In the end, Mikey had a great time, though he seemed bewildered and bemused by much of it. We are far from the kind of parents who protect their child from the glow of the television screen or struggle to keep him from owning toys, clothing, and music licensed by major corporations. But, back then, Mikey didn’t know who the vast majority of the costumed characters were wandering around the park with their too-big heads and unblinking eyes. He didn’t know they were cultural icons: dwarves, princesses, and lion kings. He just knew they terrified him.

Still, Susan and Lee made sure we experienced Disneyland with the benefit of their expertise. It was like the difference between visiting a foreign capitol on your own, or with a friend who lives there and knows the language and customs. They could show us how to use the Fastpass system to avoid the longest lines, and why Disney’s California Adventure Park is the place to be, with the best rides for the under-5s and places that sell wine for the over-21s. Thanks to them, even I had a better time than I expected to have, though I wasn’t exactly dying to go back. I hadn’t lost my mind.

I did end up going back twice the following year, but not with my kid. Fate, with its usual strange sense of humor, plopped me into a job working for the Mouse for the next 12 months, and the two teams I worked for built their camaraderie by attending events in the middle of the week at Disneyland. It was with my co-workers, not my family, that I first shared the Pirates of the Caribbean and It’s A Small World After All. My curmudgeonly attitude toward Mickey and all his pals, which had begun to fade, affirmed.

Mikey, meanwhile, hadn’t mentioned Disneyland at all. He wasn’t shy in suggesting that we go to the zoo, the aquarium, the farm, out for sushi, in for fried chicken, to the beach, to Grandma and Grandpa’s, or any other location he had visited and remembered fondly. We took him to England and France last year, and we loved it when he worked his adventures there into conversations, discussing the next time he’d go to Paris to eat snails.

Over the last six months, though, Disneyland has rudely intruded into the conversation. When we’re playing cars together in the living room, and I ask where we’re racing to, I don’t get France or even the ice cream store, I get Disneyland. When we’re watching a nature program on TV, and the narrator asks where penguins live, Mikey hollers at the screen, “Disneyland!”

It’s preschool’s fault. As kids socialize, they begin to share their obsessions. Just like the kid who comes to school on Monday squealing about his birthday party and makes all the others wonder when their birthday is coming, so all the kids chattering about how much they love Disneyland makes the others start salivating at the thought of it as well.

This brings me to a few weeks ago, when I’m at the local mid-price grocery store and I see a stand advertising two-day “park hopper” passes to Disneyland and California Adventure, for 50 dollars less than retail. I look at the details, which include the provision they must be used by the beginning of June. I call Ian, and my trip to the store for bananas, Diet Coke, and mustard ends up costing another $350.

And that was just the beginning. Next week: the skeptic returns to the Happiest Land.

Family Guyd: Disney & The Parent Trap, Part 1

GuySpy

Bob and Kevin decide to get loaded, have sex, and start a family. Oldest story in the world.

If you’re a straight couple, and you had your first kid in your twenties or thirties, and he or she wants a brother or sister, and you’re down with that, you have a process you have to follow. I’m not saying it’s always easy to have sex when you’ve already got a kid, but if you can afford a babysitter, a hotel room, some chilled vodka and oysters, and a download of Sade’s “Ultimate Collection,” you can at least have a good time trying.

When you’re gay, nookie is always just for fun. Becoming parents is a legal, not a sexual, byproduct. According to some researchers, this is why it will be eventually proven that gays actually make better parents than straights ( Click Here ). It’s because we’re about determination, not accidents.

Now the kid you got by whatever means wants a brother or sister. You do a couple calculations, about where you will put your office if the third bedroom becomes an actual third bedroom. You pause to consider putting two kids through college, which is estimated at costing about a half a million bucks in the next 18 years. And then you say, let’s do it again, because every kid who is nurturing, cuddly, and likes to boss other kids around deserves a little sibling.

If you’re going the surrogacy route, that’s gonna cost you a couple hundred thousand dollars, same as it did the last time around. Your DNA is incredibly important to keep going, so it’s worth it, right, stud? If you go the private or foster adoption route, you gotta get recertified and do more interviews.

We want to adopt a kid brother or sister for Mikey, which means we need to renew our foster certification. Here are the documents we need to fill out:

Application: We filled out this application four years ago, and now it’s time to do it again. Yes, it’s possible our address has changed (though it hasn’t), but our social security numbers, birthdate, place of birth, gender, ethnicity, religion, marital status, have all remained the same. I have to say, I’m a little embarrassed that my vehicle hasn’t changed since 2008. Now I feel like going to the dealership to see if there’s anything I must possess in the new Mercedes E class.

Medical History (Child): This is to be filled out by Mikey’s physician. It basically says that the child they previously gave us whom we adopted is healthy enough to be big brotherly to a new child and is not now riddled with tuberculosis.

Medical History (Adult): This is to be filled out by our physicians. It will reveal that both Ian and I are 20 pounds heavier than we were four years ago. Damn it.

References: We have to list four people who think we’re okay, just in case we’ve lost all of our friends since 2008. And let’s face it, among new parents, that’s a possibility.

Livescan and CAI Manual Check-Up: Ian and I both have to turn in our fingerprints to the Department of Justice and the FBI to prove that we haven’t become child molesters since 2008, when we last did this.

"Yes, Daddy Cary Grant, I want you and Papa David Niven to have another child, so I can have a brother and/or a sister. Please inform Loretta Young of this."

Today we had our agency social worker over for our first interview. Our previous social worker at the agency literally decided to join the Peace Corps and move to Mongolia. I know you’re thinking what I thought: Damn, what a selfish bitch.

I kept such unselfish thoughts to myself when Ian and I entertained her replacement at our house this morning. I say “entertained,” but I gotta be honest, I don’t know how much fun it was for her. Sure, we gave her some green tea and a nibble on a scone, but for the most part, the morning was us talking about us. Ian and I bragged about our son, talked about our relationship before and after him, bragged about our son, talked about the traumas of our lives, bragged about our son, discussed what we hoped to find in a second child, bragged about our son, bragged about our son, talked about Obama coming out in favor of same sex marriages, and … bragged about our son. Since most people’s eyes glaze over about hour three of us bragging about our son, we considered this an excellent meeting, one we would have paid for if we had to.

"Here's to being gay and boring … and the great taste of Schlitz!"

Then we had to fill out a form that wasn’t among those we anticipated. On it, there were two columns to describe whether you or your partner had done or had things done to them, around the ever present subjects of drugs, alcohol, porn, violence, abuse, and general trauma. We were told not to compare answers.

Our social worker looked at our separate sheets and asked questions. I felt like we were on The Newlywed Game,but instead of asking, “If your love life was a deli sandwich, would it be the meat, bread, or condiment?”, we were being asked, “How many drinks do you have an hour?” and “Does anyone in your family have a mental illness? How cuckoo are they?”

In the end, our social worker stifled a yawn, “You guys are boring. Take that as compliment.”

And we do.

Family Guyd: Certifiable

GuySpy

Ian came up with the idea of adding a literal ball and chain to our wedding look.

Five years ago last weekend, Ian and I got married. Actually, strictly speaking, we didn’t get married. We got something for which there’s no adjective or past participle, unless it’s proper to say we got domestic partnershipped or domestic partnered up. It’s a bit confusing, so for those of you outside of California, I can explain that we entered into a lifelong declaration of commitment, vowing to share our lives forever, even though neither of us has a vagina. Because of this, in Ian’s native England, and Europe at large, I have the rights of a married spouse, and in California, we can file joint tax returns. Of course, according to the Federal government, we’re both a couple of single dudes looking for the right gal.

We didn’t have much money after buying the house where we intended to start a family, so we had our ceremony in our backyard, and planted some flowers and repaved the crumbling concrete of the deck in lieu of decorations. Ian and I dressed in white worsted trousers and striped but non-matching jackets in Boulevardier style, and we hired caterers who served bite-sized sandwiches as well as tea, Champagne, wine, beer, and Pimm’s cocktails to as many of our friends and family as we could squeeze in. Our officiant gave a semi-Buddhist benediction, while two three-year-old party guests unbeknownst to her, hid her civilian clothes. It was, in a word, fabulous.

When the judges in California the following year said it was alright for gays to marry, we discussed  whether we should upgrade our domestic partnership with a marriage license. It seemed like, for all practical purposes, they were the same, because the only rights we were denied – and I don’t need to go through this with you, but I’m talking about income taxes, immigration, social security, estate taxes, and all that – were being refused by Washington, not Sacramento. So we decided not to, and I think we’ve both come to regret that decision. If nothing else, we would have a historic document: a piece of paper saying we were married in the window of opportunity before Proposition 8 shut it, between June and November of 2008.

Some five year anniversary gifts just scream, "I think you like crap."

Five Year is traditionally the Wood anniversary. Our first gift to each other was permitting salacious puns about giving each other wood. Our second gift was hiring someone to clean and stain our wooden patio furniture, instead of doing it ourselves.

We do love anniversaries. Not only do they mark the time and commemorate important events, they provide an excellent excuse to indulging yourself a little more than your bank account and waist line normally allows. We decided it was a good reason to go up to Santa Barbara. It’s only a little over an hour away, so it’s an occasion, but it’s convenient. The Vintner’s Festival was being held, which meant there would be entertainment at the wineries, so Mikey wouldn’t be too bored while Daddy and Papa sipped. We had friends we hadn’t seen in a while. And we had a free hotel.

The free hotel draw was particularly pitiful on our part. We had stayed at this particular hotel the previous winter and had a terrible time. The room was loud, the heater broke, and the only means to keep us from freezing was an old space heater. We spent the whole time trying to keep our toddling son from stumbling into it and exploding into flames. In response to our complaints, the management offered a free stay next time.

You got that? Our dangerous, substandard accommodations would be free next time. And we jumped on it! Why?

You kids keep it down! You should be studying!

The hotel, of course, hadn’t improved. Even the location, which is convenient to beach and State Street, the main drag in Santa Barbara, is more of a problem, since drunk college kids find it convenient as well. While we were playing in the pool with Mikey, a refugee from Jersey Shore called out to his fellow hot tubbers with the salutation, “What’s up, you limp-dicked faggots?” Charming.

That makes it sound like the anniversary weekend was a bust, and that is far from the truth. We went to the Santa Barbara Zoo, which is in a garden next to the ocean, making it more pleasant than the one in Los Angeles, and at 30 acres instead of 100, more manageable than the one in San Diego. We went wine tasting in the Santa Rita hills. We went to the beach and played Mikey’s favorite game, “Run For Your Life!” where we chase the waves until they chase us back. We met up with our friends and ate very well. Mikey learned how to eat artichokes, which he loved, and had his first taste of lobster, crab, and chicken liver pâté.

Exhausted, Mikey fell asleep five minutes into the ride back home on Sunday. Now that we had some time to ourselves at the end of our fifth-anniversary weekend, I asked Ian whether he’d want to get married, should the Supreme Court agree to hear the appeal on Proposition 8 and side with the California courts who have declared it unconstitutional, and should the Defense of Marriage Act be repealed in Congress. He said, “Of course.”

As we agreed that we’d at least have a party and renew our vows when that happens, we passed a billboard for the new Jason Segel and Emily Blunt movie, The Five Year Engagement.

Here’s hoping that sign isn’t a sign that it will be our tenth anniversary before that party can be thrown.

Family Guyd: The Santa Barbarians

GuySpy

"I love you more than Larry Fortensky."

I’ve mentioned it in an earlier column, but Ian and I have been recertified as foster adoptive parents, to see if we can find one more member for our family, a little brother or a little sister for Mikey. We’ve received a couple phone calls about possible placements – a little boy and a baby girl – but we said no to them. That was one of the great lessons we picked up over the last three years since we first passed our home study, and the state of California judged us to be worthy parental material: We don’t feel bad about saying no.

What it comes down to is that, at this point, we’re only willing to bring in a child we know will stay with us. The magic words are “separation from biological parent” and “legal orphan.” That was the case with Mikey, and the reason we didn’t have to go through court challenges and mandated visits, and why we were able to adopt him six months to the day after we met. Before then, we were placed with two other children, who ultimately went back into the system. That was almost unbearable for us, and it wouldn’t be fair to Mikey to introduce him to a brother or sister and have them then taken away.

This has simplified the situation for us, and we were content to wait for just the right phone call.

"And that reminds me of a story that's so dirty, I'm ashamed to think of it myself."

Mikey, of course, is eager for a sibling. We’ve asked him several times in different ways, “How would you like a little brother or a little sister?”

“Yes, I want a little brother now!” Mikey nods enthusiastically.

“Or a little sister?” we ask.

“Yes … or a brother!”

So Mikey has his three-year-old preferences. But we’re open for either.

My parents came into town last weekend, and while the subject of expanding our family wasn’t the primary point of discussion, it came up from time to time.

The focus of the trip was more on the grandchildren my parents already have – Mikey and his cousin Natalie – and activities around them, the beach, backyard games, and a trip to Santa Anita racetrack.

"Move your bloomin' arse!"

Like many of my sexual orientation, I am not interested in most sports or team activities, but I do like just about everything having to do with horse racing. I like the magnificent animals themselves, of course,
and their riders, those tiny little men in bright jump suits and helmets. I like the silly, stuffy owners and the cigar-chomping trainers. I like the fans in big hats with whisky breath. And I love the possibility of winning money by my excellent guesses based on logic and superstition.

Santa Anita racetrack is best known for Seabiscuit, the horse that made it his home, and subject of the 2003 film. When I told Mikey that Grandma and Grandpa were coming to town and we were going there, he excitedly described racing Grandma down the track. To manage expectations, we bought him a picture book about Seabiscuit so he would get the important concept of rooting for your horse to win. Mikey is so naturally competitive that he got it at once. This is the kid who screams so loudly, “We won!” when we beat the other kids in the Sled Racing game in Club Penguin, actual penguins in the actual Antarctic have asked him to calm down.

So, it was with great enthusiasm we all spent the day in Arcadia at the racetracks. Mikey, in the time-honored tradition of gamblers, only bet on his lucky number, 3, which just happens to be his age. When he didn’t win, he cheered on the family members who did. Finally, in the eighth race, we decided to tell him he won.

After that, when Mikey was passed out from sheer joy, we talked with my folks about the possibility of getting him a sibling. We have a three bedroom house, but one of the bedrooms is my office, and my mom was asking whether it’d be wise to go ahead and make that into another kid’s room while we wait. We argued that we had plenty of time, since we were only looking for children two and under and they would probably begin their time with us in a crib in our room.

Besides, we said, we hadn’t had a phone call from the agency in months.

Like a long shot horse, the day that the parents flew home, we got the call. A baby boy, so brand new he had literally been born yesterday. There was crystal meth in his mother’s system, but not in his. She was prepared to sign him over that day.

We quickly said yes, we’ll take him. Our social worker said she’d call us back. Her only question was whether the mother would have a problem with a gay couple adopting her son, but she would pitch that we were doing alright by Mikey.

"We're all betting on Plaid."

It took three days for us to find out if Mikey was going to get a brother. In the meantime, we suddenly realized we were talking about bringing in a child who was less than 100 hours old. I broke out our old copy of What To Expect When You’re Expecting: The First Year and the other books foster care gave us when, before Mikey, we had a four-month-old in our house for a month. That baby, who learned to sit up on his own while he was with us, I suddenly realized was a giant specimen compared to this five pound, eight ounce little fellow we had said yes to.

We didn’t tell Mikey about his baby brother until we were sure, and, as it turned out, that was a smart move. We were let down, bit by bit. First, we heard that the mother had another son adopted by another family, and then we were told they were interested in adopting this new child as soon as they had certain medical issues answered. At that point, we realized that the only way we were getting this child was if there was something wrong with him that the other family couldn’t ignore. And we also realized that this family by virtue of having the brother would be forever our family in any case.

Finally, we were told that the family decided to take the baby. On reflection, it was truly the best way for everything to turn out for everyone – the biological brothers were together, and Mikey didn’t know that he missed getting a brother. We were disappointed and sad, not being able to have the first child we had said yes to since Mikey, but that passed.

And now we’re at the starting gate again.

Family Guyd: Racing Hearts