I'm Not Kidding

Every so often, the huz and I will meet a new group of people who find us to be something truly unique: a happy, committed gay couple in a long-term relationship. They’ll engage us in conversation about how long we’ve been together and how we met and all the usual stuff a couple gets asked. Inevitably, though, conversation will turn to that topic that is an instant buzz-kill: children. People want to know when CawfeeMate and I will begin our own family and adopt some one eyed, club footed Chinese kid or ADD crack baby; they nearly spit out their drinks when we tell them we’d rather undergo hemorrhoid surgery from a near-sited proctologist with Ectrodactyly.


Let me set the record straight, folks, we don’t want kids. Ever. Not all the gays are like the ones on Brothers & Sisters or Modern Family; We don’t all crave Burberry baby booties or Louis Vuitton diaper bags. Some of us are quite content lavishing our “disposable incomes” on ourselves and each other. Okay, I really can’t speak for CawfeeMate, but (as if you haven’t heard my opinion enough on the topic), here’s how I feel about Daddyhood:

I grew up with the most absolutely amazing parents. They were loving and attentive and there for me whenever I needed them. My dad worked three jobs to put us through catholic school and keep my mom home to tend to the house and still found time to be Scoutmaster, soccer coach, little league coach and do all the other proto-typical dad things a dad should do. My mom cooked like Julia Child, kept house like June Cleaver and swore like Sam Kinison. She was a Den Mother, Sunday School teacher and PTA mom and did without nice clothes, new shoes and even a new coat for years, but never complained. they were both incredibly supportive of anything I did and encouraged me in all my pursuits and interests. They really were the best parents a kid could ever have and I can, honestly, say that I was tremendously lucky to call them “mine”; even as a kid they made me feel lucky without telling me I was. it's only now, years later they told me that the main reason was because, as parents, it was their obligation to us to provide the best possible life they could; that they owed it to us.
That having been said, I do not believe that I could ever, under any circumstance, be that unselfish and giving to any other human being on earth (with the exception of my husband). As much as I love my friends and feel as strongly for them as other people feel about their family, there is still a limit to how giving I would be with them. My parents love was…is…completely limitless. they are the bar i measure all parents by. God forbid I was a parent, I’m confident that I would be forever comparing myself to them and find myself to be a dismal failure; there’s absolutely no way I could do without for the sake of a child who, may, turn out to be just as ungrateful and “entitled” as 90% of the kids I see every day. I’m just not that kind of person.

The wii is mine; no you can’t have a turn.
Saturday mornings are mine; I’m not blowing off my sock making class to take you to violin lessons.
The muscle car is mine; mini-van my ass.
My disposable income is mine; braces? The cannery has good dental, or so I hear.
(most importantly) CawfeeMate is mine; if there’s one thing you learn, as you go through This Gay Life, it’s to be wary of anyone younger and cuter than yourself*; there’s no way in hell I’m letting the wolf in when he knocks.

i give all of you (gay and straight) who decide to become parents, alot of credit for jumping into that with both feet, but it's just not me. I’ll admit it readily and with little shame: I’m a selfish faggot and, yes, i'm judging you by how you raise your kids.

*the puppy doesn't count as he has a brain the size of a ceci pea and no opposable thumbs.