“Does he always do this?” Dr. S interrupted.
“Yes.”
Drew stopped himself. Dr. S wasn’t a big fan of sentiment.
I hadn’t been asking any tough questions for a while because I’d been so afraid of what the answers might be, but I had a big one ready to go. “So . . . a few weeks ago, you told us the odds of either of these babies being born were about fifty-fifty. What would you say they are now?”
“Are you serious?” Dr. S asked. I shrugged. I wasn’t sure if he was serious either. “You’re out of the first trimester. The odds of Tiffany losing one of these babies now is less than 1 percent.”
Drew gazed at me and smiled, just as nervous to ask his own question. “So does that mean we can start telling people we’re pregnant?”
“What?! You mean you haven’t been telling people? Yes, tell the world!”
18
A Family Outing
“YOU GUYS ARE FUCKED!”
This was not the reaction we were hoping for when we started telling our friends our good news. Sure, most people went for something more traditional, like “Congratulations!” or “(Sniff, sniff) I’m so happy for you!” Not Jessica.
“YOU’RE ALMOST FOUR MONTHS ALONG, AND YOU’VE DONE NOTHING! YOU GUYS NEED TO WAKE THE FUCK UP!”
Throughout his phone call with her, Drew was practically hyperventilating.
“HAVE YOU REGISTERED FOR GIFTS? SIGNED UP FOR BABY CARE CLASSES? WHAT’S THE THEME OF YOUR NURSERY GOING TO BE? DO YOU WANT BASSINETS OR CO-SLEEPERS? ARE YOU BAPTIZING? CIRCUMCISING? BANKING CORD BLOOD?”
“Well . . . um . . .”
“YOU’RE FUCKED!!!”
Jessica really is a lovely person. Though she’s roughly the height of the average fifth grader, her personality is ten feet tall. She’s type A-plus-plus-plus. She’d been friends with Drew since his early days at MTV, and it’s no wonder she’d been so successful in her career because she’s smart, tough, and focused. She had two young kids of her own and was a terrific, caring mother. That’s pretty much how she behaved toward Drew, too, like a mother—a very strict one.
“OH SHIT! WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT THE SHOWER?”
“My friend Dana offered to host a shower. And Lauren did, too.”
“Tell her Victoria said she’d throw us one,” I added, listening in.
“SO YOU JUST TOLD EVERYBODY YES?!”
Drew sighed. “I don’t really even want a shower.”
“TOO FUCKING BAD BECAUSE IT SOUNDS LIKE YOU’RE HAVING THREE!”
“I’ll tell them I don’t want one. Baby showers are for women. It feels weird.”
“SHUT UP! YOU’RE HAVING A SHOWER. END OF STORY.”
“I don’t like parties. I don’t need all the attention.”
“NOBODY DOES IT FOR THE ATTENTION. THEY DO IT FOR THE SHIT.”
“The shit?”
“DUH, BABY SHIT! YOU NEED BABY SHIT!”
“We’ll buy our own.”
“NOBODY BUYS THEIR OWN, BECAUSE IT COSTS A FORTUNE, BECAUSE NOBODY BUYS THEIR OWN. IT’S ALL A BIG SCAM, AND THAT’S WHY PEOPLE HAVE BABY SHOWERS.”
“We don’t need much.”
Jessica laughed. “YOU’RE HAVING FUCKING TWINS, YOU PSYCHOPATH! THAT’S IT. I’M TAKING YOU TO REGISTER. MEET ME AT BABAS & BOOTIES ON SATURDAY AT NOON.”
“Where’s Babas & Booties?”
“YOU DON’T KNOW WHERE BABAS & BOOTIES IS? JESUS CHRIST, FUCKING GOOGLE IT!”
Jessica was waiting for us when we arrived. “OKAY, RELAX,” she said, in a completely unrelaxing tone. “I TALKED TO DANA, LAUREN, BETH, HEATHER, VICTORIA AND DAVID. WE’RE ALL PLANNING YOUR SHOWER TOGETHER.”
“Whoa,” Drew protested. “I don’t want all those people to have to . . .”
Jessica shoved him. “GET IN THE FUCKING STORE!”
Babas & Booties was a charming baby shop in the San Fernando Valley, with the highest concentration of cuteness I’d ever been completely surrounded by. I didn’t know where to turn first. Everything was calling out to me, saying, “Buy me! I will make your babies’ lives even more adorable!” I picked up a giant white teddy bear and gave it a squeeze. It was soft, precious, perfect. Jessica snatched it out of my hands.
“NOBODY REGISTERS FOR STUFFED ANIMALS!” she said, throwing the bear back on the shelf. “YOU’LL BE DROWNING IN THAT SHIT BEFORE YOU KNOW IT.”
She marched up to the cash register and waited patiently to talk to a salesperson—for about two seconds. Then she waited impatiently.
Cough. No response. Louder cough. “HELLO? WE’RE HERE TO OPEN A REGISTRY!”
Finally, a salesman peered up at us. “Mm-hmm,” he muttered quietly. He slid a form into a clipboard, then slowly sauntered toward us. He was tall and well dressed, wearing a crisp white button-down shirt and freshly pressed slacks. He had impossibly perfect posture and square shoulders, like the product of a breeding program for snooty salespeople at high-end shops. His hair was carefully slicked back, his lips pursed as he looked us up and down.
“I’m Edmond,” he said. “Who’s the lucky dad?”
Drew and I looked at each other. He was assuming Jessica was the mother. We hadn’t had to explain our family to a stranger before, and we weren’t sure how to go about it.
“Um, actually, she’s just a friend of ours and . . .”
“THEY’RE BOTH THE DADS,” Jessica replied, matter-of-factly. It didn’t seem to me like the kind of thing you said matter-of-factly since to most people it was apt to be quite a surprising fact. Drew apparently felt the same way because he jumped in to explain.
“We have a surrogate,” he said, and when Edmond stared back stonily, he elaborated. “My sister was the egg donor. We’re having twins.”
“YEAH, SO SHOW US YOUR DOUBLE STROLLERS!”
Jessica stomped past Edmond, and he lowered his clipboard, sneering at us. I turned to Drew, who clearly noticed it, too. This douchebag sneered at the two dads. Apparently, we didn’t fit the profile of the preferred Babas & Booties customer.
I realized this was our first real outing as a gay family, and it was an outing in both senses of the word. Most of the time, Drew and I probably “pass” as straight in public. Two guys, hanging out, joking and laughing, like a couple of frat brothers or a beach volleyball tandem. But when two men are shopping for a double stroller together, it’s pretty clear they’re more than just drinking buddies. I’d never been introduced to a stranger and outed in one breath like that. I realized this is what I was in for the rest of my life. When you have a baby with your boyfriend, you’re not going to pass for straight anymore, and sometimes, as a result, homophobia will stare right down its stuck-up nose at you.
I looked back and forth between two strollers. These were the only two-seaters Babas & Booties sold, which should have made this decision easy.
“What are the advantages of one over the other?” I asked Edmond.
“Well, you could get this one,” he said, shrugging, “or you could get that one.” He rolled his eyes and waited impatiently. That was his comparison of the two models, in full. Again, Drew and I turned toward each other, both feeling slighted.
“THEY WANT THIS ONE!” Jessica announced. “YOU GUYS PICK THE COLOR.”
Drew and I flipped through the swatches for about thirty seconds, before Jessica became annoyed. “JUST PICK ONE, GOD DAMN IT! ORANGE! WHO GIVES A SHIT?”
Edmond uncapped his pen and made a note on his clipboard. “Orange, then?”
Other than Edmond’s attitude, registering for baby supplies was a blast. We could point at anything we wanted, and one day soon, bam! A UPS truck would deliver it to our door. It was like getting a one-time pass into the magical world where straight people live. Procreating was the key to a fantasyland full of free stuff most gay men would never know, and all of it was delightful. Puppy-faced
blankies, crinkly crib toys, musical monkeys that lit up whenever a tiny hand swatted at them.
The only thing more fun was the way Jessica beat Edmond down at every turn.
“Will you be registering for a crib?” he asked at one point.
“THEY ALREADY HAVE CRIBS!” Jessica waved him off, then leaned in toward us for what she considered a whisper. “GET YOUR CRIBS AT BABIES ‘R’ US. THE FURNITURE HERE IS A RIP-OFF!”
It was hard to be irritated at Jessica because her bossiness was extremely helpful. Edmond made a much better target for our anger.
“I guess we can skip this section,” Edmond deadpanned when we came to the breast-feeding equipment. He drew a giant “X” through that line on his registry form.
As Jessica led Edmond around the store, I pulled Drew aside. “Is he being rude because we’re gay?”
“Why else would it be?”
“Should we leave?”
“I’m thinking about it,” Drew said.
“HEY! FROGGY OR MONKEY?” Jessica shouted from a few aisles away.
“What?”
“COME PICK OUT YOUR TUMMY TIME MAT!”
We rejoined her and Edmond, who was now doodling disinterestedly on our registry form. I had officially reached my fed-up point. It was approximately seventy-five minutes, forty-eight sneers, and eighty-two heaving sighs into our visit when I started mentally preparing myself to shout, “I guess there are no fags allowed at Babas & Booties!” and then storm out.
“WHERE ARE YOU GUYS GOING TO HAVE THIS STUFF DELIVERED?”
“I guess they should send it to Warner Bros,” Drew said.
Edmond looked up, suddenly interested. “What is it you do for a living?” Of course. He was probably an actor, and after all his condescension he was now going to slip Drew a head shot. Classic. I couldn’t wait to see the smackdown Drew gave him.
“I’m a reality TV exec,” Drew said. Yup, there’s the bait! Here comes the nibble!
“Oh,” Edmond replied. “I was on a reality show.”
“Really? What show?”
“America’s Got Talent.”
I struggled to suppress a guffaw. America may have had talent, but I was pretty sure Edmond didn’t. I tried to imagine him performing in any manner. Juggling bowling pins while riding a unicycle. Irish step dancing. Eating fire. Nothing quite seemed like him. I was dying to know.
“What was your talent?”
Big shrug and eye-roll. “Drag.”
“Drag?”
“Yeah, I was also on Ru-Paul’s Drag Race.”
Okay, so we called that one wrong.
Finally, Drew had his opening, and he seized on it to start the Drew Tappon Talk Show. Edmond opened up about everything—his drag persona, Moody Garland, his boyfriend, and how we were so much cooler than all the other gay couples who came in to register for baby stuff. We realized that maybe we had been the ones who were too quick to judge. Edmond wasn’t a homophobic prick. He was just a prick.
I knew we’d encounter actual homophobes at some point, and there’d be Edmonds, too, who’d surprise us. This was our life now, and hiding wasn’t an option. We were a nontraditional family, and we couldn’t control how other people would react to us. All we could do was be ourselves and be proud.
Across the store, Jessica hadn’t noticed any of this. She was still running through Edmond’s checklist to make sure we had everything we needed. “UGH! I AM NOT LETTING YOU GET A WIPES WARMER! THEY’RE FULL OF FUCKING GERMS!”
19
Bye Bye, Bubble
Babas & Booties was the perfect preparation for the next stop on our parade to parenthood: Orange County. As any good L.A. homosexual knows, Orange County is where they hunt gays for sport. It’s also where Tiffany’s ob-gyn was located.
“Oh, he’s very nice,” she assured us. “He delivered Gavin.”
“But is he gay-friendly?”
Tiffany shrugged. Of course. How would she know that? It’s not something straight people think about when they meet other straight people. Hmm, I wonder if he’ll throw a rock through my window if he finds out who I sleep with? That’s purely a gay person concern. It’s pretty much the first thought that goes through my mind anytime I meet anyone, ever. The ability to spot enemies is the one thing more important to the modern homosexual than gaydar. It’s homophobe-dar, and it can save your life—or at least spare you a few moments of awkward conversation with an asshole.
It turns out I didn’t have to get very far into the doctor’s office to get my first hint of the man’s inclination.
“Oh my God, do you see that?”
Drew stopped short. He was just about to open the door to the ob-gyn’s office. “What? The nameplate?”
“Yes, the nameplate. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before.” Drew looked back at me blankly. “Tiffany’s doctor’s name? See?”
“Dr. Robertson?”
“Patrick Robertson. Drew, our babies are going to be brought into the world by Pat Robertson!”
Drew sighed and pushed me into the waiting room.
By now we’d come to anticipate a certain kind of reception when we first met new people and shared our arrangement with them. “Oh my God, that’s incredible! I’m so happy for you all! What an amazing story!”
I believe when Tiffany introduced us to her doctor, the conversation went something like this:
“This is Drew and Jerry. They’re the dads of the babies.”
“Hello.”
The “hello” came with a half nod, but no handshake. Homophobic? Who knows? The man made his living inspecting vaginas. Maybe we just weren’t properly equipped to get his attention.
He was nice to Tiffany, and that was more important. He asked her how she was feeling, what she was eating, and how often she was puking. While his hands kneaded her belly like a lump of bread dough, he made gynecological small talk. “You’ve never had a C-section, right?” “You getting enough folic acid?” And finally, the big one. “Are you going to learn the sex?”
Tiffany shrugged. “Ask them. These are their babies.”
Dr. Robertson chuckled, as if she’d made a joke. Their babies! Ha ha! Good one, pregnant lady!
Quick to defuse any awkwardness, Drew jumped in. “Yes, we want to find out. We can’t wait!”
“Make an appointment for the eighteen-week ultrasound,” Dr. Robertson said, again addressing Tiffany. “They’ll be able to tell you.”
“He hates us,” I said to Drew, once we left the office. Tiffany was at the receptionist’s desk, making the ultrasound appointment. It was the first time we had a minute to talk.
“What? He was totally nice,” Drew said.
“Are you kidding? He didn’t even look at us.”
“Well, he’s her doctor.”
“He’s a homophobe!”
“What are you guys talking about?” Tiffany asked, rejoining us.
“Nothing!” I said, instantly. “When’s the appointment?”
Finding out our babies’ sex was a no-brainer for us. We’d had enough surprises already, and the delivery would be incredible enough without the added zing of Dr. Pat Robertson deadpanning, “It’s a . . . !”
More than that, we felt the need to mentally prepare ourselves for whatever was coming. We hated to admit it, but the time had come to face our fears: We were terrified of having a daughter.
Drew and I aren’t “girly” gays. We have no interest in makeup or hairdressing. We don’t know how to tie pigtails or throw tea parties for stuffed animals. We don’t know Sleeping Beauty from Cinderella, and we groan when we see those little girls traipsing around Disneyland in their Snow White ball gowns. We couldn’t even imagine how we’d deal with puberty. Sure, we could swap notes with our daughter about which boys we thought were cute, but we feared all her questions about getting her per
iod would send us running to Wikipedia or trying to find whichever iCarly episode covered the topic. No, she deserved better than that. There was no way we could have a girl. We’d be such a crushing disappointment to her.
The only thing worse than having a girl would be having a boy. Drew and I aren’t “manly” gays either, not the kind of Schwarzenegger-slash-Schwarzkopf tough guys a little boy wants to write his “My Dad Is My Hero” essay for school about. We’ve never owned baseball cards or G.I. Joes. We wouldn’t know how to hold a gun upright, let alone sideways the way Keanu Reeves does in The Matrix. We don’t like monster trucks or mud. And no matter how hard I’ve tried, I’ve never been able to get a football to do that cool twirly thing real dudes can do so effortlessly. What would we say when our teenage son came to us with girl troubles? “Eh, sorry kid. Not our forte!”
The ultrasound room was down the hall from Dr. Robertson’s office, with an entirely new staff to gawk at us. Tiffany giggled excitedly the moment she saw us. “Well . . . ,” she said, “what do you think they’re going to be?”
“It really doesn’t matter,” I replied, though in the back of my head, the rest of that sentence was, “because either way, we’re screwed.”
As nervous as I was, it was calming to see Tiffany so at ease with the pregnancy at last. The cramps and nausea had subsided, and she could feel the distinct presence of two tiny people inside her. She looked rested and happy. She was as excited as we were, eager to show us her ever-evolving baby bump.
“Tiffany Ireland!” the nurse called. Eric stood up instantly to accompany his wife. Drew and I hung back. We never knew how naked Tiffany was going to have to get at the appointments, so we always waited for the okay to join her.
“Come on!” she smiled, waving us in. We stood up, collected ourselves, and strode confidently to the doorway. This was it. The big moment. The unveiling of our unborn children’s genitalia.
“Uh-uh!” a nurse scolded, blocking the doorway. “Only the husband can come!”
Never ones to defy authority, Drew and I stammered. We could see everyone looking at us, the receptionists and patients, wondering who these two other men were. We felt like intruders, exposed and ashamed.
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