fooled, but the women continued to yap away—Yadda, yadda, the cost of living in Brooklyn was outrageous! Yadda yadda, another preschool rejection came in the mail! Yadda, yadda, did you hear how little Milo bit little Celeste at Toddler Tom-Toms class—better get that kid evaluated! —remembering to pause once in a while to yell, “Way to go, Wyatt!” or “Super job, Dash!” with half-hearted interest.
He was a professional, full-time, stay-at-home parent. And he was awesome at his job.
He was ready to tell Michael. Normally, he waited a while to dish it all out. Most guys weren’t comfortable—TMI and all that—but Michael felt different.
“You wouldn’t think it,” he whispered to Michael, “but she and I have a lot in common.”
He pointed his beer at Allie, Susanna’s partner/wife/whatever, who was curled up on a chaise lounge at the far end of the deck, where she’d been hiding out with her iPhone ever since the lesbians, twins in tow, had arrived. With her chin resting on bony knees, her sweatshirt hood slung over her head, and her face barely an inch from the screen of her phone, she looked more like a teenager than a mommy, Rip thought.
“You both like to have sex with women?” Michael said, straight-faced.
“Heh. Well, yeah”—Rip smiled—“there’s that.”
The men shared a laugh, and Rip took a leap of faith and clinked his bottle against Michael’s.
“Me and her,” Rip said, looking back to Allie, “we’re both nonbio parents.”
The difference is, Rip thought, she’s about to get her own kid. A surge of resentment wormed through his gut.
Michael gave him “the look.” People paused, their mouths fell open, and their gaze moved just a bit off center. It was always the same when he came out to people, when he revealed he wasn’t Hank’s biological father. Frankly, Rip thought, it was a stupid look, but as soon as they got it, the intelligent light returned to their face, and they practically beamed at their aha moment. Like they were freaking geniuses or something.
“That’s right. I’m not Hank’s biological father. We used an anonymous donor. Donor #1332.” Rip sang the combination of numbers, as he often found himself doing. As if the absurdity of it—the fact Hank’s real father was nothing more than a jumble of symbols—called for a song and dance.
“Wow,” Michael said.
“Yeah,” Rip turned to look over the concrete seawall. The sun loomed large and red, a corona of gold simmering around its rim. “My sperm is kind of slow.”
Rip knew, from experience, that guys didn’t dig sperm talk and it was better to avoid eye contact. He wasn’t out to make anyone uncomfortable, and he sure as hell didn’t want pity. He was happy to tell the tale, to perform it even, if it made for a smoother delivery.
“Yep,” Rip said. “At first, the doctors thought we’d be able to do it. That the boys would rally.”
Michael laughed, and Rip was able to turn around and face him again.
“So we,” he looked over at the kids, “you know … A lot. Then we did it less. Because, apparently, too much depletes the sperm. So then we did it on a schedule. Two years later—after hormone therapy, artificial insemination.” He stopped short and lifted his beer. “To turkey basters!”
Michael answered with his own raised bottle and “Here, here.”
“We picked a donor. One who had my coloring and height. A good old Ashkenazy Jew-boy. And after the third in vitro try.” Rip pointed at Hank, who was huddled in the corner of the deck, his tee shirt pulled over his knees. “Voila! Henry Elijah Cho-Stein.”
“Bravo,” Michael said, and this time it was he who reached out and clinked Rip’s beer with his own. “We’re glad you guys made Hank. Harper adores him.” Michael paused, then continued in a half whisper. “And it’s tough sometimes. For Harp to make friends. She prefers to lead. If you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, well, Hank prefers to follow,”
He was a professional, full-time, stay-at-home parent. And he was awesome at his job.
He was ready to tell Michael. Normally, he waited a while to dish it all out. Most guys weren’t comfortable—TMI and all that—but Michael felt different.
“You wouldn’t think it,” he whispered to Michael, “but she and I have a lot in common.”
He pointed his beer at Allie, Susanna’s partner/wife/whatever, who was curled up on a chaise lounge at the far end of the deck, where she’d been hiding out with her iPhone ever since the lesbians, twins in tow, had arrived. With her chin resting on bony knees, her sweatshirt hood slung over her head, and her face barely an inch from the screen of her phone, she looked more like a teenager than a mommy, Rip thought.
“You both like to have sex with women?” Michael said, straight-faced.
“Heh. Well, yeah”—Rip smiled—“there’s that.”
The men shared a laugh, and Rip took a leap of faith and clinked his bottle against Michael’s.
“Me and her,” Rip said, looking back to Allie, “we’re both nonbio parents.”
The difference is, Rip thought, she’s about to get her own kid. A surge of resentment wormed through his gut.
Michael gave him “the look.” People paused, their mouths fell open, and their gaze moved just a bit off center. It was always the same when he came out to people, when he revealed he wasn’t Hank’s biological father. Frankly, Rip thought, it was a stupid look, but as soon as they got it, the intelligent light returned to their face, and they practically beamed at their aha moment. Like they were freaking geniuses or something.
“That’s right. I’m not Hank’s biological father. We used an anonymous donor. Donor #1332.” Rip sang the combination of numbers, as he often found himself doing. As if the absurdity of it—the fact Hank’s real father was nothing more than a jumble of symbols—called for a song and dance.
“Wow,” Michael said.
“Yeah,” Rip turned to look over the concrete seawall. The sun loomed large and red, a corona of gold simmering around its rim. “My sperm is kind of slow.”
Rip knew, from experience, that guys didn’t dig sperm talk and it was better to avoid eye contact. He wasn’t out to make anyone uncomfortable, and he sure as hell didn’t want pity. He was happy to tell the tale, to perform it even, if it made for a smoother delivery.
“Yep,” Rip said. “At first, the doctors thought we’d be able to do it. That the boys would rally.”
Michael laughed, and Rip was able to turn around and face him again.
“So we,” he looked over at the kids, “you know … A lot. Then we did it less. Because, apparently, too much depletes the sperm. So then we did it on a schedule. Two years later—after hormone therapy, artificial insemination.” He stopped short and lifted his beer. “To turkey basters!”
Michael answered with his own raised bottle and “Here, here.”
“We picked a donor. One who had my coloring and height. A good old Ashkenazy Jew-boy. And after the third in vitro try.” Rip pointed at Hank, who was huddled in the corner of the deck, his tee shirt pulled over his knees. “Voila! Henry Elijah Cho-Stein.”
“Bravo,” Michael said, and this time it was he who reached out and clinked Rip’s beer with his own. “We’re glad you guys made Hank. Harper adores him.” Michael paused, then continued in a half whisper. “And it’s tough sometimes. For Harp to make friends. She prefers to lead. If you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, well, Hank prefers to follow,”
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