The road to raising children is fraught with danger and excitement.
This issue of QSaltLake is all about parenting, adoption and fostering the little people, or as I sometimes refer to them as “Chiblins.” Way back in the day, when I first admitted to myself that I was gay, but before I realized that I was a princess destined to grow up to be a queen of some stature, (and by stature I sadly mean of the gravity enhanced, rotundus abundance version, rather than public icon) I was sad because I knew that butt babies never live and that I was destined to be a barren queen, prohibited from becoming a parent and experiencing the joy of having children. However, I am overjoyed to share some examples that have delightfully proven me wrong on this account.
About twenty-two years ago, Mr. Pap Smear and I were honored to be asked to be the godfathers for the daughter of our best friends, a lesbian couple. I had been privileged to babysit this little girl many times. One time, I took her grocery shopping and while she was riding in the cart, she addressed me as ‘Dad.’ I gently corrected her, saying that I was not her father, but I was her godfather. As we rounded the frozen food aisle, she loudly said, “godfather!” I quickly looked around expecting to see Marlon Brando. Then I sheepishly remembered what I had just told her.
Another time, the Logan LGBT community went on a camping trip. I was driving up to the mountains a couple of hours before the rest and my goddaughter wanted to ride with me. We arrived at the campsite and set out our respective lounge chairs. We sat side by side, I reading Lord of the Rings and she reading a My Little Pony picture book. All of a sudden, she asked, “Do you have a penis?” OH! MY! GOD! I looked around for someone, anyone to come and interrupt us, but to no avail we were alone. I knew that her mothers were very direct about answering her questions, so I wondered if I was going to have to do a version of the “Birds-and-Bees” talk. I stammered, “yes.” Then she responded with confidence, “Boys have penises and girls have ginas!” She then resumed reading her book. That was the end of that. Phew!
Several years later, Mr. Pap Smear and I became grandpas when Mr. Pap Smear’s son and his wife had a baby boy. We would babysit often and I became very familiar with diaper changing. I learned the hard way that when changing the diaper of a baby boy, one must first cover his “Mr. Pokey,” lest the “Dingaroo” erupt into my face, thus prematurely and unwillingly initiating me into the world of “Golden Shower Water Sports.”
This kid had become a professional escape artist while being changed. Before I could say “bless my pearls,” he would throw his knee over and with a quick roll, he was off and crawling, and I would have to spend 10 minutes chasing his bare butt around the house. One time he was extra evasive and I was unable to re-diaper him before there was an occurrence of “Number 2,” leaving a trail of “Precious Moments” all over the carpet.
When he was walking but not talking all that much, we were having a sleepover at the Grandpas’ house. At about 2 a.m., he woke up crying. I got up and changed his diaper and gave him a bottle of milk to help him get back to sleep. He kept trying to go into the living room where all the toys were. I sat with him in the rocking chair trying to rock him to sleep, but to no avail. So I put him back in his bed and I laid down in mine. He promptly got up and headed out to the living room again. I put him back to bed. Showing more persistence than a drag queen waiting for a 50 percent off sale on eyeliner, he made a third attempt to escape. I shut the bedroom door and laid back down, watching him. He stood in the middle of the room, in the dark, refusing to go to bed for at least 45 minutes. Finally he fell asleep on the floor. I moved him to his bed.
This boy began to talk rather early for a baby. He was quite verbal, even before potty training. On another occasion of a “diaper download,” I kept talking to him, trying to discourage him from escaping. I kept saying stuff like, “Oh this ‘doody’ is so stinky. I can’t believe that a little boy like you could have this big of a ‘Turdzilla.’ Where in the world did all of this poop come from?” He laid quietly for a moment, then said matter-of-fact, “It came out of my bum.” I had to stuff the clean diaper in my mouth to prevent from laughing. Thanks goodness, we are now past the diaper stage with the grandkids.
As always, these events leave us with several burning eternal questions.
- Since my womb is barren, does this qualify me to be able to adopt the title of Baroness?
- During the number 2 on the carpet incident, do you think that the grandson was trying to leave a trail for me to find him playing Hide-n-Seek?
- Are inadvertent Golden Shower experiences by adults the source of water sports fetishes?
- Are dirty diaper experiences the source material for German Shisa videos?
- Can diaper “Shoo-Shoo” remove nail polish?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.