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Gay Dad

 When you ask me which child is biologically "mine...." This is not a question that I love to field. I don't love it because I think it has a subtle implication, i.e., the child without the genetic link is somehow less "mine." (I'm being too sensitive? You're right. I'm sure you're right.)


If you ask me the question at a party, then you quickly drift away, I feel a bit like a circus show. I feel I've swallowed my sword, and you've extracted your moment of entertainment, and you're ready to move on.

To the old woman who honked her horn at my children and me as we crossed in a marked pedestrian crosswalk: I really hope you arrived at your destination on time. Please continue to alarm small children with your car horn, especially if it means you will then be able to catch all the previews at the Montclair matinee screening of "Jurassic World."

To my child's amateur nutritionist: I know you think that vegan mushroom-based meatballs are the answer, but I will never, never make them. When I smile and say, "Oh, absolutely!" ....this is my way of hinting, Please walk far, far off, so that this conversation can end.

Maybe somewhere on Earth there is a child who says, "Look, the broccoli is disguised as a breaded star-shaped treat! This is suddenly delicious!" I have not met this child, and he isn't mine. Handing a mushroom to my son is simply handing out a new item for let's-throw-stuff-at-the-ground. That's all.

Thanks for this chat.
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