ParentDish http://www.parentdish.com ParentDish http://www.parentdish.com/media/feedlogo.gif ParentDish http://www.parentdish.com en-us Copyright 2013 Weblogs, Inc. The contents of this feed are available for non-commercial use only. Blogsmith http://www.blogsmith.com/When Children Die First: A Meditation on the Unthinkablehttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/27/when-children-die-first/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/27/when-children-die-first/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/27/when-children-die-first/#commentsFiled under:

My first reaction to the big news stories last weekend, first the shootings in Norway and then the death of Amy Winehouse, was to feel more sympathy for the slain Utoya kids. They were completely blameless. They had no hand in their own destruction; no one arrived to help until it was too late; no chance was provided to say goodbye or alter the path before them so that they wouldn't have to.

But for all the subjective differences in the stories, the same awful outcome is true for Winehouse's family as for more than 80 families in Norway: The parents will bury a child they loved. And that's the single greatest fear of pretty much every parent I know. It's the long shadow, the dark edge at the corner of the happiest family photo. From the moment you know you are to be a parent, it is the horror that you push to the corner of your mind to allow for all the joy.

It is such a core part of the human experience that, in the three Abrahamic traditions, the second child ever born dies before his time. He is called Abel in Judaism and Christianity, and is known simply as one of the two sons of Adam in the Koran, his death the first loss in the world.

Abel isn't the only example -- in the Hindu narrative, Parvati goes wild with grief when her son Ganesha is killed, despite the fact that she is a goddess who has already proved she could create life if she wished. As these tales make clear, as long as humans have been telling stories, the death of a child has haunted the narrative. This is a fact, but not a comfort.

My first experience of this in real life came when I was in first grade and my uncle died at 30. I remember how my grandmother's grief was shot through with pure surprise. She had spent years waiting nervously by the window any time my grandfather arrived home late, just sure he had wrecked the car, and she often proclaimed that she just knew she was going to end up a widow. But then God pulled a bait-and-switch and took her youngest, instead -- a turn she couldn't possibly prepare for.

By the time I adopted my daughter, I had witnessed too many parents in Grammy's shoes even sooner, as friends of mine were killed by car accident, drowning and hypothermia. No wonder then that my husband and I spent the first few weeks of Diva's life sleeping the wrong way on the mattress, our heads at the foot of the bed, so we could stare into her crib -- as if proximity alone might save her. From putting her to bed on her back to comparing crash test ratings on car seats, we followed all the advice experts offered to protect her.

But we knew the truth then and we know it now: Parents alone will never be able to fully safeguard their children. Someday, addictions bigger than all of us might carry her away. A man loaded with anger and bullets might do the same. What match are two parents in the face of the millions of outcomes fate might bring? If the universe granted me a single wish, it would be that when I die old, my daughter will yet live. But the universe makes no such promises.

There is only this: the knowledge that parenting is a privilege, a gift not granted fairly to all. The awfulness, the horror of losing a child, is only possible if you have somehow been fortunate enough to become a parent in the first place. I don't honestly know what kind of life I would be able to reassemble if something happened to my daughter, but I do know I cannot remotely picture the last six years any way but through the lens of being her father. It is a devil's bargain: I get to love this deeply, but I don't get to know for how long.

In the aftermath of a tragedy, someone always says, "Hold on to those you love." I used to think this advice seemed a little too easy, comforting only to those unscathed by loss. But a very dear friend of mine recently asked me to hold tight to Diva, as she could not now hold her own daughter. And, so, I did just that, literally crawling into Diva's bed and wrapping my arms around her.

I can't unwrite my friend's grief; I can't control whether I will ever have my own to face. There is nothing I can say to the parents in Norway or to the family of Amy Winehouse that will change the days ahead.

I can do just that one thing: hold my daughter close for as long as the universe allows, knowing every heartbeat is a lucky one.

Veronica Rhodes and David Valdes Greenwood alternate weeks writing the Family Gaytriarchs. Look for them on ParentDish every Wednesday.

David Valdes Greenwood has written about marriage and parenting for the Boston Globe and in his first book "Homo Domesticus: Notes from a Same-Sex Marriage." The author of three nonfiction books and the creator of the blog "Diva Has Two Daddies," he also finds time to be a kindergarten room parent and Barbie pretend play expert. Read his blog on Red Room.

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]]>amy winhousechild deathdeathdeath and dyingfatenorway deathsnorway shootingsUtoyawhen children dieDavid Valdes GreenwoodWed, 27 Jul 2011 12:00:00 ESTItsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie: Papa and the Small Bikinihttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/13/itsy-bitsy-teenie-weenie-papa-and-the-small-bikini/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/13/itsy-bitsy-teenie-weenie-papa-and-the-small-bikini/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/07/13/itsy-bitsy-teenie-weenie-papa-and-the-small-bikini/#commentsFiled under: , ,

When did I become such a prude? This was the question when Diva and I opened the box of summer clothes sent by a relative -- and I saw the teenie weenie bikini. A napkin's worth of hot pink and orange fabric, its arrival sent my 6-year-old into paroxysms of delight. She squealed; I reeled.

It was just a bathing suit and not even her first two-piece, but this was the real deal -- not a tankini, not a shorts-and-top set, but a bikini with a low rise and a string tie bandeau. She immediately declared that this was a "big kid" suit, unwittingly putting her finger on the very reason her dads were not over the moon about this outfit.

As she wriggled into it, her long and lean build presented a challenge: The suit might scream "big kid" but it sure didn't say "tall girl." The top was a few inches wide at best, which meant it just barely covered her nipples. The bottom had such a narrow rise that you could see the top of her hip sockets.

According to the label, this tiny ensemble was actually a size too big for her. I had to wonder: What exactly did the smaller versions look like? Color-coordinated Band-Aids and dental floss?

The timing couldn't have been more perfect for Diva: This was was the first day hot enough to use our new blow-up pool. Not surprisingly, she wanted to wear her new bikini, and I told her she could, but I only said yes because we were staying at home.

As she splashed around in the water, the picture of exuberant near nakedness, I couldn't help but be glad that we weren't at a beach with crowds of strangers seeing, well, so much Diva.

My visceral response to the bikini prompted a little soul-searching. If I was visiting a country in Scandinavia or Europe where women swim topless, or pausing by a pond in Germany where skinny-dipping was all the rage, I wouldn't find anything particularly scandalous about nudity. And there is nothing inherently provocative about Diva's body, which is that of a child, just a long rubber band in motion. So it wasn't the flesh that bothered me -- it was the bikini itself. And what sense did that make?

When I was in eighth grade, a special meeting was called for the parents of students at the church school I attended. The subject was the dress code, which already prohibited blue jeans and miniskirts. But a new trend had caught on among the girls: sheer tops made of floral-printed gauze, worn with a camisole underneath for modesty.

Some of the men in the church found this look upsetting enough to complain to the principal. At the resulting community meeting, one burly contractor barked, "You can see right through to the bra!" Another man groused, "They're advertising something whether they know it or not."

But my friends -- and my friends were all girls -- didn't take this lying down. A pair of bold sisters turned the tables, one rebuking the adult men for revealing their dirty minds. Her sibling added sharply, "I see flowers here. You see what you want." I cheered them on from my pew, in perhaps the first "You go, girl" moment of my life.

Now, I am the one in the hot seat, the dad who can't appreciate the flowers for the flesh underneath. (Apparently the answer to my original question is that I became a prude when I became a parent.) But it's not a dirty mind that has landed me here. It's that I know too much about our culture and, specifically, the way many men see girls and women, especially ones they don't actually know. And bikinis are part of the equation.

A girl in a bikini is the media's default appeal to straight men, a come-on accepted by manufacturers and consumers alike for decades. From hot rods to razors, if a product can help a dude define his manliness, it is likely to be advertised with the aid of a bikini-clad babe. There's no better proof of this association than the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue, which brings in more than $35 million a year. (And, trust me, no one buys that issue for the NHL standings.)

I try to remind myself that these associations don't have to hold. For instance, the bikinis worn by the U.S. women's beach volleyball team will never diminish the players' strengths and skills. But then you see a 5-year-old model dolled up like Jon Benet, standing in a pageant swimsuit pose -- on a parenting website, no less -- while wearing a bikini the site describes as exuding "pin-up girl glam." Talking about a kindergartner as a pin-up? Creepy.

That's the problem. Too many bikinis don't just say "big girl" -- they say "adult woman." They're designed for a woman's curves, emphasizing body parts a child doesn't yet have. Little triangles where breasts would be, deep curves outlining a booty that doesn't exist, packaging for a product meant for adults.

Not every bikini says "va-va-voom," of course, but the basic design tells a whole story about a bias in our culture: Society tells a girl that, to be modest, she must cover up certain body parts, and then steers her toward options small enough to remind guys exactly what they're missing.

Diva will own plenty of bikinis in her lifetime, and it won't be that long before she gets final say for herself. But, for now, she's only 6 and a 6-year-old girl shouldn't have to be thinking about the way grown men will respond to the placement of a few ounces of fabric. But her dads are, and we're not alone in this concern. We went to the beach yesterday, joining thousands of strangers on sun-warmed sand, and, in the span of four hours, I saw exactly two bikinis on girls younger than 12.

Actually, it was the same bikini, twice: a pink polka-dotted affair worn by twin babies not old enough to walk. They looked innocent, adorable and untroubled -- just as girls at the beach should be.

Veronica Rhodes and David Valdes Greenwood alternate weeks writing the Family Gaytriarchs. Look for them on ParentDish every Wednesday.

David Valdes Greenwood has written about marriage and parenting for the Boston Globe and in his first book "Homo Domesticus: Notes from a Same-Sex Marriage." The author of three nonfiction books and the creator of the blog "Diva Has Two Daddies," he also finds time to be a kindergarten room parent and Barbie pretend play expert. Read his blog on Red Room.

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]]>bikinigirls bikinisexualizing girlsDavid Valdes GreenwoodWed, 13 Jul 2011 11:00:00 ESTIt's Not You, It's Us: Breaking Up With Other Parentshttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/29/breaking-up-with-other-parents/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/29/breaking-up-with-other-parents/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/29/breaking-up-with-other-parents/#commentsFiled under: , , , ,

Remember dating? And that most awkward of moments, the end of an evening when it was clear not everyone had enjoyed the experience equally?

Your date would ask the question, "What are you doing next weekend?" And, instead of saying "avoiding you," you'd stay pleasantly vague. "Ooh, sorry. I think I'm busy." For that matter, you'd be busy the weekend after that, too. Suddenly, your calendar was just packed.

Marriage is supposed to put all that behind you, right? Not if you have children. For every time your kid makes a new friend, you end up doing the getting-to-know-you-waltz all over again with a new set of parents. It's a little like having a 40-inch yenta stubbornly pushing you toward an endless series of blind dates. And if you think chemistry is hard to predict between two people, just try making it work with four.

One mom we met seemed to like us well enough, but in a very distant way; she would spend entire playdates at our house staring at the grass or looking past our shoulders at some far away thing we couldn't see. Conversation always involved long stretches of cricket-begging silence and we decided she must be shy.

Both of the children loved these meet-ups, nonetheless, so we kept at them for a while, but we did notice we were never invited to the other family's house in return. And then the mom started taking longer and longer to return our calls. Eventually, we got the message: She just wasn't that into us.

We could hardly throw stones; there are plenty of perfectly well-intended parents we haven't exactly developed crushes on ourselves. There was the mom who detailed her sexual history 10 minutes into the first playdate; the dad who yanked out his daughter's not-actually-loose tooth so that she could keep up with her tooth-losing friends; and the mom who treated us like Encyclopedia Homosexualis, lobbing blunt questions our way as if we somehow spoke for the entire species.

All our parent friends have their own similar tales from the grown-up dating trenches. One couple we know had never met the parents of their daughter's best friend in preschool, so they were delighted when the other family suggested they should all spend a day together. This seemed ideal -- at least until the inviting parents planned themselves a getaway for that same weekend, leaving my friends to entertain their child and her nanny for them.

A couple with two boys told us how thrilled they'd been when they'd learned that a new family would be moving to their street with three sons younger than 6. Our friends could just imagine all the years of play ahead, when the boys were all old enough to run from house to house. But that kind liberty started a little too early.

While the new family was still doing major construction on their enormous mansion-to-be, they left their kids (one still in diapers!) completely unsupervised, free to wander among the equipment around the site and toddle off into the road, which is where our friends found them. All visions of bonding between the families evaporated.

If you met someone who bothered you this much in a dating context, you wouldn't hesitate to just ditch the bozo and stop returning his calls or texts. Parent "break-ups" are a little trickier because you know your kids will see their kids in school for, oh, a decade or so, which means a little finesse and tact might be prudent.

But make no mistake: Job number one is keeping your child safe -- not sparing the feelings of other parents whose values put them at risk.

There is no easy exit line in situations like these. We all know that the old chestnut, "It's not you, it's me," actually means "It's me disapproving of you." So The Hubby and I fall back on the kinder, gentler dodge: Suddenly, our weekends are full -- and, depending on who's asking -- they will be for a long, long time.

Veronica Rhodes and David Valdes Greenwood alternate weeks writing the Family Gaytriarchs. Look for them on ParentDish every Wednesday.

David Valdes Greenwood has written about marriage and parenting for the Boston Globe and in his first book "Homo Domesticus: Notes from a Same-Sex Marriage." The author of three nonfiction books and the creator of the blog "Diva Has Two Daddies," he also finds time to be a kindergarten room parent and Barbie pretend play expert. Read his blog on Red Room.

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]]>break upsgay parentingother parentsplay datesplaydatesDavid Valdes GreenwoodWed, 29 Jun 2011 11:00:00 ESTCelebrating Fathers' Day, Pluralhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/15/celebrating-fathers-day-plural/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/15/celebrating-fathers-day-plural/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/15/celebrating-fathers-day-plural/#commentsFiled under: , ,

On Sunday, my household will observe a holiday that is somehow universal and statistically rare all at once: Fathers' Day. Note the location of the apostrophe, indicating the plural possessive form, which is to say two dads but only one day.

We've been celebrating (and punctuating) this way for six years now, since Diva was a peanut small enough to rest comfortably in the space between my palm and elbow. In the years since, we've gotten quite an education about what society thinks a father is and is not. Based on my not-especially-scientific reading of all the relevant cultural indicators -- commercials, sitcoms, and the greeting card aisle at CVS -- we've become aware of the following definitions.

Father (noun, singular)

1. Parent who does all or most of the following: throws a ball; plays golf; farts copiously; watches sports; thinks he's a stud if he can make pancakes; uses tools to fix (or claim to fix) broken things; buys women jewelry at the last second before a birthday, anniversary or holiday; and says "ask your mother" without interrupting what he is doing.

2. Parent who cannot do any of the following: sew; dance without embarrassing all parties present; cook a meal not involving pancakes; choose a decent outfit from the current decade to save his life; please the woman he bought the jewelry for; or understand why he has not pleased that same woman.

By this definition, Diva might as well be fatherless. While I am a former Little League outfielder who does sometimes toss a ball with her, and I can make dazzling Mickey Mouse pancakes with chocolate chip eyes, that's still less than half of the required behaviors from the list above.

Worse, there are so many strikes against me (sewing, dancing, cooking, matching my own clothes), that I end up not just getting a zero on the fatherhood scale, but owing points! (The hubby just barely fares better, though only by being a copious farter. Sorry, dear.)

When Diva was little, her day care didn't know quite what to do with dads who came as a set when the June holiday rolled around, but they meant well. That year's gift was a photo of Diva wearing a hard hat and pretend tool belt, along with a picture frame made entirely of nuts and bolts.

This was designed with seriously Old School dads in mind (you could almost smell the Right Guard), but Diva's teachers tried to adapt the gift for the new reality in the only way they could think of: They sent home two of the exact same thing, so we could each have our own butch present.

As Diva has gotten older, more gay dads have appeared in the public eye, from theater ("25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee") to television ("Modern Family") to the pages of glossy tabloids (Neil Patrick Harris, Ricky Martin and even Elton John, parenting at the age most fellas are sizing up Depends).

Happily for us, their lives have been educational, so that a steadily increasing number of people are now aware of our presence. But if you base gay parenting on this small sampling, we should have a Tony, Emmy, Grammy or Oscar lying around, and I am 99 percent certain we do not. (I can't say that with 100 percent certainty, because it would require me to look underneath all the American Girl doll clothes taking over Diva's room.)

I'm joking, of course, but it is true that limited, silly notions of how men parent are still pervasive. And gay dads aren't the only ones who mind. A friend of ours in Los Angeles recently vented on Facebook that none of the greeting cards she found resembled her husband (a film buff who collects watches), either.

But I have to believe this is going to change; bit by bit, the fathers in this generation are writing new definitions with their lives. Straight dads who know the names of all the My Little Ponies ... Gay dads who coach their kid's hockey teams ... Hugh Jackman ... The world is chock full of exceptional dads.

To my fellow dads of every stripe, let your freak flags fly. And, since we're in this together, why not join me in a little plural action here: Happy Fathers' Day to us all.

Veronica Rhodes and David Valdes Greenwood alternate weeks writing the Family Gaytriarchs. Look for them on ParentDish every Wednesday.

David Valdes Greenwood has written about marriage and parenting for the Boston Globe and in his first book "Homo Domesticus: Notes from a Same-Sex Marriage." The author of three nonfiction books and the creator of the blog "Diva Has Two Daddies," he also finds time to be a kindergarten room parent and Barbie pretend play expert. Read his blog on Red Room.

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]]>fathers daygay dadsgay parentsDavid Valdes GreenwoodWed, 15 Jun 2011 12:30:00 ESTMeant to Be: A Letter to My Daughter on Her Birthdayhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/01/meant-to-be-a-letter-to-my-daughter-on-her-birthday/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/01/meant-to-be-a-letter-to-my-daughter-on-her-birthday/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/06/01/meant-to-be-a-letter-to-my-daughter-on-her-birthday/#commentsFiled under: , , ,

Long ago, before there was you, when Daddy was not yet Daddy and I was not yet Papa, he and I promised each other that someday we would be parents. We had a wedding and bought a house, but then let more than a decade pass while we waited to be "ready" for a child. (We didn't realize there is no ready, only willing.)

In the early fall of our 11th year together, Daddy's beloved Nana passed away, one week after deciding it was her time to go. But first, she'd called her children and their children to her bedside, sharing her love one last time and commanding us all to live full, happy lives.

When Nana died, Daddy and I both felt something stirring inside, a clear impulse that it was time to move forward with our plans to adopt a baby, adding a new life to the now smaller family. Many of the people who would become your relatives, godmothers and aunties were thrilled when we announced this decision.

But my own mother didn't think God approved of two men raising a child, an opinion also shared by the governor of our home state and some of the most prominent men in the land. The doubters didn't stop us: Our course was set.

It was almost spring when Daddy and I filled out the paperwork to start the adoption process. We were told it would take 18 months or even longer for us to become parents, and we believed that would be true -- until the first surprise of many came our way. Your birth mom picked us to be your dads a mere eight weeks later, just weeks before her due date.

Everyone involved was amazed; the process never happened that fast. Moreover, there was a coincidence we couldn't ignore: We learned that you had been conceived the week that Nana died. Destiny.

Then, to our great sadness, things fell through. The agency told us to try and forget it, to move on -- such a speedy match was a fluke, after all. But every night of the week we'd been told you were due, I went to bed imagining a baby out there somewhere, and thinking that maybe, just maybe, it would all still work out. I dreamed of you, not yet knowing who -- or if -- you were.

The next week, your birth mom called us from the hospital, still wanting us to be your dads, after all. We heard your voice for the first time, a distant cry that tethered you to us for good, even across the miles. In the thrill of our connection that morning, we almost missed an impossibly wonderful detail: arriving five days late, you had been born on Nana's birthday.

How could you be any child but ours? Even my mother, who had been praying to understand what God wanted, had to agree: It seemed miraculous. If her Creator was strong enough to command a universe into being, He could certainly have disrupted one small adoption, but had not chosen to. She changed her prayer, instead asking God to watch over us as we flew across the country to her new granddaughter.

There were a couple of twists still lying ahead in the road that brought us to you, but they fade in memory next to the sun-soaked summer morning I held you in my arms for the first time. So tiny, a fluttering thing, a bird. We passed you back and forth, terrified and in love, and began to earn the names you call us: Daddy and Papa. There are no words, written or spoken, for what that moment meant (and means) to me.

Today, you are 6. You are too young to care what so many politicians and pundits are still saying about families like ours, but I know someday you will hear and understand their callous words, the harsh proclamations they utter without regard for their effect on children like you. I am sure those comments will sting when they land, but when that happens, I want you to remember this story.

I am not a mystical person, but there was a kind of magic in the making of our family. Nana somehow knew this; in her last night on earth, she told the granddaughter at her side that a baby was coming, that there was a little girl on the way to the family. Nana was right, for here you are.

As you celebrate your birthday -- and hers -- you're exactly where you are meant to be.

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]]>adoptiongay parentingDavid Valdes GreenwoodWed, 01 Jun 2011 11:00:00 ESTA Piece of Unsolicited Parenting Advice: Don't Offer Anyhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/18/unsolicited-parenting-advice/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/18/unsolicited-parenting-advice/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/18/unsolicited-parenting-advice/#commentsFiled under: ,

My friend Gwen was taking a stroll, her sleeping 1-year-old daughter Lola pressed to her chest in a baby sling. It was a lovely day, the nicest so far in a too-late spring, and Gwen was thrilled to be out of the house. A Friendly Stranger rolled up alongside her on his bicycle, cooing over Lola before asking, "How old is she?"

When Gwen answered, Friendly Stranger asked if he could "say something." He was already "saying something," so the phrase was just a euphemism for his real intention. Like a preacher at a revival, he lectured Gwen.

"Your problem is that your daughter is facing the wrong way. She has to face out at this age."

Until that moment, Gwen had been unaware that she had any "problem" or that this wasn't a casual chat. But she played it cool.

"Lola likes to sleep this way."

The cyclist's voice rose. "But she's too OLD! You CAN'T let her do that any more!"

Gwen's a writer and a lawyer -- she could have verbally sliced up the Less-Friendly Stranger, but instead she tried to de-escalate the situation.

"I'm aware there are a lot of opinions on this, but I'm comfortable that she'll be fine."

"You're going to DEFORM her! Her neck will be TWISTED!"

Gwen's jaw tightened. "OK. You've shared your opinion. Move along."

The decidedly Un-Friendly Stranger did roll off, but not before shouting: "This is ABUSE! They should TAKE THAT CHILD AWAY FROM YOU." And thus ended Gwen's lovely morning.

Is there anything your average parent wants less than unsolicited advice? And, yet, we all get it, in brief comments or lengthy diatribes, always from someone claiming to have the best interest of the child at heart.

It's clear in these exchanges that if we are "good" parents, we'll absorb this information and do one of three things: 1) Immediately leap into action, proving to the speaker that we have learned from them; 2) Nod thoughtfully and promise to do better in the future; or 3) Redden with shame at our exposed failures.

The option that many of us take -- 4) Say thanks and leave it there -- seems entirely unwelcome. Because sages like that cyclist crave visual evidence that they've bettered the world, noncommittal responses make them crazy. I think many advice-givers even prefer to be told in no uncertain terms where they can stick their suggestions. At least then they know they've made an impression.

Granted, there are situations that truly merit offering advice to someone you don't know and who hasn't asked. If a child bursts into flames and his oblivious parents are sitting nearby on a bench made of fire extinguishers, that would count. Or, maybe Grandma is letting the kiddos eat ice cream sundaes using razor blades or live cobras instead of spoons -- sure, intercede.

However, the way my daughter's hair is done, where she goes in flip-flops, whether she goes up the slide instead of down -- none of these things warrant your direct intervention. (And, if, as dozens of readers suggested after my previous column, your big advice is that gay people shouldn't have kids, well, too bad: The cow has already left that barn.)

Yes, you might well have a firm opinion you're dying to share, but ask yourself how crucial it is that you do so -- and what else you really mean deep down. When you say "my daughter always wears leggings under her skirt on chilly days like this," the (unspoken) rest of your speech is loud and clear: "I am innately superior to you in wisdom. I truly believe you've never given any thought at all to your child's attire. And I don't remotely care if the fight you had with your 5-year-old this morning ended with 'if your legs get cold now, next time you'll know better.' "

When a stranger approaches with unsolicited advice, maybe it should become a teaching moment in reverse. Cheerfully reply, "You can give me one piece of advice, if I can give you one back." Then, offer your own hastily-considered opinion about some surface detail that you can only judge on sight. Note a distinct body odor, comment on a frightening hairdo, marvel at a startlingly inept fashion choice -- whatever your opinion, it should be shallow, context-free and completely ignorant about every day of that person's life leading up to this one interaction. (I didn't say it would be a nice teaching moment.)

Call it the Golden Rule of Stranger Advice: Dis unto others, as they've just dissed unto you. Is that noble? No. Is it instructive? Perhaps. Is it an effective way to make sure at least one person is reluctant to foist an unwanted commentary on you ever again? Absolutely.

Of course, that's just my opinion -- and it's not like you asked.

Veronica Rhodes and David Valdes Greenwood alternate weeks writing the Family Gaytriarchs. Look for them on ParentDish every Wednesday.

David Valdes Greenwood has written about marriage and parenting for the Boston Globe and in his first book "Homo Domesticus: Notes from a Same-Sex Marriage." The author of three nonfiction books and the creator of the blog "Diva Has Two Daddies," he also finds time to be a kindergarten room parent and Barbie pretend play expert. Read his blog on Red Room.

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]]>gay parentingunsolicited adviceunwanted adviceDavid Valdes GreenwoodWed, 18 May 2011 13:00:00 EST'Modern Family' and Me: The Men in the Mirrorhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/04/modern-family/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/04/modern-family/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/05/04/modern-family/#commentsFiled under: , ,

Question: Where can I find the following family?

Two gay dads -- one slender and uncomfortable offering public displays of affection, the other hefty and prone to flamboyant gestures. Add one adopted daughter of another race, the youngest member of an extended family whose senior patriarch is remarried to a younger woman, which makes him now the parent of a child close in age to his grandchildren. Need a hint? Their wacky adventures are broadcast on Wednesday nights.

Answer: I just have to look in the mirror.

I've just described my family, whose adventures I chronicle here at ParentDish. But you can be forgiven if you mistakenly thought I was referring to "Modern Family," the ABC comedy. In fact, you wouldn't be alone -- our own relatives might have answered that question the same way.

Ever since the very first episode aired last year, our families, friends, co-workers and even a few casual strangers have noticed our resemblance to the sitcom's Cameron, Mitchell and Lily.

modern family

My own "Modern Family." Credit: David Valdes Greenwood

I'm the Cam in our house, the zaftig brunette who once was a clown and still loves costumes; my husband's the Mitch, the skinny guy with the gray beard who rolls his eyes at my exuberance when I'm not looking (and sometimes when I am). Our daughter, who I always nickname Diva in my writing (for obvious temperamental reasons), is actually named -- wait for it -- Lily.

So, while we were thrilled when "Modern Family" made history by showing a family like our own, it's been unsettling how eerily exact the portrait is.

Maybe it's just that I'm not sure how I feel about my personal doppelganger. When my own mother-in-law said Cam was just like me, it gave me pause: Do I really whinny that much? Are my hand motions that ridiculously expressive? Have I ever dressed Diva up like a character from a Broadway musical? (Maybe, yes and no.)

It's easy for my mother-in-law to enjoy the similarities because her counterpart is Sofia Vergara -- and who wouldn't like that? But mine is the campy dude who shops at the Big 'n Tall. Am I the only person ever to watch a sitcom and wonder, "Does this TV show make me look fat?" (Actually, life does that just fine.)

Don't get me wrong: We're hooked on the show, which makes us laugh every time, if sometimes uneasily. When Cam has an emotional outburst, or Mitchell gets all prickly, or they compete to see which husband some cutie is flirting with, it feels a little like reality TV -- as if our lives have been edited down to their most exaggerated moments for an audience of millions.

Of course, it isn't our actual reality: Our condo would fit into a wee corner of Mitch and Cam's vast mansion; our house is strewn with doll parts and laundry like a child actually lives there; and we don't have gay friends with campy names like Longinous and Crispin and Pepper.

Even so, the overlap is strong enough that each episode is accompanied by the same soundtrack in our house: snicker, snicker, wince; snicker, snicker, wince.

Maybe the show hits a little too close to home sometimes, but that's a nice problem to have. Let's face it: TV has never depicted families like mine in this way before. For all its zany exaggerations as befitting a sitcom, the show is a gift and not just to us. As our culture grows and adapts to new realities, the show is a reminder that while some family structures might seem new, the real challenges, pleasures and rewards we share are as old as time.

When "Modern Family" airs its season finale on May 25, The Hubby and I will be sure to gather in front of the HD mirror in our living room to see how we look. I just hope Cam wears something slimming.

Veronica Rhodes and David Valdes Greenwood alternate weeks writing the Family Gaytriarchs. Look for them on ParentDish every Wednesday.

David Valdes Greenwood has written about marriage and parenting for the Boston Globe and in his first book "Homo Domesticus: Notes from a Same-Sex Marriage." The author of three nonfiction books and the creator of the blog "Diva Has Two Daddies," he also finds time to be a kindergarten room parent and Barbie pretend play expert. Read his blog on Red Room.

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]]>gay adoptionGay parentshumormodern familyModern Family season 2 finalesofia vergaraDavid Valdes GreenwoodWed, 04 May 2011 11:00:00 ESTWhere Babies - and Tongue-Tied Papas - Come Fromhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/04/20/where-babies-come-from/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/04/20/where-babies-come-from/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/04/20/where-babies-come-from/#commentsFiled under:

"How do babies get out of a mommy's tummy?"

Like so many incredibly loaded topics, this question arrived over dinner. Diva was then 4, a preschooler whose primary understanding of adult female anatomy came from Barbie. We'd been joined for supper by Diva's Auntie Mikey, to whom she addressed the question, but since we hadn't been talking about either uteruses or Angelina Jolie, Mikey's jaw fell open in surprise.

Our general philosophy is to tell the truth in the simplest terms. We'd long ago settled on the idea that, when the time came, we'd neither stigmatize nor aggrandize the subject of sex. We just didn't expect to that moment to arrive while our daughter was still watching "Sesame Street." Technically, though, the time had come for Mikey; as we pointed out, Diva hadn't asked us. Smirking, we sat back to watch her auntie answer.

Mikey put on a great show, narrated from the perspective of the baby deciding to head down the birth canal and pop out between mom's legs. Diva looked down at her lap and then up at Mikey, with an expression that read, "You've gotta be kidding." She quickly changed the subject to the brownies I'd made for dessert, and I breathed a sigh of relief at having dodged the larger bullet for the time being.

That relief lasted three minutes. With a mouth full of chocolate, Diva turned to me. "So how did the baby get in?" After briefly emitting a startled quasi-gargling sound, I pulled myself together and tried to play it cool, like it was just any old suppertime chat about a sperm and an egg.

Trying to help, Mikey began the standard line we all learn: "When a man and a woman love each other ..." But I cut her off before she finished the phrase, because not all birth stories start that way. Many babies are not conceived from love, or even with the participants' awareness that conception is taking place, and, for decades now, some babies have been made with one or both biological contributors absent. I wasn't about to cement any one notion that might not apply to my own child.

Sketching things out briefly for Diva, accurately, but not exhaustively, I revealed only what the moment required. Like Dumbledore in the first few "Harry Potter" books, I didn't feel a need to fully limn out the future -- there will be plenty of time later to describe all the drama a wand can cause. Whatever I said, it turned out to be plenty; Diva finished her brownie and wandered off, leaving us grown-ups to ponder the sudden arrival of the Information Age.

I shouldn't have been surprised that the conversation had come so soon. After all, I was only 5 when my brother told me his version of our birth story: "Daddy jumped on Mommy and poked her till she cried."

I refused to believe my mother would have ever let my father do what my brother described -- which I reported to her verbatim. She was mortified, immediately leading us to our room for a concise sex talk that ended with the admonition "and do NOT repeat a WORD of this out loud."

I vowed, as a parent, I'd handle things with more finesse. But life is funny. After supper, I discovered Diva playing with a T-Rex who was busily finding a way to deliver some dino sperm to Barbie's eggs. Upon seeing me, Diva happily told me she was having the toys make babies. I found my hypocritical self gently suggesting she should only play this game at home. As amusingly ironic as it might be for the child of the gay guys to be telling classmates how straight people make love, I wasn't especially interested in being the Sex Ed provider for a preschool.

I'm not sure I was fully prepared to fill that role at my own table, to be honest. But, in the process, I helped teach Diva something valuable: Answers and babies both come from parents, whether or not they're ready for delivery.

Veronica Rhodes and David Valdes Greenwood alternate weeks writing the Family Gaytriarchs. Look for them on ParentDish every Wednesday.

David Valdes Greenwood has written about marriage and parenting for the Boston Globe and in his first book "Homo Domesticus: Notes from a Same-Sex Marriage." The author of three nonfiction books and the creator of the blog "Diva Has Two Daddies," he also finds time to be a kindergarten room parent and Barbie pretend play expert. Read his blog on Red Room.

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]]>sex educationsex talkwhere babies come fromDavid Valdes GreenwoodWed, 20 Apr 2011 11:00:00 ESTChildrenfreude: Why I Take Pleasure in Other Parents' Pain - and You Should, Too!http://www.parentdish.com/2011/03/30/childrenfreude-why-i-take-pleasure-in-other-parents-pain-and/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/03/30/childrenfreude-why-i-take-pleasure-in-other-parents-pain-and/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/03/30/childrenfreude-why-i-take-pleasure-in-other-parents-pain-and/#commentsFiled under: , ,

My daughter, Diva, and I were at a friend's house for a playdate and Rose, her buddy, was in fine form. Just before we got there, Rose's mom had given her one explicit instruction: Stay out of the hair care products in the bathroom, which Rose had been treating like playthings.

Naturally, Rose disappeared with Diva the instant we arrived, returning moments later to show that they had frozen their tresses into sticky Aquanet sculptures. This set the tone for a day which included explicit disobedience, tantrum-throwing, a bold-face lie or two and weeping when criticized for any of the above.

I have to admit my immediate reaction was this: Oh, thank God! My daughter's not the only one! Indeed, the whole thing warmed my heart with what I'll call childrenfreude: the secret pleasure of watching bad kids happen to good parents.

Let me be clear: I'm not usually one who gloats in the face of another's pain. Yes, if a real jerk gets his comeuppance, I might feel a little twinge of satisfaction. And, if a politician who has made hay decrying the existence of my family is caught with his pants literally down, I'll think he deserves all the mockery he gets. Yet, even then, I feel badly for his poor family, forced to endure his shame, as well.

On this playdate, I truly sympathized with Rose's mom, who was clearly stunned by her daughter's behavior. Like any other kid, Rose can be willful and grumpy by spells, but most of the time she listens to her parents, does her part to help with her two younger sisters and is a joy to be around. This saucy, downright confrontational Rose was new, partly the product of a weekend spent with older cousins whose independence she wanted to mimic.

But her actions also reflected her age: Between 5 and 6, a lot of kids end up questioning why it is that they have to follow so many seemingly arbitrary rules on command.

Seeing my friend confront this exaggerated version of her daughter was encouraging to me because I'd lately witnessed so many similar scenes in my own house. Diva -- a girl mostly good about sharing her toys, playing with others and listening to her dads -- has been going through spells of behavior that can only be described as bratty.

She'll look us in the eyes and say, "I won't ever do that. You can't make me." She's gotten eye-rolling down to a science and has added little raspberry sounds of disgust to the routine. Some days, the shrieking chorus to every song is "Bad Papa!" or "Bad Daddy!" It's maddening enough at home; when such stunts happen in public, I worry my head might explode.

I admit, as a gay dad, there's an added pressure to these moments. Because my family configuration is so rare, and so many people are happy to use our existence as proof of their beliefs (for good or ill), every public success or failure takes on added meaning. And no one -- gay or straight -- likes to parent under a microscope.

That's why I couldn't stop smiling at Rose's house. It's not that I didn't feel my friend's pain, but that I understood it so exactly. And, as the parent whose child was not acting up in the moment, I could better see Rose's behaviors for what they were: irritating and obviously crafted to get a response, but completely transient.

From my safe remove, I could see that these meltdowns weren't the end of the world -- they just felt that way to the mom who had to endure them.

I think we parents all need to witness each other's worst days just to get through our own. For me, it's not really so much pleasure as relief in knowing that no matter what insane-making thing my child does, I'm not the first to live through it.

In future playdates between Rose and Diva, there will be ample opportunities for Diva to show off her she-demon side. And when Rose's mom can't help but laugh, I promise not to hold it against her.

David Valdes Greenwood has written about marriage and parenting for the Boston Globe and in his first book "Homo Domesticus: Notes from a Same-Sex Marriage." The author of three nonfiction books and the creator of the blog "Diva Has Two Daddies," he also finds time to be a kindergarten room parent and Barbie pretend play expert. Read his blog on Red Room.

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]]>gay dadsgay parentingsame sex parentsDavid Valdes GreenwoodWed, 30 Mar 2011 13:00:00 ESTIndependent Spunk Vs. Pretty Princess: A Dad's Lesson in Trusting Positive Parentinghttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/03/16/independent-spunk-vs-pretty-princess-a-dads-lesson-in-trustin/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/03/16/independent-spunk-vs-pretty-princess-a-dads-lesson-in-trustin/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/03/16/independent-spunk-vs-pretty-princess-a-dads-lesson-in-trustin/#commentsFiled under: ,

When my daughter was not quite 3, she told my husband and me that she wanted to be a chicken for an upcoming costume party.

We thought this was hilarious and I found myself snootily proud of her choice. See, my kid's no joiner. Let every other girl be Cinderella; mine is going to be a chicken.

I did what any self-respecting gay dad would do next: I bought feathers -- lots of them -- and began sewing the bantam costume of her dreams. But then, the unthinkable happened: She came home the next day saying she wanted to be a princess, instead. How did this happen?!

She'd gotten the idea from day care, though it was never clear whether the mastermind had been a teacher or playmate -- toddlers can be so vague! Either way, I was outraged and disappointed that she'd been led away from her perfectly original first idea and steered down the conformist path. So, as excited as she was about her new choice, I didn't exactly run to a fabric store to make her a fabulous ball gown.

We live in the liberal Northeast and move in circles where princess culture is viewed with deep suspicion, as the embodiment of old school sexism mixed with naked consumerism. My husband and I boasted that our daughter wouldn't be the princess type -- we were raising a strong girl with independence and spunk, not a damsel in distress waiting to be saved.

So, I put off her costume request, hoping it would go the way of the chicken, soon replaced by something else. Instead, she dug in deeper -- and so did I.

My husband broke the stalemate. He pointed out that if we'd had a son who wanted to dress like a princess, we'd have said yes in a heartbeat, proud of ourselves for supporting his self-expression. Yet, we had trouble supporting a girl who wanted the very same thing. What sense did it make for gay dads to tell their daughter she couldn't be whatever she wanted?

When I was her age, I hated being told what toys I should play with. I waged a two-year battle to get a baby doll before my religious grandmother finally, reluctantly, gave in. The year I wanted to be Wonder Woman for Halloween, that wish was granted, too, but only after days of heated arguments and compromise from all sides.

Though I outgrew dolls, and drag never became a hobby, I still classify those childhood moments as victories -- times when my family accepted me as the child I was, not the child they wished for.

Resisting my daughter's princess wish would have been just as closed-minded as my grandmother's battle to butch up her grandson. I decided to trust that, as long we keep offering positive messages about strong women for balance, a little tulle and glitter won't forever ruin our daughter's future.

I put the feathers away and switched over to sequins -- I was thrilled when she announced she wanted her dress to be blue, not pink. The unexpected color seemed like a subtly rebellious choice to me, at least until she tried it on and sighed, "Oh, Papa, now I look like Cinderella!"

I bit my lip to keep from starting a lecture, and just let her have her moment -- swirling around the living room -- totally a princess.

Veronica Rhodes and David Valdes Greenwood alternate weeks writing the Family Gaytriarchs. Look for them on ParentDish every Wednesday.

David Valdes Greenwood has written about marriage and parenting for the Boston Globe and in his first book "Homo Domesticus: Notes from a Same-Sex Marriage." The author of three nonfiction books and the creator of the blog "Diva Has Two Daddies," he also finds time to be a kindergarten room parent and Barbie pretend play expert. Read his blog on Red Room.

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]]>gaygay parentingGayParentingprincessprincess culturePrincessCultureDavid Valdes GreenwoodWed, 16 Mar 2011 12:00:00 EST