Teaching the Cat to Sit
JULY 27, 2009: BOULDER, COLORADO
“RAIN IS GOD’S SPIT,” Connor tells his grandmother through my iPhone. He turns his head sideways and puts his right eye close to the screen, as if she might be trapped inside it. “God spits. He really does.”
My mom’s sandpaper ex-smoker’s laugh bursts through the speaker like a spray of gravel from a semitruck. With equal parts amusement and disapproval, she says, “Oh, Connor, I’m sure God doesn’t spit.” Connor flinches. Before Grandy can get out another word, he drops the phone on the kitchen counter, tucks his chin to his chest, and bolts from the kitchen. At almost four years old, he’s already learning to navigate her sharp corners.
He may even be better at it than I am. My mother will be here in five days for Connor’s baptism, and I’m too afraid to tell her it’s been canceled.
As I retrieve the phone, my partner, Jill, edges by me with Connor’s plate of pancakes in one hand and his sippy cup in the other, calls our son to the table, and taps her watch at me—a reminder that we’re going to be late for school. I nod to her and shrug, mouthing the words, I know but . . .
“I can’t wait to see that little booger,” my mom says. “Where on earth did he learn that? The rain is God’s spit, honestly.”
“Where else?” I laugh. “Catholic school.” I pour two to-go thermoses of coffee.
“So, did you get him the shoes like I told you?” my mother asks. “They have to be summer white to match his outfit.”
Because Connor is too old to fit into a traditional Catholic christening gown for infants, Jill and I planned to dress him in a coat and tie. Hearing this, my mom opted for something a bit more sacred: a baptismal suit she won after bidding aggressively for it on eBay.
“Yes, I got him the shoes,” I respond. I open my mouth to confess about the baptism being called off and then close it just as quickly. Like a kid hiding a bad report card, I think if I don’t tell her, the problem won’t exist.
A woman with more courage would already have told her mom that Father Bill has refused to baptize our son, perhaps before my mom bid on the suit or started buying holy items for Connor and having them blessed by their bishop in San Marcos. If not then, certainly before she and my dad drive two days and five hundred miles in the minivan and pull up into our driveway. And maybe I would have if the Catholic Church wasn’t the paper clip holding our relationship together. Also, I like the grandmotherly doting and fussing. It’s one of the few things helping me forget that nothing about our situation is normal, as much as I might want it to be.
“Michelle, are you listening? He can’t wear Batman underwear because the black wings will show through the white pants.” There’s a thud, followed by my father swearing in the background. “Al, what in the Sam Hill?”
I shake my head and smile. “No Batman undies, got it.”
In between her instructions about Connor’s shoes and underwear, Mom yells at my father as he packs their suitcases, “No, Al. Honestly. The Purell goes in the outside pocket.” Before she hangs up she says to me, “Make sure you get his hair cut. We want him to look good in the photos. Love you, sweetie, see you this weekend.”
At the back kitchen door, I lift Connor into my arms and Jill yanks his rain hood up over his head before we dash to separate cars to rush him to school. I’ll be staying at Sacred Heart for a meeting with Father Bill in a final attempt to make him change his mind about us. I buckle Connor into his seat and back out from the garage where the sound of thunder rattles our steel cocoon. “You think He’s mad?” Connor asks.
“Who, God?” I look over my shoulder. “No, little man.”
He puts his hand against the window and nods. “Well, something’s going on with Him.” He traces a drop of rain with his fingertip as if he can stop its momentum. “You’d never let me spit like that without a really good reason.”
FIVE MINUTES LATER, JILL and I stand with Connor in the doorway of the Teddy Bear room at Sacred Heart of Jesus School, waiting for his classmates to finish morning prayers before we step inside. Beyond the glass-paneled door, a paint-chipped Virgin Mary cradles baby Jesus in her arms and candlelight flickers across the toddlers kneeling on their square ABC mats. Hands touch bellies and ears and noses in no particular order, in an attempt to make the sign of the cross that looks like baseball coaches calling plays from the dugout. After a chorus of amens, the teacher motions for us to come inside. I flick on the lights and settle Connor at a table with some other kids.
Jill helps the teacher distribute packets of crayons before she bends over and kisses the top of Connor’s head. She walks toward me and places a hand on my shoulder. “Let me know what Father Bill says today.” She taps a finger along my collarbone to make sure I really hear her. “I know you’re angry, but this isn’t about you.”
“You could go with me,” I say.
“Sure. We could hold hands, because that would make it better.”
“The whole thing’s ridiculous. I asked all the right questions ahead of time.”
“Think of it this way, would you rather be right and have to explain to your mom that the baptism’s been canceled? Or be wrong and have your mom standing with us at the altar next to our son in his little white eBay suit?” She gives my shoulder a squeeze, our equivalent of a good-bye kiss in public, and she is out the door, walking to her car.
I am leaning over to say good-bye to Connor too when the girl sitting next to my son asks me, “Why does Connor have two mommies?” Heat rises to my cheeks. Of course I expected this moment to happen at some point, but I’m still unprepared for it. How can I explain to her that I sometimes do my own double take? At home, I stare at our family photo above the fireplace—the one we took at Disney World—and I see two white, middle-aged women with their half-Cambodian son wedged between them and I think: Who are these people? I peer down at this tiny girl in an art smock and striped leggings, terrified that she will judge me.
I’m about to answer the girl, whose mother happens to be the school’s director, when Connor’s teacher, a married woman with five kids of her own, quips, “He has two mommies because he’s lucky.”
Connor takes a thick black crayon in his small fist and starts to color in a picture of hippos and bunnies heading two by two up a ramp onto Noah’s ark.
“There are lots of different kinds of families,” I tell the girl. I’m aware that the teacher is watching me, and a class aide too. I’m still so new to this mommy thing that I don’t know if I can pass scrutiny from the real moms, the ones who know how to do this, the women who seem born to it. Plus, I feel like they might think I represent all gay parents, which means I have to get this exactly right. I continue, “Some people have a dad or a mom or both. Some are raised by their grandparents. And some have two mommies or two daddies.”
“Oh,” she says, then wrinkles her brow in confusion. “Well, which one of you does he call Mommy?”
“That’s a great question. I’m Mama and his other mother is Mommy,” I say, knowing full well that as two anxious, newly minted moms, we answer to just about anything: running water, the smell of open markers, items dropped into toilets, and anything that sounds like a head hitting the floor.
The girl places her palm over the drawing of Noah in front of her. “My daddy doesn’t live with us anymore.” She says this without emotion, as if she is explaining to me that Barney the dinosaur is purple. I look at her little hand covering Noah’s face and kneel down next to her. She twirls a strand of wavy hair around her finger, which starts to turn white at the tip.
I unravel the hair from her hand, replace it with a blue crayon, and resist an overwhelming urge to sit down next to her and color for a few hours. “I’m sure your dad loves you very much,” I say, placing my hand on top of her head. I hold on for a few extra seconds, trying to convey all the things I haven’t said: You will be okay. You are loved. And whatever is going on with your parents has nothing to do with you or anything you have or haven’t done.
I look at Connor, coloring intently, and wonder if he wishes he had a dad, if Jill and I will be enough.
I give Connor a quick kiss, and we touch noses. “Bye, sweet boy,” I say and trail my hand across his bony spine. Even though he drinks a high-calorie PediaSure every morning, his shoulder blades jut from his back like broken bird wings. It’s as if all the things he can’t or won’t say about the family he was born into—before he came to us—are written on his body anyway. How much of his past will determine his future? And, as for the immediate future: What in God’s name am I going to say to Father Bill to convince him to baptize my son?