Parental advice

I had never met gay dads before becoming one. Now, they are everywhere. I am not sure how this happened, but I am forced to confront a genre of people that, in all honesty, I detest: militants.

It all started when my friend C found out I’d become a dad. He’s one of those hugely networked and successful gay men, who knows everyone worth knowing within the London Gay Mafia. He is also a banker, which should make me hate him, but he’s too cool and fun, so when I am with him I suspend my well-founded prejudice on the banking profession and enjoy his amazing company. He called me up a few months after the Boy Child was born, and organised in quick succession two dinners with two gay couples, both of whom had fathered a child. At first I wasn’t too enthusiastic, but I accepted trusting C’s judgement and dragged my boyfriend T along for the occasion.

We met the first gay couple in a dimly-lit Turkish restaurant in Islington. They were in their mid-forties, ridiculously handsome and successful - one was a TV actor, the other one a journalist (or was he a lawyer? I cannot remember, I couldn’t get my brain to work as it was constantly distracted by his perfectly-sculpted arms). Before starters were served, the Inquisition kicked off.
 

- ‘So, how old is your son?’ asked the TV guy.


- ‘Three months old, give or take’ - I replied.
 

- ‘Ah, right, let me tell you about the first three months. They are mental!’

And before I could utter a word, he had launched into a long monologue explaining to us everything about nappy changing, sleepless nights, swaddling and whatnot. I tried to interrupt him, explaining that we had already got the hang of all these things, but he didn’t pay any attention to my remarks. So T and I just sat there and listened patiently to all the obvious suggestions they made.

- ‘Anyway’ - the journalist added – ‘you can also read a book or two about parenting.’

- ‘Actually’ - I interrupted, by now slightly exasperated, ‘not only have I read more than a book or two, but we really didn’t find these first two months so awful as you did. It might be because we are raising the Boy Child with his mother, and women tend to understand and cope with the challenges of parenting much better. We simply follow her lead.’

It was as if I had insulted the Prophet in front of a roomful of Muslims. Their eyes bulged at the suggestion that a woman would be better than a gay man at childraising.

- ‘You’re joking, surely! How could you possibly say that, as a gay man? Don’t you think gay men can be good parents too?’
- ‘That’s not what I said.’

- ‘Well that’s what you’re implying. I really don’t think a woman is necessary to raise a kid. We’re good friends with our daughter’s mother, she takes care of her most nights and most days, but we could really do this just as well ourselves.’

- ‘Ah,’ I said, ‘that explains your perfect bodies. I am sure your daughter’s mum has just as much time as you do to keep her body in perfect shape, right? ‘

- ‘Are you a homophobe as well as a bigot?’  the journalist/lawyer asked tonelessly.

I looked over to C, who was sliding quickly under the table. He was mortified at how quickly things had escalated, but this didn’t stop him from inviting us to a second gay dads’ dinner, a few weeks later. This time, it was an American couple who were visiting London for the summer. We met them at C’s private club in Soho. They were less handsome than the first ones, which helped me focus my arguments a little more than the first time, although the gym routine was clearly in full swing, judging by the oversized biceps on both of them. They showed off - in classic American style - a row of perfectly manicured white teeth when they first met me and T, although we didn’t get to see much smiling after that.

- ‘Well, helloooooo!’ said the first one, a tall, blond, pasty guy, who introduced himself as the next Mark Zuckerberg. This made me want to kill him immediately.

- ‘Hello hello!’ said the second one, a short, buffed-up Asian man, who said he was the wannabe kept man of the first one, waiting for him to make millions with his Zuckerberg plan so that he could just lie next to a Beverly Hills pool surrounded by naked Brazilian rent-boys. This made me want to kill him more than his boyfriend.

Over drinks, we started chatting about life, work and interests. The usual gay way of assessing whether you are potentially useful to someone, or should be quickly discarded as a waste of space. Their questions were mainly directed at T, whom they seemed to be far more interested in than in me, probably because he is 8 years younger and has the body of an Adonis. He tried to explain what he did as a Transatlantic PhD researcher in Global Governance issues. The two nodded with enthusiasm, but I could tell they didn’t understand a word of what he was saying. I ordered a second drink for good courage.

- ‘Soooooooo’ the blond guy turned to me, ‘I hear you guys have just become parents!’

- ‘Yes, that’s true, about 4 months ago, although it’s not entirely correct. I have become a dad, not T.’

- ‘Oh dear. What do you mean?’ - they asked with a hurt expression on their faces, turning in condolence to T – ‘you said you’ve been together for 3 years. Won’t he let you be a father too?’

- ‘It’s not that I am not letting him be a father. I am the father. There can only be one biological father, unless you are a duck, whose females, as you know, get gang-raped by several males, who inseminate their eggs collectively. But with humans it’s different. There is one father, and one mother. I am the father, Lady V the mother. We are the parents. Full stop.’
- ‘OH. MY. FUCKING. GOD’ they cried in unison, ‘you’re, like, one of those Christian fundamentalist preachers!’

Remembering how the last dinner had gone, and seeing C’s and T’s faces drop, I decided to take a deep breath and to be courteous. I really didn’t want another sour evening on my conscience.

- ‘Look, I’m sorry, this really didn’t come out properly. What I meant to say is that, although T and I have been indeed together for 3 years, the plan to conceive the Boy Child was developed well before his arrival, between me and Lady V, whom I live with. It’s a different arrangement altogether. We both wanted the child to have a dad and a mum. That’s all. Of course T and DJ S are more than welcome to play a role into the Boy Child’s life, but they are our partners, not the parents. Simple as that.’

- ‘Well, that sounds awfully bigoted,’ replied the Zuckerberg guy, rolling his eyes - looks like you are desperately trying to build a really nice bourgeois family mock-up. You are not really helping the cause.’

- ‘Cause? What cause?’ I asked, confused. 

- ‘The gay parenting cause! What else?!’ replied the Asian queen.

- ‘Well, I think everyone should have the right to have children and raise them in a family, whether they are gay, straight or bisexual. This is our way. I don’t really feel like a Crusader, nor do I feel like I am trying to conform to a bourgeois standard, although I appreciate the work done by those who have fought for gay rights in this country and continue to do so.’ (I was really being as diplomatic as I could).

- ‘You should be grateful. Because people like you would not be able to have a child otherwise,’ said the Zuckerberg guy, turning to T and winking. 

- ‘Well, darling,’ I replied, as my bile started boiling again, ‘maybe you should go back to a biology class. We are A MAN and A WOMAN having A CHILD. That’s how children are born, through a VAGINA. Or did your son come out of your boyfriend’s ass?’

- ‘How crude!’ the Asian commented half-heartedly, as if the thought of a baby emerging from his anus might not, after all, be that unpleasant.

- ‘We paid a lot of money to a surrogate mother,’ replied the Zuckerberg guy, ‘who carried our boy until he was born. We were in the delivery room and took the baby as soon as he was out of her. She didn’t even get to hold it once!’ he added, with pride.
- 
‘Yeah, but she did hold the money for a long time as she was counting it!’ added the boyfriend, with a pained look on his face, as he clearly thought that money could have paid for a lot of coke and sex parties.

I was pondering what tool to use to behead them, when they dropped the final cherry on the cake.

- ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘I really don’t understand what all this fuss about women is about. In our experience, they’re not that great at raising children. We did a much better job.’

- ‘Yes,’ added Zuckerberg guy, ‘like, our “friend” Jess’ (he really did use the quotation marks, brushing the air with his fingers) ‘had this baby girl, right, and we went over to her house, she was about the same age as our boy. Like 2 months or something. Anyway, every time she cried, Jess went up to her and picked her up, and we were like ‘Jess, you’re like totally doing this wrong’. We explained to her that when our boy cried, all we would do was to put him in his pram facing the wall in another room, and sure enough after a while he would stop. Problem solved!’

- ‘Yeah, women are, like, totally hormonal about these things, they fuck it up sooooo much!’

T’s jaw dropped. Mine was already on the floor, and couldn’t drop any lower. All I could mutter was:

- ‘Jesus Christ! I am beginning to see why so many people in the US are opposed to gay dads parenting.’

At which point, they both looked at me with horror, turned to C and - informing him that his standards in terms of acquaintances had clearly dropped and that they would see him in the future only on condition of him not dragging bigoted assholes with him - left the club in a huff. Without paying for the dinner, which they had in the meantime consumed.


C was terribly apologetic, and I tried to reassure him that no, it wasn’t his fault, it was an easy mistake to make, etc etc. But in fact, it was entirely his fault. He had mistakenly assumed that all gay dads would probably bond like soldiers in a trench. But the truth is, not all soldiers in trenches bond, because some of them are nice guys, others are cunts and will shoot you in the back to save their bacon. The former avoid the latter, and with good reason.

Crying it out

I write this sitting at the kitchen table in the dead of night, the Boy Child asleep upstairs. I am wearing - for the first time in a year and a half - an underwired bra. 

I am not telling you this for salacious reasons, like one of those bored housewives who tells eager callers about her lingerie for cash as she does the ironing. There is, in fact, a link.

The major design flaw in our adorable Boy Child is that he isn’t a fan of going to sleep. Granted, when he was tiny, he would snooze in the corner of the kitchen in his pram.

‘If he carries on like this,’ I told Papà A fondly, ‘I’ll be able to get loads of writing done. You hardly notice he’s there.’

How wrong I was. As he grew bigger, the Boy Child’s naps grew shorter – both during the day and at night. When he was born he’d happily sleep for five hours at a stretch, but by the time he was three months he was waking every two, demanding succour from the Lady V bosom and not giving up until he got it. Bleary-eyed, I would stagger from my bed, pick up the writhing little scrap, get back into bed, lean back and doze off while he slurped and snuffled at my nipple, until, satiated, he would give a sharp flick of his head (gums still attached to tender flesh) to let me know he was finished. I’d put him back in his cot hoping for the best but knowing that in a couple of hours he’d be back for more.

My days were spent on auto-pilot, waiting for when it was time to go back to bed. I pushed his pram around the streets feeling I was wading through mud. My front door keys were left in the lock for passers-by to break in. I filed yoghurt away in the cutlery drawer. I had conversations that I couldn’t remember 5 minutes later. It was like being very drunk but without the fun.

Try as I might, I couldn’t work out what was wrong. At two months we began a bedtime routine, as suggested by all the books and about the only thing they all agree is absolutely vital for a good night’s sleep. Wind-down, story, bath and bed in his own cot away from everyone else. The Boy Child resisted, screaming that he wanted to rejoin the party. 

I talked to other mothers, who smilingly told me about their babies sleeping through the night. The Boy Child’s lack of sleep became a topic of discussion all over Islington, in playgroups, Pilates classes and prams in the park.

Over the summer, in Italy, things got worse. Whipped into a frenzy of excitement by the various goings-on described in my previous post, the Boy Child decided that he didn’t want to miss any of it, and began to wake every hour. One night we even drugged him with Calpol. Instead of dropping off into sweet slumber like all the other babies I know of, he went into a strange, giggly state, stoned, yet alert, and still he did not sleep.

By the time we returned to London I was on my knees. After a particularly embarrassing breakdown at a house party in Somerset, by which time I had begun to hear noises instead of conversation and see dizzying, hallucinatory flashes of colour instead of people, we made the decision: to try controlled crying.

Now, people say all kinds of things about controlled crying. For some, it’s akin to child abuse. For others, it’s the first step on the road to showing your child who’s boss. I didn’t have a position on it. I just knew that I needed to sleep, and that if the Boy Child slept then so would I.  It would also – and here’s the link to the bra – mean that I’d be able to stop breastfeeding, which was vital for me being able to get back to the library and write the masterpiece that would keep us all in Chianti for years to come. As long as the Boy Child kept waking through the night, I would have to keep feeding him, because the thought of going downstairs to warm up bottles was even worse. So the two would happen together. We had just a week to get it right before Papà A went off to Southern Europe in his own frenzy of consultancy hunter-gathering to keep the family fed and watered.

The technique is thus: when the baby cries, you go to it and settle it but don’t pick it up. After a minute in the room you leave, and wait for five more minutes before going in, then a minute inside, then wait for ten. Repeat until the baby has sobbed itself to sleep.

The only strategy, it seemed, was to divide and rule. Everyone I spoke to told me that controlled crying is horrible for the mother, who has to be prevented by the father from going to the child. We decided to swap rooms for the duration - Papà A and Shu Shu T sleeping in my room next to the Boy Child; me and DJ S (delighted at the thought of a week’s proper sleep) scuttling downstairs to the basement out of earshot.

The first evening Papà A and I settled down in front of a movie and waited. When the first small whimpers came, I felt a chill run through my body.

‘This WILL work. I’m going to break him,’ said Papà A, with a certain amount of satisfaction.

I gave a small whimper of my own and tried to turn my attention to the screen. As the screams grew louder, Papà A took the baby monitor and turned off the sound, so all I could see was the red flash of the light, which means full on screams. A flood of maternal instinct began to wash over me.

‘I’ll go.’

‘No, I’ll go.’

‘No, really.’ I set off up the stairs before he could stop me.

I opened the nursery door to see a small, frenzied child beating his head against the bars of his cot, screaming loud enough to break the sound barrier. As I walked towards him he raised his arms towards me to be lifted up. ‘Shh,’ I said, ineffectually, and stroked his forehead. There was a moment of silence, probably from shock, then he started again, louder than before. It’s hard to count to a minute when a baby’s screaming like that, but those are the rules. As I stood up and walked out of the door, my breasts began to leak as if they were crying in sympathy.

I came downstairs shaking.

‘Do you think, maybe, we could…?’

‘No! I knew you would crack if you went up there.’

Papà A and I have never had a row before, however there followed a few minutes that I shall not describe, since I suspect they would make neither of us look very good. Suffice to say that words were spoken through gritted teeth and I soon made my excuses and retired to bed.

The next morning when I went into the Boy Child’s room to start the day there were none of his usual smiles: he turned his head away. As the day went on, and he continued to ignore me, I began to panic. I started to imagine the therapist’s couch in years to come, the Boy Child now a suicidal adult, muttering that ‘of course, my mother never really loved me, she used to leave me to cry myself to sleep EVERY NIGHT.’

There were tears before bedtime that day, and not just from the Boy Child.

Most babies are, to use Papà A’s phrase, ‘broken’ after a couple of nights of this. Perhaps it is a tribute to the Boy Child’s staying power that it took him a week. Slowly, but surely, he began to get the message, and Papà A would come downstairs looking marginally better rested, and utter the longed-for words ‘he only woke up once.’

And finally, joyfully, the Boy Child started sleeping through the night. I have stopped dreading going to bed. I can walk up the stairs without feeling like I’m going to pass out. I have participated in a conversation where someone used the term ‘ideology’ more than once and I understood what was going on. In short, I am a new woman.

Even better, from DJ S’s point of view, is the change in underwear. One of the worst parts of pregnancy and childbirth, according to her, was the vile and enormous lingerie that it required. Underwires not being recommended as they can damage milk ducts, and flip down cups necessary for feeding, I have been forced to contain the Lady V bosom in bras that can only be described as serviceable. Still, installed in the front window of our kitchen, I would unhook said serviceable items and expose myself to passers by like a whore in Amsterdam’s red light district. I found breastfeeding an odd experience, involving bodily exposure in the most unlikely of places, from the middle of an Ikea showroom to an audience of giggling schoolchildren at a literary festival in the French Alps. Some women find it the zenith of feminine nurture. For me it was a bit uncomfortable, slightly embarrassing and somewhat damp.

But now, thank god, it’s over. And so, to celebrate my newfound freedom to sleep, and the return of my body to other pursuits, I shall be taking a trip to Rigby and Peller, purveyor of lingerie to the Queen. I shall be reporting back, forthwith.