My Gay Dad

Although I have the suffering phlegm I mentioned in my last post, it has cleared up some - thanks to the miracle of modern medicine - and I spent last night taking care of my niece since I'm obviously a reasonably responsible sort. Despite the fact that I had a woozy head - probably also due to my meds, I handled myself accountably well throughout the evening while she played around with her toys, helped herself to some of my charcoals ( from the days I entertained notions of joining an art college! Didn't even know I still had those around! ) and went through several oddly entertaining reruns of Barney, the monstrous purple cushion, and his two illegitimate dinokids.

There were times during the evening when I even gave in to the blissful notion of having a house, a husband and a passel of kids running about ( well perhaps two, any more than that and I'd be the old lady in the Manolos ). Although I might have the occasional brain fritz over Chris Evans slicked up in oil, I've never actually been all that interested in the stereotypical fabulous gay life, the thumpa-thumpa disco music or hanging out in bars drooling hopelessly over the pretty boys. Probably gonna be in the ostracized minority over here but in keeping with my Stepford housefrau dreams, I've always wanted a child of my own. Yeah, I can see the number of prospective boyfriends dwindling down to zero right about now :) Other gay men might freak over taking care of the dirt, the spittle and the drool but that's always been alright with me since I've seen much worse at work. And I can always dryclean that Armani suit.


The indescribable mystery of children
That was of course before I had the pleasure of putting my niece to sleep. It wasn't the first time I've gotten her to sleep but it was obviously that time of the month. Tucking her in wasn't the problem actually... keeping her there turned out to be the start of my woes. At some ungodly hour of the night, my niece somehow woke up with the urge to stage a loud, stand-up protest from her cot beside my room. From a happily chattering child, she metamorphosed into some screaming, wailing demon from hell that practically trashed my child monitor with her vociferous million-decibel protests.

Knowing her uncle's a soft-hearted twat beneath that steely exterior, she knew I'd be up and running ( albeit a bit groggily in the dark and slamming my foot on the door frame ) the minute the damned monitor beeped.

Even for a reasonably resourceful guy like me, I was simply at a loss to what to do with the pint-sized termagant as she waved her fists at me, miniscule tears dripping out of her teensy eyes. I've fed her, I've bathed her, I've changed her diapers, I've read stories to her. What the hell else did she want me to do? Unsurprisingly sensible reasoning didn't weigh much with her and the terms I placed on the discussion table for her ceasefire were met with virulent screams of rage. Only after ten minutes of trying to cajole her with several delicious treats - and racking my skull thinking of child-rearing theories, I finally managed to ascertain through her childish babble what she wanted of me.

Which actually turned out to be an hour of cradling her in my arms while I stalked around the room dressed in my ratty pyjamas.

Don't know how other dads do it but there were times I felt like slamming my head on the wall for being such a failure. The other half the time I actually felt like raising my voice to shake the rafters. That was in between wishing that I actually had some sedatives around. Good God. Obviously I need my future boyfriend to be a better father!

Still the lil angel woke up this morning happy as a clam ready to face a new day while my head ached sadly. Obviously last night wasn't as bitterly traumatic for her.