We met a handful of great women through our (lesbo) childbirth education class. Like many such groups, ours stuck together post-birth, and we’ve cohered for over two years as a tight-knit clot of parents that has met, with few exceptions, every month.
Our kids are all relaxed buddies, and as planned, they now know that while not everyone has two women for parents, many of their best friends do. What’s more, several of these best friends have mannish women for one of those parents. It’s all working very nicely so far, if you ask me. Now, when my children are asked in their elementary school classrooms, “Who knows a mannish woman other than their mama or baba?” they will be able to raise their hands high and go “Ooo! Ooo! Ooo! I do, I do!”
Recently one of the gals celebrated the kiddle-friendly part of her birthday at a local lake. Cupcakes were generously distributed, and the beloved and I braced for our darling daughter to ingest every drop of refined sugar she was allowed for this special occasion. We would then watch her transform before our very eyes into a freaked-out, zig-zagging, hopped-up version of her former self, crashing through other kids’ shoreline sandcastles like some midget version of the giant Ghostbusters’ Pillsbury Dough boy. After which she’d collapse in a crying heap which we’d have to remove from the premises.
Will wonders never cease, she eschewed more than she chewed. She ate very little beyond the amount pictured at top, leaving most of the contents on her face, and proving yet again that this child-rearing thing is, as a woman once told me, an eighteen-year-long blind date.