Lesbian Dad

Wee dialog with the boychild

Scene: the rocking chair in the kids’ room. I’ve got my not quite two-and-a-half year-old son cuddled up on my lap, and he’s sucking my pinkie as I sing lullabies to him.  It’s a nightly ritual I predict I will be loathe to give up, and I try not to think of that time.  With any luck it’ll be at least five years or so.  Ahem.  

Lil’ peanut (quietly, from behind my pinkie): You’re a great singer.

[Here’s where I note that his mum is an opera singer.  Her nighttime routine typically features highlights from the Joni Mitchell songbook, poured like honey into his ear.]

Baba (after recovering from being dumbstruck): You’re a great son.

Peanut (again from behind the pinkie, and only after the merest of pauses): You’re a great parent.

Baba (struck even dumber): You were sent here from heaven, sweetie.

Peanut (smiling): I’m not in heaven.

Baba: No, you’re not. You’re right here with me. And you came here from–

Peanut: Mama’s belly.

Baba: Most recently, yes.

Peanut (after a brief contemplative pause): You’re a great pinkie.

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