Baby Stalker

As the only gay couple in our suburban condo community, one might think that there would be occasion for us to feel out of place or unwelcome.  Quite the opposite, in fact.  Our neighbors have largely gone out of their way to make us feel welcome and at home.  There have been shared meals and birthday celebrations, cat sitting and garden parties and even the odd shiva.

But it hasn't all been maple scones and lace-cap hydrangeas.  Like the time Peanut got herself a stalker.

Yes, you read that correctly.  Our two year old attracted her own middle aged stalker, a woman who had become obsessed with all things Peanut.

It started off innocently enough.  We accepted an invitation for dinner to said neighbor's home, and besides overcooked meat and bland veg, no immediate red flags appeared.  It wasn't like we stumbled on an alter for baby sacrifice and a book of Wiccan spells or anything.  So when she asked if she could stop by to see Peanut, we really didn't think anything of it.

Then the emails began - weekly emails requesting a playdate with Peanut, and phone calls with invitations to dinner.  She started bringing gifts, and offered to take Peanut places when she got older, trips to the zoo, to the beach, to pick out her first bra (hands off, lady!).  And then things started to get really weird - Fatal Attraction weird. She began referring to herself as Peanut's grandmother to our neighbors, and made more than a few off color, mildly racist comments about watermelon and fried food.

And that, my dears, was the last straw.  There is a fine line between being a nice neighbor and becoming a scary, potentially dangerous baby stalker.

So what does a parent do?

I am not proud of it, but I started ignoring her emails.  I would speed up as I passed her unit.  I claimed work obligations on the day of the community picnic.  And fear of passing her on Halloween led me to take Peanut trick-or-treating elsewhere.  I am not usually passive aggressive, and most people who know me would agree that I am typically very direct in my approach.  But for some reason,  I just can't summon the courage to say, "Get away from my kid, you stalker!"

So instead I find myself hiding behind drawn blinds, hurriedly emptying the groceries from the trunk, fearful that the shadow of Peanut's stalker will sneak up on me, begging for a visit with her "granddaughter".  If push comes to shove, I know I could take her (all this weightlifting should come in handy after all).  But tackling her in the shared driveway just doesn't seem to be the neighborly thing to do - although I doubt there are any rules against it in the condo bylaws.

The Great Halloween Costume Debate

Halloween has always held a special place in my heart.  I didn’t get invited to many Halloween parties growing up, and I hate horror films – and yet I always get excited when October 31 rolls around.  Must be the candy corn.

I also love to dress up – I think it’s the actor in me (have to put that worthless BFA degree to use somehow).  As a teenager, I remember dressing up in drag for Halloween, complete with wig and falsies, which really should have been a red flag for my parents.  And in college, I scrounged up this amazing navy seamen uniform from the Salvation Army…it even had the name of its original owner written in the inseam in permanent marker.   I got more than a few lusty looks in that getup.

As a parent the excitement intensifies – for those first few years of their life, you get to dress them up for Halloween in whatever ridiculous outfit you choose (not so different from day to day life with an infant, really).

Maybe it was a cop out, but for her first Halloween, Peanut was scarcely one month old – so I dressed her up as a baby.  In her onesie.  With her pacifier.  (Just to make sure we are all on the same page….she wasn’t wearing a costume).  Every time the bell rang, I skittered to the door, candy bowl in hand.  And what was the first question I got?  “What is she dressed up as?”  COME ON PEOPLE!  She’s a baby!  It doesn't show a lack of Halloween spirit – I just didn’t want to wrestle a three week old into a polyester pea pod or a lycra ladybug.  Had Peanut been able to, I know she would have thanked me.

For her second Halloween, we decided to do something simple, and picked up a fuzzy giraffe costume.  We have some delicious pictures of her cuddling with Peter and rolling on the floor – which is amazing because I think she spent a grand total of 3 minutes in that outfit.

Now my husband likes to get his money’s worth, so this year, Peter suggested we recycle the giraffe…and I initially (read: reluctantly) agreed.  But when we did a little dry run, it just wasn’t as cute as I remembered it.  The ears are all floppy and flaccid, the fur is matted (year old yogurt, perhaps?), and it has the most unflattering hips…like enormous shoulder pads glued to the waist.  I wonder how she made it through a doorway, they are that large.  Peanut wasn’t pleased with it either.  So we decided to check out our options at the local Target.

And that, my friends, was an exercise in futility.  You see, if you are a little girl, your choices at Target are fairly limited.  Basically, you have one of the following three options:

-You can be a slutty cat

-You can be a slutty witch, or

-You can be a slutty princess

While the boys get to be superheroes and wizards, the girls get some version of a short skirt, halter top, fishnets, and heels.  Is this Halloween or 2 for 1 night at the stripper bar?    Our daughter, the Halloween hooker - every parents wildest dream!  I was hoping for a more aspirational choice – like a doctor or a lawyer (a miniature faux leather briefcase for her candy – trick or treat, indeed!).  Peanut is only two – and she has plenty of time to show off her navel.  Plus, this is the northeast in October – the only people who dress in their underpants in fifty degree weather do so because all they have is underpants!

We did end up finding a delicious doctor costume online (and I was very specific about this...doctor, not nurse...no disrespect to nurses) – white lab coat, blue scrubs, and stethoscope.  It is absolutely darling, and assuming she agrees to wear it, we will be all set.  

As for the slutty princess, maybe I judged it too harshly.  After all, I don’t have a costume yet.

She did it!

It's like Christmas, Disneyland, and winning the Academy Awards all rolled into one:

Peanut made pee pee on the potty!

Fair warning - if you are grossed out by the mere mention of defecation or urination, you may want to check out another blog...and come back next time for more hilarious adventures in gay parenthood.  If you couldn't give a shit (literally) please read on!

So yes, tonight our daughter used the toilet for the first time.  She'd been testing it out, warming the seat with her tushie, but tonight she finally took it for a test drive.

I never thought I would be so excited to see a teaspoonful of urine pooling at the bottom of my daughter's faux toilet (or what my husband affectionately calls "the poop box").  But there it was...and in that moment you would think that Peanut had just discovered the cure for the common cold!

It started out as a normal (and blessedly tantrum-free) evening - running around, dancing, having a grand time - when Peanut announced that she had to poop.  Since she brought it up, I suggested we go have a seat on the potty.  I fully expected that it would be another false alarm - which is fine.  Peanut is about to turn two years old, so while we would be pleased if she was toilet trained, we aren't stressed about it or pressuring her in any way.

Meanwhile, Peanut has started to take an interest of late in her purple and white plastic poop box, and has even begun to ask to sit on it.  Peter has done the potty dance twice before without any luck.  In fact, the first time she sat on the potty, Peter decided to stand just outside the bathroom door to give Peanut "her privacy".    Unfortunately, privacy is overrated - and resulted in Peanut pooping in the middle of the white bathmat.  Lesson learned.

So tonight, we headed upstairs and Peanut settled down to do her business while I grabbed a book figuring we might be in for the long haul.  Not ten seconds later, the toilet began to sing...something about flushing or toilet paper or something.  At first I figured Peanut must have discovered a button or switch...but then I remembered that the thing is pee-activated and realized that the poop box was singing for Peanut! Lo and behold, the toilet had indeed received a light sprinkling - more of a drizzle than a rain - but who am I to quibble over my daughter's first potty party.

And before I know it, I am showering her with accolades and kisses, congratulating my big girl on using the potty.  "I made pee pee on potty," Peanut repeated, and we both smiled and laughed, celebrating her achievement.  We called Peter at work to share the good news (and my mom - and even told the next door neighbor when she stopped by...overkill?), and I allowed her to watch an Elmo You Tube clip while chowing down on her favorite treat, M&Ms (initiating a lifelong cycle of celebrating rites of passage with food..I am Jewish, after all).

There really is only one downside.  Being a faux toilet, her potty isn't connected to our septic system, so whatever she leaves behind in the poop box has to be cleaned up by hand...literally (making this thing marginally more repulsive than changing diapers).  So the fact that tonight was only pee really makes it a win for both of us!

An Ode to Parenting

Each morning’s got the same routine
Woken up by 5:15

A singing toddler one room over
A mix of Beyonce and Grover

I beg the Gods for sleep to take
Of course I lay there wide awake

I stumble blindly to the shower
Weigh myself, and looking dour

Shave, and shit, and brush my hair
At least, what hair is still up there

Suck in the gut, look in the mirror
Squint my eyes, get a bit nearer

New wrinkles forming, baggy eyes
This getting older I despise

And now it’s Peanut’s turn to dress
I pray it’s not the usual mess

It’s starts out sweet, just to be fair
A little kiss, downhill from there

It’s “no” to clothes, and diaper, too
A naked toddler just won’t do

We struggle to and struggle fro
She grabs her brush and won’t let go

I throw my hands up in defeat
So socks are on her hands, not feet

She spends her day at child care
I’m pretty sure no one will stare

We pile into my SUV
And start the day quite stressfully

I drop her off, she starts to cling
But this is just the usual thing

She fusses, I feel like a jerk
But I’ve got to head off to work

Nine hours chained up to a desk
To serve my boss’s last behest

While Peanut plays and paints by hand
And dunks her head into the sand

And naps, and eats, and has much fun
A toddler’s work is never done.

The cost, however, is such dreck
My boss should just write them a check

The clock chimes 5, I grab my keys
Will she be in a good mood please?

I saunter in, expect a “Hi”
She ignores me like i’m just some guy

I go to grab her pink backpack
She grabs my leg; demands a ‘nack

A snack, she wants, like cheerios
Crackers, peanuts, or ho ho’s

Ice pops, candy, donuts, cheese
Of course I give her none of these

Dinner beckons, I won’t coddle her
But you can’t reason with a toddler

She stomps her feet, she starts to scream
“But daddy, I want some ice cream!”

The tears are flowing now in sheets
They drip along her paint-stained cheeks

I take a breath, I tap my heel
I try to make a vain appeal

Sensing that won’t work one bit
I pick her up and run for it

She kicks and screams and makes a scene
If I ignore her, it’s not mean

I know she’s tired, and I’m an ass
I start the car, and hit the gas

On the road and traffic’s rough
And Peanut starts to huff and puff

Or sing or moan, she’s such a kidder
I turn up “All Things to Consider”

We listen in to Amy Eddings
Do a piece on local weddings

But Peanut’s not that kind of tyke
And NPR she doesn’t like

“Turn it off!” she starts to shriek
This car ride’s looking rather bleak

When we get home, I’m in a hurry
One hour left, so I must scurry

It’s a race I really dread
Dinner, bath, a book, and bed

At school her eating isn’t picky
At home it’s gotten a bit tricky

Veggies, fruit and cheese we’ve tried
It must be beige, or sweet or fried

If we have any hope she’ll dine
So cooking doesn’t take much time

Frozen fish, and tots, some cheese
A glass of milk, it’s been a breeze

Sit at the table, now I’m braced
I place the plate, she takes a taste

Then throws the chicken in the air
Rubbing ketchup in her hair

It mixes with the playground sand
To form a paste that can withstand

All forms of lotion, soap, or gel
Was parenting part of Dante’s hell?

She spills the milk upon the floor
Tossing black beans at the door

No time to worry, fret or glower
For now it’s time to take a shower

I soap her up, remove the grime
She wants to play but there’s no time

Out of the shower, quick quick quick
And then we have the hairbrush shtick

Whereby I try to comb her hair
She hates when I’ve got my hands there

She screams and shouts, “No daddy, please!”
Defeated, I sink to my knees

“Okay, all right, we’re done,” I say
We’ll read a book, let’s end this day

She grabs a book that’s one foot thick
I shake my head, “That book is sick,

And needs to rest. How ‘bout this one?”
It’s something penned by S. Boynton

About a pig, or horse or sheep
But I just hope she’ll fall asleep

I’m bleary eyed and need to rest
My patience is a bit hardpressed

I want to curse, yell “fuck” or “damn”
But that book’s already written, man!

Better stick to my own story
My little tale of parental glory

Her book is done, her teeth are brushed
My reading was a little rushed

I may have skipped a couple lines
That board book was hardly the Times

I lay her gently on the bed
And kiss her lightly on the head

She smiles at me and dozes off
Thank god that I pulled that one off

It’s daddy’s time, it’s finally here
Break out the wine, it’s time to cheer

I’m starving, so I grab some pita
(It’s the only rhyme for margarita)

All is silent, calm and still
I finally have some time to chill

Until she wakes at half past three
Screaming, “Daddy, come get me!”

And our routine, it starts anew
Now does this look like fun to you?

Poopsie - the Devolution of a Nickname

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet."

Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2)

That may have been true in the bard’s day, but today we place a great deal of stock in a person’s name.  Names convey meaning, the memory of a loved one who has passed, or the aspirations of hopeful new parents.  They can be tied to ones heritage or religion or family - or even taken from the names of beloved characters in books or even popular culture (Baby Snooki, anyone?).

And yes, names are even the fodder for childhood humor, the basis of evil limericks or hateful chants in the locker room showers (not that I know anything about that....).  There’s that old joke about two young parents-to-be paging through a baby name book, trying to identify names for their little one that don’t invoke playground humiliation.  Let’s listen in on just such a conversation...

Henpecked Husband (HH): “I think we should name the baby Patty.”

Underappreciated Wife (UW): “I knew a girl named Patty.  They called her Fatty Patty.  Fatty Patty two by four, can’t fit through the kitchen door.  Do you want that for your child?”

HH: “Of course not.  What about Mary?”

UW: “No way!  Mary, rhymes with hairy.  They’ll call her Hairy Mary.  And she’ll already have a unibrow thanks to your side of the family.  Isn’t that torture enough?”

HH: “So what about Lenore?”

UW: “Lenore?  Seriously?  Lenore!  You want them to call her a stinking whore?  What kind of father are you?

HH: “But I didn’t mean....”  

UW: “That’s it, I want a divorce!”

And thus another broken home is made.  You see, picking a name is a high stakes process with a host of awful, unintended consequences.

Apologies to any readers named Patty, Mary or Lenore and the years of torture you undoubtedly endured on the playground.  


Fortunately Peter and I didn’t have to get a divorce to choose a name for Peanut.  My family has a tradition of naming children after deceased relatives, so we agreed to name the baby using the initials of our grandmothers.  Since Peter is French, we also wanted to choose a name that would be easy to pronounce in both English and French, unlike my name which is regularly mangled by Peter’s family.  We didn’t know the gender of the baby that would be placed with us, so we decided to select a boy name and a girl name.  Sure, we had several heated conversations, but we finally settled on two names we liked, and when we were placed with a girl, the decision was made for us (Peter is still holding on to the boys name in the event that we can use it for our next child).

As for nicknames, we call Peanut shortened versions of her given name.  But the nickname that we use the most is “poopsie”.  I am pretty sure my brother had a doll named Poopsie when he was a kid (it is very enlightened parents that would give their firstborn son a doll to play with, in the 1970’s no less!), but I also remember hearing my sister-in-law refer to her kids as “poopsie face”.  The word is just so cute!  I’ve been using it ever since we brought Peanut home.  Sure, it causes people to stare, but so does the sight of two grown men with an African American baby.  Welcome to my life.

Of course, we haven’t stuck strictly with poopsie, and her nickname has slowly evolved (or should I say, devolved) into other words or phrases with the root word “poop”, including poopsie la la, diet poopsie, poopsicle, poops, pooperoni and pooper.  Now that her language skills are developing at a rather rapid pace, we really need to identify a new nickname.  Just today, as I picked her up after her nap, she announced, “I poop”, a fact I had actually discovered when I opened the door to her room and the smell hit me in the face.  So clearly she knows that poop is ALSO something that can be found in her diaper).  And yet, the moniker poop has a certain stickiness factor, and we just can’t get it off hands.

As far as horrible nicknames, there must be something worse than poop, right?  After all, it could be stinking whore.

To Be or Not To Be A Stay at Home Dad

That is the question...or the question of the moment.  The age old “should I stay or should I go” debacle.

I honestly never thought that being a stay at home dad was in the cards for me.  I derive an enormous amount of pleasure from my work (pleasure, and a TON of aggravation, agitation, and occasional annoyance), and I am pleased with all of my professional accomplishments.  Sure I toyed with the idea of quitting my job and staying at home with the baby briefly before Peanut was born, but I hadn’t seriously considered being a stay at home parent...until today.  

Just about six months ago, Peter and I began the process to adopt a second child.  While one child in day care is expensive, the bill for two children in day care makes my head spin and my eyes bug out like a Looney Tunes character (seriously).  My employer might as well make out my paycheck directly to the day care center, because that is where most of it will be going.  On top of that, I pay a babysitter to pick up Peanut from school twice a week and watch her when I have evening meetings, which really adds up (when I was a babysitter, I made $8 an hour.  Babysitters today charge almost twice that...maybe we should let babysitters solve the debt crisis instead of the politicians).  So we both have been saying that when the new baby comes, we will need to find a new center that is less expensive.

Then last night, over an incredible anniversary dinner at Nobu (try the Omakase - you’ll love it), Peter and I began talking more about day care, and the new baby, and the topic of my becoming a stay at home parent.  And for the first time, it sort of made sense.  In the last few months, I really have started feeling that I am missing out on Peanut’s young life.  During the week I only get to see her for an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening (and in the evening she is so tired from school and I am in such a rush to feed her/bathe her/play with her, that neither of us ends up having that much fun), and less than that on days I work late.  And then I think...if I can’t spend time with my kid, why did I have one in the first place?

But am I really ready to call it quits and take on the responsibility of being a stay at home dad.  Am I really ready to face my fear?

Because when it comes right down to it, the whole idea makes me terrified.

I’m terrified of leaving the workforce.  At a time when so many people are out of work (9.1% unemployment rate as of this morning), how can I walk away from a good, full time job?  And how will it feel to leave, after having spent the last seventeen or so years working myself up to an executive level position?

I’m terrified this will derail my career.  I happened to hear a story on NPR this morning about the jobs market as I made my way through the morning commute.  While it was about the challenges people are having finding jobs, they noted that the longer someone is out of work, the harder it is to get a job.  Skills become rusty.  The professional world changes.  If I leave the professional world for the next five years, what will my job prospects be when I come back?

I’m terrified about losing my independence, those 8-9 hours a day among adults.  Beyond the pride I take in my work, I enjoy mentoring other staff, and collaborating on projects with my peers.  I like adult conversations, and I am worried my available topics of conversation will be narrowed down to sippy cups and poopy diapers.

I’m terrified I will miss the power that comes with being an executive - of having an assistant and a staff of professionals that report to me.  I will miss a job that allows me to learn and to flex my creativity.  Being a stay at home dad is going to feel more like a daily marathon, I imagine.  Less meetings, more messes.  Less to do lists, more tantrums.

And I’m terrified because I am not sure I can do it.  It is a huge job - am I really up for the task?

But is all this fear worth missing out on my child’s life?  I love Peanut more than anything.  And I know I will love my next child.  Parenting is all about sacrifices, right...so shouldn’t I be willing to look past my fear and make this sacrifice for my child?  For the first time I feel something akin to what some mom’s might feel like, for even though we no longer live in the sixties, there is still a certain expectation that raising kids is the woman’s job.  There are plenty of women who choose their career, and there are many who gladly choose to stay at home - and I am certain there are other, like me, wondering what the right choice is - do I choose my kid...or do I choose my career (and is there any way to do both)?  Unlike moms, the expectation is that, as a man, work will always come first.  But I’m just not sure that is the right answer for us.

In a way, I’m lucky that this is even an option.  And Peter is fully in support of whatever I choose.  While the decision isn’t imminent, I know it is something I will wrestle with in the months ahead.  Let’s just hope I make a decision before Peanut heads to college.

Elmo: Devil or Saint?

There is a thin line between good and evil.  I know.  I have my toe on that line.

Take Elmo for instance...innocent plaything...or floppy dishrag from hell?

I honestly hadn’t thought all that much about Elmo until recently when we decided to  lift our ban on Peanut watching television at home.  Well, not television exactly.  Peanut is now allowed to watch YouTube on my iPad, which some may argue is much worse.  

Up until now, we have strictly followed the American Academy of Pediatrics recommendation that children under two not watch any television.  This is actually not an easy feat given that there are televisions everywhere...malls, restaurants, elevators, hotels, and even the occasional restroom.

Like many kids, we knew Peanut was fascinated by technology.  We have this great video of her walking around the house “texting” on my old Blackberry, and in addition to the iPad, she loves phones, controllers, even the computer mouse...anything remotely technology based.

A couple of weeks ago we were going through our bi-monthly nail cutting debacle (who knew it would take two grown adults to gently clip the nails of a 30 pound toddler), when it occured to us to distract her by letting her fool around with the iPad.  Well, one thing led to another and before we knew it she was watching Elmo bop around to “Elmo’s Song” on YouTube, looking vaguely like a strung out crack addict (Elmo - not Peanut).

The iPad routine worked so well, I decided to use it during the daily hair routine (usually accompanied by moaning and choruses of “no daddy” as I try to rake a wide tooth comb through Peanut’s hair).  But once Elmo makes an appearance, it’s like magic.  I could be ripping knots from her scalp and she wouldn’t even notice, so engrossed while Elmo plucks away at a guitar, singing about his four ducks quacking together, or cavorting around the screen with Katy Perry in the censored albeit very funny cover of her song, “Hot and Cold” (some people take cleavage way too seriously, check out the story here).

But things took a turn for the worse when Peanut started asking for Elmo.  Not asking...insisting.  And I find myself saying things like, “If you aren’t a nice girl and let me change your diaper/get you dressed/wash your face/brush your teeth, you won’t get to watch Elmo while I brush your hair.” And it works!  But why does it make me feel bad?

Which leads me to think that this whole Elmo thing has been a slippery slope - one video here, two videos there - it feels like a gateway drug to full television exposure.  Which makes Elmo Peanut’s pimp.

So maybe Elmo is the devil?  Let’s look at the facts:

Elmo is red.  So is the devil.
Elmo has that weird laugh, like a circus clown hopped up on helium.  Is it the infectious giggle of a happy red muppet, or the sound the devil makes as he condemns you to an eternity of hellfire and damnation?  Too close to tell.

And as far as I know, Elmo doesn’t have a last name and neither does the devil.  Case in point?

This reminds me of a story about my sister: when she was in junior high school, she was obsessed with Elmo.  Her room was chock full of all sorts of Elmo-esque paraphernalia: dolls, books, toys, pillows, sheets, the works.  My mother has always been supportive of our various hobbies (ask me some time about my I Love Lucy doll collection), so my sister’s room was awash in all things Elmo.  Anyway, one of our rights of passage as kids was taking a trip to San Francisco to see our aunt, uncle, and cousin.  On her trip, my sister decided to bring a small Elmo plush doll  with her.  Her first morning there, she awoke and was unable to find Elmo.  Searching high and low, she came up empty handed.  When my sister asked my aunt if she had seen Elmo, she was confused.  What was Elmo?  So my sister proceeded to describe him as a small, red guy, furry...to which my aunt responded, in all seriousness, “You see devil?”
See...I am not the only one who thinks Elmo is the devil.

Meanwhile, we have made a deal with the devil because I have no intention of forgoing the iPad during the morning hair routine.  If Elmo is the pimp, then he has me hooked, too.  And I just can’t give him up.

Maybe we should switch to Grover?

"The Help", civil rights, and me

I saw "The Help" today.  Or more accurately, I cried my way through "The Help" today.  All two hours, seventeen minutes of it.  Even now, almost eight hours later, my emotions are still raw.  It was more than just the film (although the film was quite good - and the cast and crew did a brilliant job).  My tears were both a response to the horrible injustice of segregation in the United States, and the ongoing impact it continues to have in modern America.  And while the director made a clear attempt to end the film on a hopeful note, I walked away quite depressed.  We may have come a long way, but we aren't where we should be.


I originally read "The Help" around the time Peanut was 4 months old.  I had heard Kathryn Stockett interviewed on NPR, and I was intrigued by the topic.  We had never had an African American maid (or a maid at all, for that matter...my parents believed in "child labor"), but I had been thinking a lot about race relations in the United States, the legacy of Jim Crow and segregation, and the impact on my African American daughter being raised by two white men.  


So over the course of three nights (while we were sleep training Peanut the first time, don't ask) I devoured the book whole.  It was riveting.  And depressing.  And shocking.  I remember distinctly calling my mother to grill her about the civil rights movement just after I finished the book.  She had been living in Los Angeles, not Mississippi, but she was 22 when Martin Luther King Jr. was shot, so I thought she might have some reflections to share with me.  Unfortunately, my mother had little to share, admitting she was never very political and hadn't really been aware/involved.  


"The Help" has been one of several books I read in the last year about African American history.  Coinciding with Peanut's adoption, I became very interested in African American history.  Like many book club readers, I cringed in disbelief as I made my way through "The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks", a non-fiction book about a poor African American women whose cells were used to advance science in multiple ways, but was never informed about her "contribution" (and her family never received any compensation for her "donation").  I read "The Idiots Guide to African American History" for a broad overview of the African American experience in the US.  And I read other books like "The Help" and "Little Bee" that delve into the complex relationship between whites and blacks at different times in the last sixty years.  All along I heard a small voice in my head - the voice of my eleventh grade history teacher, telling me that all people are racist - as I considered the long term effects of slavery and segregation on interracial relations today.  I won't deny that things have gotten better - but we still have a long way to go.  Consider these statistics that I found from a quick web search:


-According to the Pew Research Center, the median wealth of white households is 20 times that of black households.
-According to the Children's Defense Fund, 11.1% of white children are poor, while 39.9% of black children are poor.

-According to the US Bureau of Justice Statistics non-Hispanic blacks accounted for 39.4% of the total prison and jail population in 2009, but as of 2010, blacks (including Hispanic blacks) only comprised 12.6% of the US population.

-In 2009 black non-Hispanic males were incarcerated at the rate of 4,749 inmates per 100,000 U.S. residents of the same race and gender. White males were incarcerated at the rate of 708 inmates per 100,000 U.S. residents. 
-African Americans account for 43% of all persons with HIV/AIDS (among women, the number jumps to 56%), a startling statistic given that blacks are just 12.6% of the total US population.


The list goes on.


"The Help" is more than just an abstract (and appalling) history lesson.  It is personal, especially as I think about my daughter, my sweet daughter, the daughter that I love more than words can say, an African American girl being raised in a home by two gay white men.  I'll be honest: I walked out wondering what the impact of the world of "The Help" will have on her, if any.

And I was wondering if we are doing Peanut a disservice in some way.  Is our adoption of Peanut just another way of taking something away from an African American person?  Sure, Peanut's mother decided to make an adoption plan, but if she had the access to the education and resources that I was fortunate to have, maybe she would have been able to make a different decision.  


And beyond that - what will I say to Peanut when she asks me about racism, about civil rights. About why Martin Luther King was shot and who were the KKK.  About the terrible, horrible things white people have done to black people and the legislated inequality - and the legacy of that hate and division.  Will she still look at me as the daddy she loves?  Or will my fair skin make me a representation of all the evil that has been done to the African American people by whites?  


And am I, like my eleventh grade teacher said, a racist like everyone else?


My mother saw the movie last weekend, and when I spoke with her today I discovered that she also had a strong reaction to the film, dripping with tears as the final credits rolled.  She said the film brought back tender memories of her grandmother's African American maid, Daisy.  


So I sit here - thinking of Aibileen and Minny and Constantine - the fictional representations of slavery and inequality in the US courtesy of Miss Stockett and "The Help" - riving myself crazy with questions and tearing up intermittently.    And while I can't yet answer most of my burning questions - what I can do is hold my daughter close to my chest, shower her in kisses and hugs, and make sure she knows how much daddy loves her.  It may not solve any social problems, but it sure does make me feel better.