It’s Friday so we’re going to end the week with some feel-good family stuff!
Earlier this week, I told the story of the miscarriages Debbie and I went through in 2006. I did so in part because it’s more relevant than ever in light of the fact that Republicans are dead set on killing, maiming, and traumatizing as many women as possible in service to their deep-rooted misogyny. (Hang in there, this is not the feel-good family stuff)
A less immediate reason for retelling that story is that it occurred to me that very few of you actually know anything about me or my family. This is a bit of an odd spot to be in for me. I’ve been writing for almost 15 years and I’ve been writing and posting about my experiences as a stay-at-home father pretty much the entire time.
But Substack is more or less a blank slate so you, my amazingly patient audience, don’t know about Kyle, my 10-year-old donor baby. Or Lila, my semi-adopted daughter. Well, I guess we’ll have to get to all of that so you know what the hell I’m talking about when I bring them up (which I will, rather frequently).
Today, we’re starting with Kyle and his mothers, Maria and Jenny. But first, Maria.
My Best Lesbian
I met Maria while we were managers at EB Games back in the distant past of 2000-2001. We…did not get along initially. But we got past that and became friends. At some point, a rumor started that Maria was a…gasp!…lesbian! Now, this was New York City not Cousinfuck, Alabama, true, but it was around 2002-2003 and anti-gay sentiment was running a little higher than it had been for a while1.
Managers are gossipy little bitches and word got around quickly. I was not having it in the slightest. I called Maria up and asked her point-blank, “Are you a lesbian?” She said, “Yes?” because while she never hid it, she didn’t advertise it, either and she wasn’t used to having someone bluntly ask. I said, “OK. Talk to you later” and got off the phone. She was probably very confused.
As I was the oldest manager and had been in the company the longest, I was the unofficial “elder statesman” of the Queens/Western Long Island district. I didn’t have an official title but I was the person the other managers called when they had a problem and they didn’t want our boss involved2. As such, they tended to defer to my judgment on certain things and I put that to use.
It wasn’t a topic that had ever come up but because of my Aunt Janey,3 I was not on board with anti-LGBTQ nonsense. I didn’t mind tasteless jokes because I love me some tasteless jokes but actual bigotry? Nah. And this was years before I paid attention to politics.
So, as the rumors started and that…tone started to creep into the conversation, I said, “Nope. We’re not doing this.” I called each of the managers in my district and had a short conversation. Something to the effect of, “Hey, so I called Maria and she is a lesbian. Yeah. Uhuh. OK. So that’s not going to be a problem, right?” That last part was delivered as a question but when it came out of my mouth, it was more like an order.
And that was the end of that. Everyone knew Maria was a lesbian and no one cared. Or if they did, it was understood that talking smack would not be tolerated.
Now, I probably would not out someone like that today. On the other hand, everyone was already talking about it so I only kind of sort of outted Maria.
Regardless, no one had done something like that for her before and we became besties after that. That’s how I became an honorary gay with her friend group. That’s how I ended up going with her to the strip of gay clubs and restaurants in Dallas during a company convention. And that’s how she ended up asking me to be a sperm donor in the middle of 2005.
Ummmmm…whut?
Up until that actual second, I had not considered being a father for years. My childhood was, to put it delicately, an extended Jerry Springer episode. I wrote a very long and detailed piece about this for The Banter, a single follow-up a year later and that’s it. I said my piece and I’m not getting into it again.
The Reader’s Digest version is that my childhood was shit and I understood quite well that abuse was generational. Passing that on was a horrifying thought.
But a donor? That was a different story. Maria and I had discussed it. The child would know who I was but I wouldn’t be expected (or, frankly, permitted) to have a hand in raising them. I chewed on that for almost a week before agreeing with one condition: Debbie would have to agree.
Debbie and I had been together since 1997 and had been living together for almost 5 years at that point. Since I hadn’t wanted kids, I didn’t see a specific reason to get married and Debbie said she didn’t mind. I suspected, however, that wasn’t the case. She did, however, understand my reasoning for not wanting kids and didn’t press the point, having had a bit of a rough childhood herself.
That changed when I asked her about being a donor for Maria. She thought about it for a few days and agreed under one condition of her own: She wanted kids, too.
Normally, I would have said no but I had already adjusted to the idea of being a donor father and you know how that goes. It’s a slippery slope. And the idea of breaking both Maria and Debbie’s hearts was not really one I cared to entertain. So I agreed.
That night, while we were discussing having kids, the thought popped into my head that if we were going to be parents, we should probably be married. Not very romantic or pre-planned but there it is. We were engaged.
Just as a side note, Debbie had helped 3 or 4 of her friends plan their weddings and within 2 days, she had a massive wedding binder set up. It was divided into sections for catering, location, music, flowers, dresses, tuxedos, guest list, and on and on and on. 2 days.
Me: “So…you didn’t really care if we got married or not, huh? Hadn’t given it much thought?”
Debbie: “Shaddup.”
True story. I still tease her about this occasionally.
Since none of this would be happening without Maria, I asked her to be my best man, or as I insisted on calling her, “My best Lesbian.” Three of my groomspeople were women, two of whom were Latina, and one was Glenn who everyone knew was very gay. The last was Jessie, who was also Latino. Debbie’s very white, very upper-middle-class family was vaguely scandalized by the whole thing.
Almost no one from my family was there (which is yet another story for yet another time) which might be just as well because Deb’s family probably would have done something… embarrassing with all those delightfully raucous Puerto Ricans running around.
After we got through all of the formal stuff, it was time to get down to the business of making babies.
Jordan, Anatasia, and Kyle
As I wrote about earlier this week, 2006 started off great and ended very badly. It was so bad that we spent New Year’s Eve burning the 2006 calendar. Fun Fact! Whatever they coat the pages of calendars in does not burn easily! It took the better part of 30 minutes. Miscarriages are not fun. Fuck 2006.
2007 turned into a slog. Whereas Debbie got pregnant within two months of trying both times (once she was off of the pill), we had a whole lot of nothing for 6 months. We were getting nervous that maybe the miscarriages had caused some damage but then in August, she was pregnant.
Nine months later, Debbie was getting a C-section because they were worried that Jordan was going to be a twelve-pound baby and would never be able to squeeze his way out. He was “only” 9lbs 11oz but, still, he did have a really big head. Also, Debbie had broken her arm a few days before so that made the whole experience extra fun!
Originally, we were going to get Maria pregnant first but she insisted that she would wait until after Debbie had hers. That turned into a very long wait but it turned out for the best since during that time, Maria broke up with her partner and found Jenny who was much better suited for her and for being a mom.
After Anastasia was born, we started to talk about a baby for Maria and Jenny. I honestly was not sure this was a great idea because by then, Jordan had been diagnosed with autism and I knew for a fact it had come from my side of the family.
You may wonder how I can be so sure of something that medical science has not yet been able to determine with any real accuracy.
Follow me here.
Debbie’s family is relatively large and there is not a single autistic person among her aunts, uncles, siblings, cousins, second cousins, etc. etc.
My family is just enormous. I have over a dozen aunts and uncles on just my father’s side. They all have kids. All of those kids have kids. There are literally 40-50 Rosarios running around that I know of. There are exactly two of us with autism. Jordan and his cousin Mason.
Mason is the son of my half-brother Johnny. We share a father. Jordan and Mason share a grandfather. The chances that just those two would be autistic and not have it inherited from our side of the family is infinitesimal. It’s not impossible but I’d have a better chance of winning the Powerball twice in a row.
So, knowing this, I cautioned Maria and Jenny about the risk involved. Having seen both Jordan and Anastasia, they decided to move forward anyway. Other than Jordan’s autism, both kids were strong, healthy, beautiful and Anastasia was smart as hell.4
And so we began the very sexy ritual of getting Maria pregnant. Real Pornhub stuff. Bowchickabowwow!
I would masturbate into a sterile specimen cup and put the lid on. Maria and Jenny would take the cup home, load up a syringe, use a speculum to, ahem, open wide, and squirt. The first couple of times did not go as planned since Jenny had little to no experience handling baby batter. It was, so I hear, messy. There was much screaming involved.
Eventually, though, Maria got pregnant and, after a rough pregnancy requiring total bed rest, out came Kyle, son #2, in 2013, almost 8 years after Maria first asked. Patience rewarded. We tried with Jenny but, unfortunately, there were complications. And after Maria’s brutal first pregnancy, there was no way we were going to try that again. So Kyle is an only child (but with two half-siblings).
Despite this, Kyle is adorable, extremely smart (he taught himself how to read), and like Anastasia, inherited my mother’s gift for writing.5 He calls me “daddy” and loves it when I tickle him until he can’t breathe.
Here are a few fun kiddie facts!
Despite having the same father, Jordan, Anastasia, and Kyle do not look anything like each other in the slightest. If you just put them in a crowd, you’d never know they were related. except…
Jordan and Kyle have my hairline (before it receded). They both have a little Superman swoosh on the left that is adorable.
Anastasia and Kyle both have the same birthmark I do, which I was not aware was a thing that happened. We all have a patch of pigmented skin on our upper-right thigh in exactly the same place. Here’s the twist! While on me and Kyle, the skin is darker, on Anastasia, the skin is lighter. You can only see it when she gets a tan! It’s like a super secret spy code!
Lastly, we all have the Rosario nose. Different eyes, different mouths, different chins, but that nose? Exactly the same. Genetics, man. Some things are inalterable.
We used to see Maria, Jenny, and Kyle somewhat regularly since they lived up in NY and weren’t that far away. Then Covid hit and we didn’t see them for the better part of two years. Now they’ve moved to Florida (I really wish they hadn’t) and if we see them even once a year, it will be a lot. Still, we talk to them on the phone and they’ll always be family.
And that is the story of the time I got a Latina lesbian pregnant. Now you know a little more about me, my family, and what motivates me.
See? 100% less sexy than the title suggests but 100% feel-good family stuff. Hey. It can’t all be politics, right? That would be boring as hell.
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You may or may not recall that W. Bush’s 2004 campaign was based on 9/11 and virulently anti-gay hatred.
District Managers tend to over-manage small problems. I guess it makes them feel useful?
Another story for another time.
Fuck you, autism!
This, of course, is where I get it from. My brother and his daughter Cassie can also write. It’s just a thing we can all do.
Exactly. Thank you for getting it. But after decades of therapy, I’m still here at 65. And life is ok now (notice I’m still afraid to say it’s “good”).
I also loved it. And read your piece about your childhood. Mine was pretty horrific and we moved every 2 to 3 years, internationally, from when I was five. Both my parents were narcissists. And that’s enough of that.
I’m glad I found you here on Substack. I enjoy reading your work.