The whole hog

Of all the things I've done in my life, perhaps my greatest shame is the way I handled -- or rather, didn't handle -- coming out to my father. Rather than get caught up in the nasty details, let's just say that I didn't tell him I was gay and in a long-term marriage-kinda-thingy until Judybat was six months pregnant. Can you say "conflict averse?"

My father, a born again Baptist from the deepest part of the Deep South, handled the whole thing with grace, gentility and humor. My stepmother, the kindest human being on the planet, embraced TheBoy immediately as her grandson. And then, of course, as if to repay their generosity with as much pain as possible, we picked up and left Raleigh, essentially their backyard, taking the kid with us.

They have, of course, been great. They came out in March and oohed and ahhed appropriately. They came back last week, for five days of quality time with TheBoy. Who can complain about houseguests who get up early with the kid so we can sleep in, do the dishes and laundry, pay for meals and make us gin and tonics every afternoon at 5 on the dot? Plus, my dad put in the hammock we got as a wedding gift so many years ago. (Memo to potential visitors who are wavering on whether to make that looooong flight across the country: The backyard is now perfect.)

On the one hand, I am incredibly grateful for the relationship we have now. On the other hand, I'm incredibly embarrassed and sorry that it took so long. Someday, I'll stop being a coward.

Here they are leaving town for points east, the picture of Southern gentility and decorum. How could I ever have doubted that these people were open-minded?





TheBoy's inheritance: If it ain't Harley, it's crap.