Get up everybody and sing!

A few months ago my wife and I walked hand in hand down our backyard aisle, and with a small crowd of friends and family gathered to witness, we committed our lives to each other. Standing to either side of us during the quick ceremony was our own personal diversity-dream-team. This is not a joke—we have three grown kids between us, covering a multitude of protected classes, and all three camped out on the autism spectrum. If you want to talk about blended families, we are fast becoming an authority on the subject. Our daily discussions include race, gender, sexuality, mental health, same-sex parenting, adoption, and remembering to put the toilet seat down. (Evidently, the latter of these topics is actually the most difficult.)

Karen and Sonya Get Married!

Photo by Daniel Nydick

We are both earning our stripes in bonus-parenting. There are curve balls, sure. (I don’t have a flip side to that statement. There are curve balls…period.) We are both now of an age where we’ve chosen our twilight-years-mate (and we grunt whenever we get out of a chair). We’re not wondering anymore about making the right big-life choices, or if there’s something better around the corner. We found each other. Retirement sounds like a grand idea. As does planting rocking chairs on the front porch to watch the sun set while toasting with a draft beer from our new and much-loved kegerator. We spend an inordinate amount of time researching the best small-farm equipment, pole barns, and if there is some way we can rescue a miniature donkey. It’s exciting stuff.

Similarly, we spend some part of each day sharing stories from the many years we did not know each other. There are two lifetimes worth of those. Enough to last the rest of our sunset cocktail hours for sure. And we also navigate the territory of blending. Though I’m not sure it’s so much of a blending, as it is a mashup of situational life scenarios caught in the safety net of whatever stability we can manifest together. And surely we are stronger together. There is no other secret ingredient here. Stronger together, that’s it. Our chosen family, doing their best, every day. We bring different things to the table and find a way to utilize our strengths.

Just a few months ago my new step-son suddenly lost his half-brother. A tragedy, and far too soon. In support, my wife and I drove him to the funeral several hours away from our home. As we were potty training our boxer puppy at the time, we took the dog with us. Our son, having just got off a night shift, collapsed face down on the back seat of our truck and promptly fell into a deep sleep. The puppy situated herself atop his ass, straining to see out the window. It wasn’t pretty, but it worked and was the best we could do on short notice. About halfway there though, racing down the highway, we discovered that the puppy gets car sick. She vomited. Like, a lot. Pitting ourselves against the clock as we were, and aware that a bomb going off wouldn’t wake the kid anyway, I climbed into the backseat and proceeded to wipe my new son’s ass with a roll of paper towels. My wife held the vehicle steady, and as far as I could tell, didn’t dip the speed even once. These are the moments that define us. When you are in it up to your elbows, messy, and getting it done. Later, we laughed. (I also reviewed the photos I took.)

Several weeks later I was yelling at my stepson from the street, telling him to get back inside the window while my wife and I found ourselves confronting an opportunistic family member from his past, intent on exploiting him. The opportunist adopted a saccharine tone, and called my wife “sweetie”. That’s when I took a step back and almost felt sorry for the man. We took our son home. The past discovered that strong, smart women can’t be condescended to. Our son learned that women are fierce, especially when they’ve got your back. I fell in love with my wife all over again.

Our trans-son learns every day what it means to be free. Because they have free parents. Self-acceptance can be slow going, but in our house, we live. That’s it—we live. We don’t sugarcoat, and we don’t make ourselves different. We live in the country, arguably deep in conservative-values America. Of the eighty-plus people who came to our wedding, only one other person—besides the two brides—is a lesbian. There was joy and love and laughter. It was a happy time. As for our other guests, we are more alike than we are different. There was nothing weird about celebrating our love. We cut the cake. We kissed. We celebrated. We live like we belong because we belong. Our trans-son sees this. In their head, they slowly connect the dots and find comfort in their own skin. We don’t hide. They don’t hide.

Why does this bear mentioning? Because I see those who struggle with themselves. With their gay. With their thoughts. With their mental health. With their divergence from the social story they’ve conformed to. With their…anything that feels measurably “different”. I argue that it is within those things that appear measurably different that you find your strength. It’s where you find your purpose and you find your voice. That difference is the fire you face and slowly walk into. And if it is an inferno, it is the inferno you conquer and emerge from, having burned all that holds you back. And once you face all that you perceive as different head-on, you discover how very much alike we all actually are. Trying our very best to live our very best lives. Loving one another, and being there in the moments when someone's strength slips. Knowing when you need the help of your dream-team. Showing up as yourself, in all your glory.

We are family.

We Are Family, Hey, Hey, Hey…

My Big Gay Wedding Plans