Forgotten Beatitudes

“It’s really easy to get Mexican babies.”

This is what T. said to me on a 2 am Christmas Text Conversation.

Well, words to that effect.

And it may not have been on Christmas.

But it was at 2 am.

And it was T.

Most conversations that have lines in them like that are from T.

And they’re usually texts.

Or IMs.

For awhile, I’ve been making jokes as friends acquire some form of child or, in some cases, “gay-by”.  For those not in the know, the “gay-by” is not a new social disease in an already STD-prone community (well, perhaps metaphorically it is).  Instead, it’s a child adopted by homosexual parents in much the same way one might adopt a new hairstyle or affection like pipe-smoking.

I can feel your judgment about the pipe-smoking thing, but I only do it once or twice a week and I don’t inhale.  So go to hell.

Of course not all children adopted by homosexual parents are gay-bies.  Most are perfectly normal children brought in to “The New Family” because someone has a lot of love to give, preferably without the transfer of bodily fluids, and a huge wad of disposable income.

Homosexuals tend to not acknowledge recessions.

Or objections to re-gentrification.

Recently, a friend became a foster parent.  M is a mid-30s gay man who was once married to a woman and, if his idle party chatter is to be believed, might one day be again.  He quit his job as a bank…person…never too clear on what he did other than leave early, take long lunches, and piss friend K the hell off when she worked with him for a time.  His stated reason was that he “needed a change”.  In fact, slightly before The Blessed Event, his plan was to go into the Army as he has no immediate connections.

Yeah…

At the beginning of December, he got his wish for change and became the foster parent of two little girls, one 4 and one 2, 1 infant boy, aged like 10 months, and the possibility of another baby being added to the mix once the clearly unfit but hilariously fertile mother pops the loaf out.

1 largely unemployed gay man (no, a job at the local Y does not count as a career) + 4 children = Fucked Up Brady Bunch remake.

At least, that was my first thought, watching him scramble to find another high paying job (Homosexuals may not acknowledge recessions, but recessions tend not to care and happen anyway…this is global bar culture for you).  On closer examination, though, I realized something.  All these semi-acidic jokes I’d been making over the years, at some point, had gone from a breezy uncaring to envy.   While I was talking with single female friends and agreeing with their confusion about their on lack of motherly interest, I was working up a major desire to be a dad.

M will definitely make a good parent, I think.  An unconventional one, to be sure, but a good one.  And I am now filled with respect for his choice to be a foster parent.

I’m not sure, though, that fostering is the right choice for me.  I don’t believe in leasing cars or kids.

When I came out to my aunt, years ago, her response was very supportive:

“If you meet someone and want them to be a part of your life, I want to meet them as well, male or female, although I still just think you haven’t met the right woman.  In any case, you’d better figure out a way to have babies.”

So, supportive and mildly threatening all at the same time.

One of the great unspoken tragedies of my aunt’s life is that she never had children of her own.  She would have been an amazing mother, but the way The Cosmic Crap Shoot That Is Life ™ shook out, her ovaries rolled snake eyes.  So she’s always been very keen to have babies and I, for one selfish reason or another, not so much.  For awhile, that was fine.  After all, having a child to please someone else is a horrible reason to take on that sort of financial burden.

Now, as she closes in on 65 and I start to count on two hands the number of family get togethers we’ll have in the future, priorities have juggled.

So now that I’ve been fiscally responsible and have a plan for being out of debt by the end of the year (provided I don’t get my ass fired/laid-off/etc.), like a cylon, I have a plan.

“It’s really easy to get Mexican babies.  Do you want me to get you the information?”

Which brings us back to the beginning.  Secretly, I’d sent away for a “So You Want To Grow A Rug Rat” kit from the Independent Adoption Center, but after reading several online reviews that pronounced this group to be questionable at best, I was looking to keep my options open.

What?  Why should I put less effort into finding the procurer of the person who’s eventually going to put me into a (hopefully better class of) nursing home than I put into choosing my HDTV (Samsung 42″ 1080…totally cherry two years ago and still pretty damn good)?

I had considered acquiring 1 to 2 Asian babies with a sort of “Get The Whole Set Today!” mentality, although “an heir and a spare” sounded more classy.  Asian babies, though, I’ve discovered have shot up in price and are now hard to get.  Here, I have to think, we see the influence of the Gay-by.

Besides, if one is going to get two, one might as well get four and teach them to play string instruments.  Then one won’t be losing one’s freedom, but gaining a chamber ensemble.

Admittedly, after being snowed in for several days over Christmas, perhaps it wasn’t the best time to unleash my plans on my aunt.

“T says it’s really easy to adopt a Mexican babies.”

“Mexican babies?”

“Yeah.  She says she was talking to a friend who’s mother is a midwife and used to teach at Baylor and she says they’re practically giving them away with any trip to Cancun.”

“…”

“So what do you think about that?  Would you like a Mexican grandniece?  T says she’ll beard for me.”

“…”

“I mean, I was thinking about getting two, but my mother friends said something to the effect of for the love of God, just start with one.  And I guess they’re right.  I mean, I guess they’re not cats.”

“…”

“You’re…um…quiet.”

“Mexican?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s wrong with an American baby?”

“…”

It was hard to explain to her that I don’t even drink domestic beer and think most domestic wines are crap.  She didn’t see the relevance.

I’m sure, once I procure the lucky child sometime late 2010/2011 (one shouldn’t be more specific with child dates than with video game releases), her tune will change.

Still, it was a bit of a shocker.

I mean, she’s the one who’s always telling me to economize.

Of course, I also want a baby-grand piano, a performance-grade concertina, a hurdy-gurdy, Ulian pipes (with lessons) and a home gym, so we’ll see.