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Published May 12, 2014 12:00AM (EDT)
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“All little boys love their mothers,” they said. “Little boys love their mothers differently,” they said. Wait until he asks you to marry him!” they said. But they didn’t say anything about the tongue kissing, or the eye surgeries, or the way a tiny tyrant of a child might, despite the meticulous detail with which you have built your marriage and your family, decide he can replace his father.
“Oedipus Rex” – you know the story. The mythical Greek king of Thebes, son of King Laius and Queen Jacosta, the doomed prince who fulfills the Oracle of Delphi’s prophecy that any son of Laius will kill his father, marry his mother and destroy his family. Bane of high school classics courses, he was the inspiration for Freud’s Oedipus complex, the stage of psychosexual development when a child feels varying degrees of jealousy toward his father.
In classic Freudian psychology, the Oedipus complex rears itself between the ages of 3 and 6. By my calculations we were right on schedule. Not long after my son’s third birthday, he didn’t so much pop the question as state his intentions.
“Mama, I’m going to marry you when I grow up.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet. But I’m already married to Daddy,” I answered.
“How about at night? Can we be married at night?” he asked.
Adorable! My son wanted to marry me. I wasn’t just charmed, I was awash in a rare sea of complete fulfillment. It had taken my husband three years to ask me to marry him. It took my son three years, too. Clearly I could win anyone over with a little effort, a concerted approach, and whole lot of Goldfish crackers.
Had I perhaps been trying too hard? In a word, yes. With my first son, I was one of those mothers who was all-in, and my son knew it. I practiced attachment parenting. How attached were we? I don’t think I laid him on a surface other than my chest for the first five months of his life. It wasn’t that I was some kind of obsessed mother interested in the benefits of skin-to-skin contact. My son screamed every time he was out of my arms. Blood-curdling screams, the kind you might wish on telemarketers.
Everything I did, I overdid. I made four-layer baked oatmeal on the weekends. I planned afternoons of Shrinky Dinks and elaborate puppet shows. I read to him constantly, easily 25 books a day. I went from my natural baseline of being a champion snuggler to an Olympian of the sport, always training, always nearing the peak of my form. From the very beginning, I wasn’t raising children. I was crafting the greatest hearts-and-minds campaign of my life. Is it so wrong to want your son to love you?
It was working. I was loved beyond measure. Deep, pleasurable, suffocating love. The kind of love that sometimes sends you to the bathtub with your headphones on. My husband was equally devoted, if perhaps not quite so intent on receiving something in return. It wasn’t long before my son finally sat me down and gave me my longed-for proof positive of my efforts paying off.
“Mama, when we get married I’m going to be a farmer.” (Clearly he had developed my affinity for the vacation version of farming).
“Mama, let’s take a shower together.”
“Mama, I’m sleeping in your bed tonight.”
And to his father: “Daddy, go to work. Go away. Away! ”
Before long, my son had moved from swift pecks on my cheek to tongue flying at my face from the other side of the couch. It was the like being ambushed by a tiny slug.
“No tongue kissing!” I said firmly, over and over.
But was this correct? Maybe “no tongue kissing your mother” would be more accurate? Maybe “I’m going to bring this up when you bring a girlfriend home at 16”? Threats of profound developmental shame are lost on a 3-year-old.
Very few people who have heard of the Oedipus complex believe that sons actually want to sleep with their mothers. But if that was the extreme, we were living proof of the theory. My son had clearly reached the first Oedipal stage, the all-out fight to win mom’s affections. Say what you will about debunked Freudian hypotheses. You’ve never lived in a house where your infant scratched your husband’s eyes out, resulting in $4,000 cornea resurfacing surgery.
“Maybe we should have called him Ed,” I said to my husband one night.
“Like Edwin, after Grampa Eddie?” he asked.
“You know, I asked my mom to marry me, too,” my husband said. “None of my brothers ever did.”
But the railing against his father was getting worse every day. My husband’s very presence was the problem. The second he stepped into the room, my son would bristle. Given an invitation to interact with his father, he wanted nothing more than to boss him around. Sometimes my husband would play along, giving our son a longed-for moment of control. But sometimes a kid just has to do what dad says, so Adam took to combating the tiny tyrannical outbursts by enveloping our son in love.
“I can tell by the way that you’re acting that you just need some love,” Adam would say.
[Giant man-to-little-man hug until both of them had lost all the fight in them].
Then, one evening, I walked in on my husband reading to my son in the nursery. My son jumped out of bed to go get another book, and as he scampered out of the room, I jumped gleefully in bed with my husband. We snuggled into our bliss until my son came back. In an instant, my son flew into a rage.
“I was snuggling with mama! I was here first!”
“No, actually, I was here first,” Adam joked. “I have been snuggling with mama for 12 years.”
And then, in a voice channeling that of a movie preview voice-overs: “I’m the one who's with her all day long.”
Clearly he thought that since he had been putting in the time, he deserved the prize. For months thereafter, they battled for position of man in the house. Yelling. Tantrums. Tension every time my husband walked in the room. My husband took it in stride, but I saw it on his face – deep sadness and the feeling that he was unwelcome in his own home.
“You know, Daddy’s thinking about you all the time,” I said to my son one day, trying to plead my husband’s case. And he was. He had never given up trying to forge a relationship with his son. But my son got that glow in his eyes, that moon-faced look of connection.
“And I’m thinking about you,” he said.
Do you pull back? Do you try to love less? Make yourself less lovable? Do you scale back how much time you spend with your children and start going on as many dates as possible to show who has that part of your heart? This was not the approach we took. For more than a year, we let him act out his mythical tragedy. We let him be this hero, even though this one was one doomed to fall. We let him love me, we let him try to destroy his father, and all we did was love him back.
Then, one day, not long after we had decided Oedipus was welcome in our home, that stories are instruction and meaning, a compass and not some kind of omen from a shadow world of literature, I sat with my son in his bed for a special time we call Pressing Questions, in which he is free to talk to us about anything and everything under the sun.
“Mama, you know those things I tell you?” he said to me. “Sometimes, I stand really close to Leela and I tell her the same things I tell you, but really soft, so she can’t hear it.”
He had passed through it. Within weeks, he’d be biking with dad, preferring his friends, and needing me in a way that reminded exactly no one of Greek tragedy. I can’t say we experienced any particular catharsis watching this play acted out in our living room, but now it’s a classic I know by heart.
Emily Grosvenor is a magazine writer and essayist living in McMinnville, Ore., where she is writing a humorous memoir. You can follower her at @emilygrosvenor.
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Published March 24, 2012 9:00PM (EDT)
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A week after my partner, Abbie, and I were married at Brooklyn’s City Hall, our 4-year-old son Tommy came out to me. Tommy had been excited about our wedding. He’d picked out his own tie and asked me to wear my hair like Princess Ariel in “The Little Mermaid.” But he had questions, too. “You already had a wedding,” he said — and he was right.
Three years before he was born, Abbie and I were married by an Episcopalian priest at the New York Botanical Garden. Over 200 guests attended, and the ceremony took place in an enclosed garden on a warm night in July. It was one of the first same-sex weddings featured in a national bridal publication (Modern Bride 2004), and there is a picture of us from that day — two blond women in gowns — on Tommy’s bedside table.
The day Tommy came out to me, we were walking home from school. He was telling me about Taylor, his most recent crush, when he stopped in the middle of the story, looked up and said, “Mama, you know how you and Mommy are gay?”
I nodded and figured he was going to ask more questions about why we had to get married for the second time.
“Well,” he said, “I’m not. I’m a boy who likes girls.”
I was surprised by the declaration — we never thought Tommy was gay — but immediately replied, “That’s OK.”
“I knew you’d say that,” he said. “I just thought it was something I should tell you.”
We were walking by our local park, and the sidewalk was crowded with kids scooting alongside their parents. I was self-conscious about whether they heard our conversation. I imagined the other parents, straight parents, suspecting me, accusing me, as if it was my fault that Tommy felt he needed to come out to me, as if I had forced my “otherness” onto him.
“Were you scared when you knew you were gay?” Tommy asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I was. That’s a smart question.”
“I was afraid people wouldn’t like me because I was different.” I turned to Tommy to see if my answer upset him and added, “But that didn’t happen.”
“Good,” he said, and we headed home.
People have asked if I was at all disappointed to hear Tommy describe himself as straight. It’s a fair question. As parents, we want our kids to reflect who we are in the world. Others have asked if I was relieved. This question is problematic and assumptive, but the truth is that I was no more relieved than I was disappointed.
We’d introduced the word “gay” to Tommy early on, in part to give him the language to describe his family, but also because we knew that eventually he’d hear the term in a negative context. Abbie relied on Tommy’s love of Disney movies for an explanation: To be gay means that you are a princess who loves another princess or a prince who loves another prince. Though we were the ones to teach Tommy the word, it still impressed me to hear him use it to explain his own identity. There was nothing political or forced in his use of the word; it was a simple declaration. You are gay. I am not.
Tommy’s dad, Tim, is our close friend. Our original plan was that he would be our donor, and simply a male figure in Tommy’s life on par with our other dear friends. But his role in our family evolved shortly after Tommy’s birth, and to all of us he is unquestionably Tommy’s dad, not just his biological father. Though Tommy did not mention Tim during this conversation, he knows that his dad is also gay. Tim is single and when we talk about finding him a partner, Tommy understands that we are looking for another “prince.”
Tommy’s always been open about his crushes on both princesses and real little girls, and yet we’ve still had people ask us if we worry about whether his sexuality will be affected by his upbringing. In fact, this happened from the beginning of the process, in places we least expected it. When Abbie, Tim and I first began the donation procedures, the fertility clinic required that we receive approval from a state-appointed psychologist. At the meeting, the doctor asked us basic questions about how we planned on structuring our family emotionally and legally. She assured us that she “approved” of our right to have a family. We answered her questions and smiled politely, but at the end of the session she turned serious and said there was one more issue she needed to bring up.
“There are no conclusive tests,” she began, “but some studies show that children who have two gay biological parents might have a higher chance of being gay themselves.”
The three of us stayed quiet, stunned.
After a few seconds, I broke the awkward silence. “Forget it,” I said, turning to Tim. “We can’t use you as the donor now.”
“I’m just kidding,” I finally assured her. “We think being gay is fine, so we’re OK if that happens.”
A few weeks before our wedding at City Hall, Abbie and I tried to explain to Tommy in simple terms why we planned to get married again. We waited until after his bath, when he is at his calmest, and sat him at the table with a bowl of vanilla ice cream. We told him that all of the people in the state voted, and finally enough of them thought we should be allowed to get married. I watched him struggle to understand as he picked at his dessert, though it wasn’t exactly foreign to him to think that other people did not approve of or understand his family.
Kids have laughed at Tommy when they learn about his two moms. Kids are kids, sure, but he’s also witnessed strangers ask Abbie and me the question, “Who’s the mother?” and he’s seen them grow silent and uncomfortable when we answer, “We both are.” He knows that when we go to the gay pride parade in the summer we are celebrating a part of ourselves that not everyone deems worthy of celebration.
In many ways, Tommy is growing up in a family very similar to the one I grew up with. He lives with two parents who have a loving relationship. He is surrounded by a large, extended family that gets together most Sundays for dinner. Of course, there are also plenty of differences. I grew up in a harbor town on the Long Island shore where I spent summers riding my horse through the semi-deserted ruins of abandoned estates on the Muttontown Preserve. Tommy recognizes that a windy subway station means the train is on its way, and by the time he was 3 years old he could walk well over a mile. But the biggest difference, of course, is that two women, his mothers, are raising him. His dad lives in a studio apartment in Chelsea. Often they spend their time together, which we call “Dadurdays,” eating cupcakes from Billy’s Bakery and taking pictures at Chelsea Piers.
I didn’t realize that I was gay when I was Tommy’s age, but by fifth grade I understood that something about me was different. I was obsessed with the movie “Dirty Dancing,” and I knew enough to pretend to love Patrick Swayze rather than Jennifer Grey. While my best friend fantasized about the bad boy who makes good, I stayed quiet. The hiding came easily for me, but not without the consequences that affect most gay kids, primarily shame.
For Tommy, it is not he who is the “other,” it’s his family. Unlike many of my well-intending straight friends and family members, I don’t try to delude Tommy into thinking his family isn’t different. It is. I would also never tell him that being different doesn’t matter. It does. And he knows that. There are a lot of wonderful things about it, of course — most of all, he gets three parents and three families who love him dearly. But being different can also be a burden. I know that as much as any other gay person. Tommy already knows that as much as any kid growing up with a gay parent. Trying to tell him otherwise would only be a lie, and when he grew older and — with the aid of friends, television, and the Internet — discovered this lie, I fear I would lose his trust forever.
Who knows what Tommy will be when he grows up? I only know who he is now, and he only knows who he is now. This is an ephemeral time in his life, and like most parents, I am amazed to watch him take what he learns at home and in the larger world and combine them to develop his unique perspective.
Two weeks after Tommy came out to me, he and I were picking out an outfit for him to wear to his cousin’s house, where he sometimes runs into his other crush, a girl twice his age named Jordan. Tommy explained that he wanted to wear a pink shirt but worried that Jordan wouldn’t think it was “cool” for a boy to wear that color. I tried to tell him that a lot of boys wear pink, but that didn’t reassure him.
“I got it!” he said at last. “When I get there, I’ll go up to Jordan and just explain to her that this shirt really isn’t pink. It’s magenta! ” He ripped off his Batman pajamas, threw on his pink shirt, and checked himself out the full-length mirror. He didn’t need to wait to see if I approved.
Heather Aimee O'Neill teaches writing at CUNY Hunter College and is the Assistant Director for the Sackett Street Writers’ Workshop. A book columnist at AfterEllen.com, her poetry chapbook "Memory Future" was chosen by Carol Muske-Dukes as the winner of the University of Southern California's Gold Line Press Award and published this summer. Twitter: @HeatherAONeill
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