Julia Fierro - Cutting Teeth

“I like to ask Hank what he thinks about things,” Rip said, hoping he didn’t sound like a self-important fool, what the mommies called sancti-mommies.

“Exactly,” Michael said, and nodded knowingly. As if, Rip thought, it was just the two of them on some mountaintop. Two guys dishing the meaning of life.

“I say the same thing at playgroup,” Rip said. “But the moms, you know. They think I’m crazy.”

He laughed to hide the truth — their giggles at his earnestness made him burn with humiliation.

“They’re just jealous,” Michael said, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah,” Rip said, nodding, as if it was a revelation. And it was. He felt taller, and there was a sharpening in his vision, like he could see all the way across the Long Island Sound. He was the one who deserved the status (the honor, he corrected) of main caregiver. He was the one running around the playground while a kid clung to his back, he was the one rolling across the blacktop while Wyatt, Dash, and Levi piled on top of him, while the neighborhood mommies ( those jaded bitches , he thought, surprising himself) sat on a bench, watching their kid show off his or her monkey bar skills— watch me, Mommy! But the mommies weren’t really watching, Rip thought. Sure, their pretty little heads were turned to watch, and maybe the kids were fooled, but the women continued to yap away — Yadda, yadda, the cost of living in Brooklyn was outrageous! Yadda yadda, another preschool rejection came in the mail! Yadda, yadda, did you hear how little Milo bit little Celeste at Toddler Tom-Toms class — better get that kid evaluated! — remembering to pause once in a while to yell, “Way to go, Wyatt!” or “Super job, Dash!” with half-hearted interest.

He was a professional, full-time, stay-at-home parent. And he was awesome at his job.

He was ready to tell Michael. Normally, he waited a while to dish it all out. Most guys weren’t comfortable — TMI and all that — but Michael felt different.

“You wouldn’t think it,” he whispered to Michael, “but she and I have a lot in common.”

He pointed his beer at Allie, Susanna’s partner/wife/whatever, who was curled up on a chaise lounge at the far end of the deck, where she’d been hiding out with her iPhone ever since the lesbians, twins in tow, had arrived. With her chin resting on bony knees, her sweatshirt hood slung over her head, and her face barely an inch from the screen of her phone, she looked more like a teenager than a mommy, Rip thought.

“You both like to have sex with women?” Michael said, straight-faced.

“Heh. Well, yeah”—Rip smiled—“there’s that.”

The men shared a laugh, and Rip took a leap of faith and clinked his bottle against Michael’s.

“Me and her,” Rip said, looking back to Allie, “we’re both nonbio parents.”

The difference is, Rip thought, she’s about to get her own kid. A surge of resentment wormed through his gut.

Michael gave him “the look.” People paused, their mouths fell open, and their gaze moved just a bit off center. It was always the same when he came out to people, when he revealed he wasn’t Hank’s biological father. Frankly, Rip thought, it was a stupid look, but as soon as they got it, the intelligent light returned to their face, and they practically beamed at their aha moment. Like they were freaking geniuses or something.

“That’s right. I’m not Hank’s biological father. We used an anonymous donor. Donor #1332.” Rip sang the combination of numbers, as he often found himself doing. As if the absurdity of it — the fact Hank’s real father was nothing more than a jumble of symbols — called for a song and dance.

“Wow,” Michael said.

“Yeah,” Rip turned to look over the concrete seawall. The sun loomed large and red, a corona of gold simmering around its rim. “My sperm is kind of slow.”

Rip knew, from experience, that guys didn’t dig sperm talk and it was better to avoid eye contact. He wasn’t out to make anyone uncomfortable, and he sure as hell didn’t want pity. He was happy to tell the tale, to perform it even, if it made for a smoother delivery.

“Yep,” Rip said. “At first, the doctors thought we’d be able to do it. That the boys would rally.”

Michael laughed, and Rip was able to turn around and face him again.

“So we,” he looked over at the kids, “you know … A lot. Then we did it less. Because, apparently, too much depletes the sperm. So then we did it on a schedule. Two years later — after hormone therapy, artificial insemination.” He stopped short and lifted his beer. “To turkey basters!”

Michael answered with his own raised bottle and “Here, here.”

“We picked a donor. One who had my coloring and height. A good old Ashkenazy Jew-boy. And after the third in vitro try.” Rip pointed at Hank, who was huddled in the corner of the deck, his tee shirt pulled over his knees. “Voila! Henry Elijah Cho-Stein.”

“Bravo,” Michael said, and this time it was he who reached out and clinked Rip’s beer with his own. “We’re glad you guys made Hank. Harper adores him.” Michael paused, then continued in a half whisper. “And it’s tough sometimes. For Harp to make friends. She prefers to lead. If you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, well, Hank prefers to follow,” Rip said, finding it impossible to hide the disappointment in his tone, a tone he’d found himself using lately when talking about Hank. Hank who was so sensitive. Hank who cried over everything. Hank who wanted a princess dress.

“So,” Rip continued, “Harper’s devoted to her followers. That’s a good thing.”

“I worry about her,” Michael said, looking out into the sea, where a shimmering corridor shot out from the falling sun. “Charles Manson was devoted to his followers, too.”

There was a pause, filled by the screech of a gull, then they laughed. The laugh of friends, Rip thought, who make you feel better about how fucking ludicrous life can be, who remind you how, all of a sudden, joy can fill a deflated heart.

He knew he could hang with this guy.

The sun was ready to drop into the sea. There was a sense in the air, Rip thought, like surrender.

A flock of geese flew overhead in perfect V formation, honking as if saluting them.

Rip watched as Michael, as if he had read Rip’s mind, saluted up to the sky.

“Hey,” Rip said, “Tiff tells me you knit. We should get a beer or something and you can teach me how.”

“Man,” Michael said with a quick wink, “I can knit the shit out of a baby sweater.”

Tiffany was gratefulfor the break when the children, along with Tenzin and a terrified-looking Josh, marched upstairs for their baths, their squeals dulled by the closed bathroom door.

Of course, Tiffany thought (in defense of her good mommyhood), she wasn’t as grateful for the children’s absence as some of the mommies. Leigh’s face had grown chalk white with exhaustion as the night neared, and Tiffany had noticed an agitated tremor in Nicole’s hands all afternoon. Maybe Nicole had run out of her secret pink pills.

Tiffany watched as Grace stood up from the sofa and moved toward the kitchen.

“I guess I’ll go ahead and make the kids’ bedtime snacks,” Grace said.

Clearly a passive-aggressive ploy, Tiffany thought. Grace wanted someone to say, No! Sit down and relax. We’ll take care of it.

Tiffany jumped up from her seat. “I’ll give you a hand.”

Grace froze. For a moment, Tiffany wondered if they were going to have it out right then and there. But as quickly as Grace’s eyes had dulled with suspicion, she smiled.