I Will Say This Though About Children

I’m extremely tired of this idea right wingers keep pushing that suggests drag queens are trying to groom children. With my busy schedule, I don’t even have the time to style my own wigs let alone give a 6 year old a haircut. 

Over the last few years, drag queen story times seem to be an easy target for conservatives to direct their hate, blatant lies, and conspiracies theories towards. I’ll be completely honest, I am not a fan of these story time events myself. For starters, a lot of drag queens in Toronto barely look good under the stage lights, let alone in daylight. I’m no stranger to these types of events myself, having performed at a drag queen storytime a few years ago before they were all the (literal) rage. It was also both my first and last time doing this type of event. There I was reading to the kids a book titled “Princess Fluffybottom”, coincidentally was also my nickname in high school, and as I was reading to the group a little snot nosed fucker stood up from the back of the pack. He had to be 7 years old, maybe a really exhausted 5. He walked right up to me, gave me a quick up and down, and said: “I think you were meant to be a boy.” And without missing a beat, or thinking about the paycheque that hadn’t cleared, I responded. “And I think you were meant to be in a Kleenex! Fuck off!” Shockingly, I was not invited back.

Despite what conservatives want you to believe, I, as a drag queen, can honestly tell you this: I hate children! I cannot stress this enough! Next to the Jehovahs and elderly, I’ve never avoided a group of people more. I don’t have the patience for children. I don’t have the hips for them either, because the ones I wear are usually made from a couch cushion. My biggest issue with kids is that they lack a filter, even though most of the time I do as well. The difference is I’m funny without one, whereas they’re just rude and know how to pinpoint what you’re most insecure about. Have you ever had a kid drop a little truth bomb on you and just nonchalantly  walk away? They’re like deaf seniors crop dusting the aisles of a grocery store, trying to act all innocent. THEY KNOW WHAT THEY DID! 

Recently I was on Facetime with my sister who lives in the States, and while we were chatting my eldest nephew came into the room.  

“Mommy, if I’m going to be six soon, how old does that make you?” he asked. 

“Guess!” my sister responded, setting herself up for disappointment.  

After a few moments of thoughtful consideration my nephew blurted out thirty-five, which was pretty close as he was only off by a year. My sister, for whatever reason, decided to keep this fun little game going. 

“Now guess how old your uncle is,” she suggested. 

Without missing a beat, absolutely no hesitation, and probably the most confidence I have ever seen in one person, my nephew yelled “53!” I was stunned. I could have gotten mad, told him Santa Claus wasn’t real, but instead I decided to make it a teaching moment. That night I taught him how to spell the word disinherited. Don’t feel too bad for him; with me as an uncle he was only going to inherit a receding hairline and gout.

Being 36 years old, I’m at that age where more and more of my friends are having kids. Why? I don’t know. Are kids a tax write off now? Is that why celebrities keep buying them from overseas? One of my gal pals recently gave birth to a baby girl and decided to facetime me from her hospital room to show me the kid. I can honestly say that was by far one of the ugliest babies I’ve ever seen. She wanted to post photos of her on Instagram right away and I had to say “Lets maybe wait a week or so, see if she grows into that nose first.” Honestly, if she is going to truly invest in that kid’s future she needs to book the sweet sixteen rhinoplasty appointment now. We, as a society, have to stop this narrative that “all babies are beautiful”. No, it’s just not true. Sometimes you just see a baby and think “Well, she definitely has the eyes for a burka”. 

It’s not just my straight friends having kids lately that’s annoying. I have married gay friends and acquaintances who are now looking into surrogates and egg donors, which is insane considering inflation and what a carton of eggs at the supermarket alone costs these days. I get that other queer people aren’t like me (though they probably should be), and some queers actually want to have that heteronormative nuclear family model. For some odd reason, they would rather spend their hard earned money on children and education funds instead of all inclusive trips and luxury purchases. To each their own I guess! You know what won’t break curfew or talk back to me as it gets older? A Louis Vuitton clutch. Just sayin’!

I wouldn’t even mention gays having kids as something that annoys me, but lately some of them are acting more holier than thou about it. I was at a dinner party a few months ago and there was a gay couple at the table proudly showing pictures of their newborn son. They had recently used an egg donor surrogate and were telling everyone at the table about all the legal aspects and costs involved. Given the delicate subject, plus being a bit buzzed from a few extra dirty martinis, I was curious and feeling loose lipped. I thought it would be an appropriate dinner conversation to pose a rather personal question. 

“So, how did you decide on who was jizzing in the cup?” I blatantly asked. “Was it a rock paper scissors, best out of three situation?” 

The louder gay of the couple decided to speak for both of them. I know, right-shocker! He answered me with a deadpan expression and monotone delivery as though he were speaking at a funeral or AA meeting. 

“We both gave samples so we’ll never know whose sperm actually took,” he responded, before brushing me off with a condescending smile.

Really? Was this guy for real? ‘Cause he is whiter than snow and his daughter is very clearly black. I have a feeling your husband’s sperm won the race in more ways than one. 

The problem with friends having kids is that suddenly our social interactions are dictated by a child. 

“We can’t be out too late, we only have the sitter til 10!” 

Yuck! Or even worse, this doozy of a text message:

“The sitter canceled. Is the restaurant kid friendly?”

I’d rather shove a salad fork in my eye than share a meal with a screaming toddler. That’s why I love this idea of kid free restaurants. Why should my night out enjoying expensive food and drinks be ruined because you couldn’t plan accordingly and leave your kids at home. I’m pretty sure E! True Hollywood Stories raised me more than my parents did growing up, so why not just plop them down in front of Netflix for a few hours. It will build character, I assure you. I recently saw that there are kid free zones on airplanes in Europe now which is a genius idea in my opinion. I’ve lost track of how many peaceful flights I’ve been on that get hijacked by a crying child because they can’t watch Peppa Pig. Honestly, at that point, we should be allowed to stick crying kids in the overhead compartments and shut the hatch.

I recently found myself in a personal hell of mine: a confined space surrounded by screaming children on a summer break. My aforementioned nephew is visiting Canada from the US this month and insisted on visiting Ripley’s Believe It Or Not Aquarium. Despite my previous statement about hating kids, my two nephews are the only exceptions to this stance. The great part about being a Guncle is that I get to spoil them with treats their parents won’t let them have, get their love and affection (plus selfies for my social media), and then pass them back so I can go home to Netflix, a magnum of wine, and peacefulness. It’s truly one of the best parts about being gay, which is why queers wanting to have kids is such a hard concept for me to grasp.

I picked my nephew up and off we went on the Go Train to Toronto. It was his first time visiting the big city and his first time on any form of train. He was very excited and insisted on a window seat so we could play Eye Spy. He wanted to start things off.

“Eye Spy, with my little eye…water!” It was at that moment I realized he didn’t know how to play the game. This was going to be a very long trip. As we rolled into Union Station my nephew, quite unexpectedly, shot up from his seat.

“Wait!” he exclaimed, “do you have money for the aquarium?”

“What kind of question was that?” I thought to myself, confused by the implication. I decided to laugh it off, rather than question why he didn’t think I had money. Had his parents talked about my finances not realizing he was in earshot?

“I have cash and my credit cards with me,” I assured him, “you don’t need to worry.” 

“Phew!” he exhaled, relieved enough to return to his seat.

When we reached the entrance of the aquarium, we were walking into a chaotic Friday morning scene. There were school buses honking, several loud summer camps with extremely stressed out staff trying to rangle kids, and right by the accessible ramp was a mother with her child who was having a complete meltdown over dolphins. 

“For the last time: dolphins don’t live here!” the mother barked. 

“But I want them to!” the kid screamed. 

That entire exchange would have made for a great abortion ad. 

As we reached the ticket line, my nephew and I found ourselves stuck behind a family of 5: a mother, father, and 3 kids who I’m going to assume were all under 7 years old. Two of the siblings were fighting over a toy while the baby in the stroller was aggressively crying, maybe just for the fun of it since nothing the parents did seemed to calm him down. Both parents made eye contact with me and forced some smirks. 

“Kids, eh,” the dad said jokingly. 

Dear God. They think I’m one of them! Say it ain’t so! In retrospect, those parents confusing me as my nephew’s father was probably a good thing. My nephew has dirty blonde hair whereas I have dark features. Whenever I take him on adventures where it’s just the two of us, I always worry someone might think I stole him and decide to call in an Amber Alert. Thankfully, before any “parenting chat” could commence, a ticket kiosk opened up and that family of five went their way and we went ours. 

As my nephew and I walked through each exhibit, I had kids running in front of me, pushing past me without even an “excuse me”. One little girl even stepped on MY foot and acted like I WAS THE PROBLEM for being in THEIR WAY. Listen I know very well that being gay isn’t easy especially in today’s political climate, however, seeing what parents have to put up with on a regular basis to entertain their little sperm pets made me thrilled to be a homosexual. At least my babysitting shift was going to be over by 5pm that day..

After an hour and a half in the aquarium it became obvious which adults were first time parents and which ones wanted to be put out of their misery, or at least handed a cocktail. It also became clear to me the vast difference between a mother’s parenting style and a father’s. The mothers were watching the kid’s every move like priests do during Sunday School. Meanwhile I came across several dads resting on benches, watching sport highlights on their phone as they dozed off, likely forgetting they came with children in the first place. I saw one mom with a convenience store on her back who was pulling out random treats and juice boxes, asking her daughter if she wanted a “snacky”. Why do adults add y’s to certain words when talking to kids? It’s not cute; It’s patronizing. To me, the only logical Y you need to add in when talking to your kids is “WHY DID I HAVE YOU?!” 

We had reached the end of our visit to Ripleys when we came upon the stingray tank, where visitors could pet the creepy little slimy fuckers.

“If you don’t move or splash, you’ll have a better chance of a stingray coming up to you,” an aquarium employee announced over the loudspeaker.

Sure, lady. You expect a bunch of kids under the age of 10, hopped up on sugar and adrenaline, to stay perfectly still? What’s next? Are you going to ask Michael J Fox to pour some red wine without spilling? Use your common sense! 

As I hoisted my nephew up on a piece of faux rock decor attached to the tank, something truly bizarre caught my attention and what I consider to be a prime example of the difference between moms and dads. A few feet away from me were two kids with their mom, who kept telling them to turn around so she could snap a picture despite having her calculator open. And just beyond her stood a father pressed up against the edge of the tank, dangling one of his kids over the water by their legs so they could have a better chance of reaching the stingrays. Absolutely no care or concern for the kids’ well being whatsoever, like when Michael Jackson dangled his newborn baby over the balcony for his fans to see. In a weird way, it almost looked like the dad was back in college helping his buddy do a keg stand. I bet he was wishing he had a beer after that morning.

Like any tourist trap aimed primarily at kids, the exit of the Ripley’s Aquarium is conveniently placed directly in a giant gift shop. From a retail perspective, clever planning. From a caregiver perspective, pure evil. I’m sure many epic battles have been won and lost there, and today was going to be no different. As I held my nephew’s hand and guided him through multiple displays and racks of overly priced sea themed merchandise, I felt him slip out of my grasp. I knew at that very moment I was in trouble and something had caught his eye. I turned around to find him running towards a toy set that included a yellow boat, shark, and scuba diver with a glorious price tag of $50. Aside from the cost, this set was almost identical to one I had purchased for him a year ago for half the price. 

“All right, bud, let’s get going,” I said. “We have to go get some lunch and then we can play video games for the rest of the afternoon. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

“Can I have this toy, please?” my nephew asked with a pout and puppy dog eyes. He was tapping into my weakness as a Guncle who likes to spoil.

“You already have something like this,” I said.

“But I don’t have THIS one,” he quickly shot back. 

This clearly wasn’t his first time at the rodeo and before I had a chance to respond he threw me a curveball. 

“I thought you said you had money?”

I had met my match and had just gotten played by a 5 and a half year old. We may not look very much alike, but in that moment it was very clear that we were indeed related.