Free Does This Baby Make Me Look Straight?: Confessions of a Gay Dad by Dan Bucatinsky

Boo-hoo-hoo . . . We were so happy with our healthy little girl and felt so complete already as a family of three, it seemed piggy to ask for a second. We tried to put all thoughts of baby number two out of our heads.
    But it kept coming up. Both Don and I are close with our siblings. My sister was there for me at so many crucial moments of my life, not the least of which was the day after Eliza was born. Don escorted Monica back to Wisconsin with her one-year-old twins and I was home with a newborn. My sister dropped everything, three kids of her own, and came to my rescue for a few days. Likewise, there is no way I could’ve gotten through the loss of my father that same year if it weren’tfor my sister. We both believed Eliza deserved to have that kind of ally in her life. Even if it just meant another person with whom she could bitch about her crazy, faggy dads!
    We called our lawyer and he put our names on the list. But months went by and we weren’t getting any calls. “The birth mom market is drying up,” our lawyer said. We couldn’t imagine why. Had high school hall monitors gotten more vigilant about checking bathroom stalls? Don and I were both secretly relieved. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be. People are always saying that “you wind up with the kid you’re supposed to have.” I never used to believe that “everything happens for a reason” crap, but maybe in this instance, we were supposed to have just one.
    That’s when the phone rang. It was around February. Monica, Eliza’s then twenty-one-year-old birth mom, called us.
    “You ready for a new one?” she asked me casually, as though she worked at a dealership and was calling with a friendly reminder that our lease was up.
    She and her “husband” were having a hard enough time making things work with her three-year-old twins; another baby wasn’t going to be possible for them. We tried to contain our joy out of respect for Monica. But she knew we were thrilled. And she was relieved. Eliza would have a sibling! There was no way we could say no.
    Off we embarked on another six-month journey to prepare for baby number two. Don and I were both sort of in denial about it. I kept telling myself the reality would kick in when the baby was here. Given the year we’d had—Eliza’s surgery, followed by my dad’s death—it all felt like I was getting a crash course in the circle of life.
    But on September 6 at around eight in the morning there was no denying it anymore. We were back in the delivery room to witness the birth of our gorgeous, eight-pound, twenty-one-inch, healthy baby boy, Jonah (the “J” from my dad Julio’s name) Paul (Don’s middle name) Bucatinsky (because my family was dwindling and I won at rock/paper/scissors).
    This was when we began our spirited little debate over circumcision. I thought it was a foregone conclusion. Who doesn’t circumcise? Other cultures. People in countries far, far away. Members of the animal kingdom. No offense. Of course, we all know anytime someone says “no offense,” it’s probably too late. But honestly, I’m a big fan of the animal kingdom. Except snakes, most birds, and raccoons. They’re mean.
    I’m Jewish. Don is Catholic. We’re both circumcised and so I never gave it a second thought. But Don, a recent born-again atheist, admitted he’d always thought the practice to be barbaric and pleaded with me to leave our son’s body alone. To be honest, I had, or I should say I have , never seen a real live uncircumcised penis. Except maybe in a porno. Not that I watch them. But I may have seen one playing in the background somewhere at someone else’s house. Maybe. A very long, long time ago. And who knows, really, ’cause when they’re erect they all look the same. Give or take five inches.
    “It’s a cultural thing. It’s a Jewish tradition,” I’d say.
    Don argued back, “The only thing Jewish about you is you hate mayonnaise.”
    “What?” I asked. “What does that even