I managed (somehow) to pull off taking the kids to the Great Wolf Lodge in December (our annual family tradition if you remember).... and we even had our time booked to eat lunch in the Ginger Bread House.
Woofreakin'Hoo.

We arrived on our first day, running a bit late because I'm always trying to squeeze out one more client job before the holidays... but we made it!  We checked into our room and hit the slides asap.  It's crazy to think about, because the first year GWL was open and we went, The Girl was only 9 months old and I mostly floated around the Basketball Pool singing to her and stuff.... and now she's all:  I wanna' go on the BIG SLIDE!

Oh... and aside from public bathrooms, amusement parks are a single parents *worst* nightmare.  There are two of them and ONE of me.  So rides that take multiple riders - someone has to sit out... but I can't very well leave my 5 year old alone and unattended.... sigh.
So it's complicated.

Also, I'm insanely afraid of heights and going fast.... so these super high up and twisty and fast and scary water slides are a no bueno for me.... and to my GREAT SURPRISE:  The Boy and The Girl went on them ALONE!

YES! ALONE!  There were my kids going on their biggest and wildest and scariest water slides:  
BY. THEM. SELVES!!!!!

So... it was all water slides and good times and snacks and arcade games....

Until The Girl sh*ts on the floor.
True story.
Allow me to explain.

You can't bring food into the park.  You check in on day one, do the slides and dinner and then they have a story time and this animatronic tree that sings (the kids love it) - and then you go to bed.  You wake up, eat breakfast and check out of your room but you can stay at the park until 9 pm.  Clearly, with wet kids in bathing suits, you just stay there onsite and eat whatever food they have, you don't leave.

Day one went great... I was SO PROUD of the my kids:  unafraid and brave and having a good time.
After sooooooo many personal failures of the last few years, I always try to hold onto these moments of parenting success because the feeling of being "on top" is all too fleeting for me.... 
(foreshadowing here).

Day two we got up *early* and hit the park by 9am.  We swam and played and hung around until it was time to get out to have lunch in the Ginger Bread House.  The kids were ecstatic.  I usually put them in dressy(ish) clothes, but this year I let the girl wear her sacred Frozen Dress.
I got my usual, The Boy got his usual (grilled cheese sandwich) and The Girl got her usual (mac and cheese).

This time though.... three bites in, The Girl say's:  Mommy... this doesn't taste very good, it's rubbery.

We send it back but The Girl doesn't want something else to eat.. which I find a bit odd because we haven't had food since breakfast but we had plans to get ice-cream upstairs on our way back in and so I don't worry about it.
Yes, yes... ice-cream *can* be a meal:  don't judge.

So, we finish up lunch and pictures and the kids play some games in the lobby and then we head upstairs for The Boy to play some arcade games.... it's all going well... and suddenly The Girl HAS to go the bathroom.
No biggie.  We're almost *6* - The Girl has actually *never* had an accident in public, so at first I'm not too worried... The Boy is playing some Batman driving game and suddenly The Girl is like... in a panic?

I make The Boy jump off his game (he's none too pleased) and I go running after The Girl who is now dashing for the bathroom.  The bathroom... is across the park, down a flight of stairs and then alllll the way back across the water park to the locker rooms.
It's not close.

As we are running past the ice-cream shop, I'm like - "Hey, didn't you want to get ice-cream?"
Because let's face facts:  sometimes I'm just plain stupid. lololol

The Girl looks at me like I'm the dumbest person on the earth because at this point I realize that she's jogging for the doors and using one hand to hold her butt closed....... 
Hmm.... that's odd.

We get inside the park and usually the first thing that hits you is the steam and the humidity... but instead there's this smell.... like a really bad sh*t smell.

As we crest the top of the stairs I'm thinking....."man... did someone take a crap around here?  It reeks like poop in here now..... that's odd"

The Boy is running after The Girl and I'm running to keep up with them both and we make it to the bathroom.  I tell The Boy to stay outside and he's questioning why we ran past the ice-cream shop and didn't get any..... 

The Girl and I enter the bathroom and all of a sudden I hear:  MY PANTIES!!!! MY PANTIES!!!!!!

And there it is:  sh*t on the bathroom floor.
FROM. MY. CHILD.  DEAR. GOD..... what just happened????

Oh... and fun fact:  human poop coils up like dog poop when launched from mid-air.
Who knew?

I'm instantly horrified for The Girl AND for the fact that this is a WATER PARK. 
NO ONE IS WEARING SHOES!!!!!  ugh.

So, The Girl jumps on the toilet and I'm trying to help her, meanwhile I'm yelling:  "PLEASE WATCH OUT FOR THE POOP!!! THERE IS POOP ON THE FLOOR!!!!"

The Girl is sobbing and sh*t is EVERY.WHERE.
It's in her hair.  On her face.  On her hands.
Up her back and down her front.... the Frozen dress is COVERED.
I'm begging her to keep her hands away from her face, but she's crying and keeps reaching up with sh*t covered hands to wipe away her tears.
Awe.some.

Now I can hear women talking and steering their children around the big pile of steaming sh*t on the floor.
Good. TIMES.

So I pull the dress off The Girl and she's filling bowl after bowl, flush after flush and it smells so awful.
And she's crying and at this point I'm crying....

And The Boy is outside the door yelling... Mom - is everything ok?  Why does the bathroom smell so bad?
And alll the while a big pile of steaming sh*t sits front and center on the bathroom floor.

So I leave the stall and I'm trying to clean up the sh*t on the floor... which is a task because it's NO small pile.... and I'm there:

Waive hand.
Wait for five inches of paper towel to dispense.
Tear.
Waive hand.
Wait again....
Tear again.....

F*ck me.  
I'm practically dancing with this machine and I have barely enough towel to dry wet hands let alone clean up a pile of poo from the floor.
Sigh.

I get the poop cleaned up - but it's in the tile groove... so I cover the entire area in paper towels (more waiving and dancing commences to make this happen) and I go flying outside to find a worker to help me....

Trying to explain to some teenage kid that your child just took a giant sh*t on their floor and has also re-decorated an entire stall and that I'm going to need someone with proper cleaning supplies to come and disinfect is utterly pointless... but eventually they agree to send someone.

This poor sweet little girl shows up and is pretty nice about the whole thing... until I open the stall door and she nearly throws up in her own mouth.

Again.  COVERED.  The Girl was COVERED.
Sigh.

So The GWL lost a few towels in that experience....and The Girl has a shower of sh*t shame... then I dressed her in my pajamas, I grabbed our stuff, The Boy and I headed for the door....

Trip over.
The Boy was crushed.  The Girl couldn't wait to leave.... and me....?
Well, it's just one more example of how life continues to be sh*t-tastic.

Two hours later we arrive home and The Girl.... is fine.  
Traumatized... but fine.

Isn't that really a theme for me..... Traumatized but fine.
Sigh.
 

Day Three of being completely, totally out..... and somehow:  I'm still here.
Still happy.
Still gay..... just in case anyone was wondering.

I should answer a few things for people - Scott wants to know what the "flock is with all the gay stuff"?  Well.. I'm a lesbian.  Shirley say's she saw the break-up with Carhartt coming... which is odd because Carhartt didn't see it coming - and *I* didn't see it coming.... it just is and it's very sad and heartbreaking for both of us.  So much so, I'm not going to write much more about it.  No one did anything wrong - Carhartt is a fantastic person... but sometimes love isn't enough.  

Shirley also say's the media will have a "field day" with this.... but I'm guessing they won't.  I could be wrong - but I truly don't think they give a sh*t.

There's also concern from some of my very favorite readers - Charlie... I'm speaking to you - that I somehow don't like men or that I now "hate" men..... nothing could be further from the truth.

In fact.... it's my distinct *lack* of dislike for men in general that had me thinking (for many years) that I was really just a straight girls obsessed with boobs.... other peoples:  not my own. lol

The hardest part about growing up gay in the 1980s was that.... it was the NINETEEN-EIGHTIES!!!!!  I had no exposure to anything or anyone "gay"...... also, and PARENTS - please listen to what I'm writing:

I did not *know* I was "gay" as a child..... this is really really REALLY important for you to hear.  I knew that I liked girls... I knew that I thought boys were ok - but I never had a keen desire to figure out how *they* had sex... or whatever..... so without any exposure to other people like myself - I had no idea who I was, only that I *IDENTIFIED* as a girl who liked girls.

The word *identify* is crucial here.
As a child NO ONE had to come up to me and like "educate" me on being gay - especially as a very young child - talk about sexual relationships isn't very appropriate.... however, if I had been exposed to a friend have same-sex parents, or seeing some on a popular TV Show or reading about them in a good - in a *positive* light.... then I could have *seen* that and found a social reflection of my own *identity*.

Being a lesbian is less about going down south and *more* about who I am.  I have stood in a straight world for a very, very long time .... and never fit in.  I always felt different.  I always felt separated from them.  I admired their marriages and talk about passionate sex.... and then I went home and tried creams and potions to *try* to make sex with a man something that I enjoyed *as much* as other women said they did... but no manner of creams ever did the trick.  I assumed I was broken that something was wrong with me.... so I just kept trying......
Sigh.

Ariel doesn't grow land-legs to run on the beach hand in hand with Princess Ericka.... Jasmine doesn't munch on a flying carpet with Alanna..... Janet Jackson and Madonna and Cyndie Lauper sing songs about boys - no one sings songs about falling in love with girls..... (if *only* I knew what "She Bop" ACTUALLY freakin' meant.... lololol).

My entire world was straight.
Period.

Like most tweens I just wanted to be liked... I wanted to rock my Debbie Gibson inspired waist high pants rolled up at the ankle complete with giant bangs and more hairspray that the ozone layer cares to remember..... and every movie ends with The Girl getting The Boy ..... so I wanted a Boy, too.

I wanted their attention.  I wanted to wear their lettermans jackets to *feel* like I belonged.  

I've written about my first kiss.... but the version you read was made slightly rosy......  The truth is that my middle school boyfriend *was* a football player... AND our first kiss *was* rather perfect with me placed a top a yellow striped curb behind the Burger King..... BUT.  That first kiss only came AFTER The Middle School
Boyfriend had made out with my Middle School Best Friend in my parents garage on Halloween night.

The Middle School Boyfriend came over dressed as a Zombietypething, I was dressed as Scarlet O'Hara and my Middle School Best Friend was dressed as an 80s rocker chick.... we went out trick or treating as a group and The Middle School Boyfriend kept trying to kiss me in the darker corners of the track - tugging my white gloved hand to spots under tree's or behind driveway pillars.... and I kept saying no.

I didn't want to kiss him.
I didn't want to kiss any boys.
Which was so f*cking confusing.... I wanted their attention.  I would lay around on the bedroom floor literally DYYYYYYY.ING for this boy or that boy to call the rose colored phone in my bedroom..... and when they would call:  I would float on cloud nine for days.... 
But kissing..... yuck.  No thanks.  Nope, not interested.
Not. At. ALL.

At the end of the night I had gone in the house for something and said Middle School Boyfriend and Best Friend made out in the garage where the neighbor girl saw them and told me the next day..... 
BRO.KEN.HEART.ED.

But I blamed myself... if I had kissed him any of the times he had tried - then he probably wouldn't have wanted to kiss her.... so I didn't tell them that I knew. I kept wearing the jacket to every class, every day - no matter *how* hot it was in the classroom ... I wasn't going to let the weather affect my connection to fitting in... f*ck no.

And the next weekend .... I relented and kissed him.
It was magical.... as far as first kisses go.... and I prefer my rosy view of it - but deep down.... even at the time - I knew that I didn't want to be kissing him.  Even from the very, very beginning, intimacy with men would be something I felt I was obligated to do - not something I wanted to do.

It was a very confusing time.... one that would hang on right up 8 months ago:  How can I *like* men - and *still* be gay?  How could I have desired their attention but not THEM?  It makes little sense to 38 year old me *now* -..... and needless to say - 14 year old me didn't bother trying to sort it out.  Bring on the string of boys for sweaty-hand holding and awkward kissing and exchanging notes in the hallway and sneaking out at slumber parties for late night walks.....

No one ever told me that it would okay if *I* didn't want to kiss boys.... and they sure as sh*t didn't tell me that I might like kissing girls.... so I just of ... existed that way.  I didn't dream about boys or girls.... I didn't understand my own identity, so I didn't know that I *could* dream about girls and the ground wouldn't actually open up swallowing me whole and dragging me down to hell.
Yeah... Church was kind of that for me.

If I saw a girl - usually a boyish looking girl.... and I got "those feelings".... I would literally RUN from the room sure that the boyish girl and everyone in the room could see my inside's lighting up like a freakin' heat map... and then no one would like me:  no one would be my friend.

So I held onto those lettermans jackets for as long as I could wrapping myself in the social security of their wool bodies and leather sleeves.... 

It's a hard thing to explain... people who are gay, for the most part, absolutely get it.... my straight friends kind of do.... and then kind of don't.  Someone asked me once why it even matters if I like girls who look like boys anyway - what's the difference.....?

For several decades I tried to tell myself that there wasn't a difference.... I was wrong.
I didn't know it then, and by the time I *knew* it... it took me nearly two decades to accept it.
Sigh.

I was lonely.... so .... so.... lonely.  I knew I was different - I felt.... wrong and shameful.  I thought that if people found out that I didn't want to be kissing boys - that they would hate me and not hang out with me...I thought my family would disown me because sooooo much work was being put into making sure I was a "good girl" and right or wrong... my family didn't identify strap-ons and making out with girls as "good".  
NOT. AT. ALL.  

I don't blame anyone... it was a different time, a different place - and to that end, kids *now* have it easier than I did.... and they don't at the same time.

Gay kids *now* have to go to school with kids of parents LIKE ME.  Adults who were raised in a somewhat homophobic world.... and I think even thought our KIDS are getting the message ... some of us still aren't.  We're talking about fags and queens and whatever.... and our kids are hearing those things and bullying kids at school... or worse yet - your kid *hears* you say "fag" and knows it's a "bad thing".... so they stuff down their own feelings - afraid to be who they are - afraid to be themselves.... afraid to be called a 'fag' by their own parents because kids always want to be good - not bad.
So the message for faaaar too many kids is that you don't want to be 'bad', 'fags' are bad... so don't be a fag.

At least .... that's how I felt.  Even without growing up in a family that used those words - there was (I felt) an underlying message that doing anything other than growing up and marrying a man would be bad.... 

And so began decades of self-hate.... anger at myself for not being able to be "normal"....  disappointment with myself when my mind would battle with my instincts.... and my mind would always win - leaving my heart in turmoil.

Turmoil because I *liked* men..... they open your car door and bring you flowers and talk on the phone with you for hours.... they complete you in a middle school social circle.... and I liked ALLLLLL of those things... but I didn't want their hands on me.  I didn't dream about boys.  I didn't dream about making with them or doing other things with them.... mind you - I didn't dream about girls either - so without understanding myself.... I was just left in turmoil.

I didn't need anyone to show me lesbian porn or some such thing.... but - had I just *seen* a positive portrayal of two women - holding hands, kissing on a sidewalk, raising a family.... being... *normal* - then I would have know that *I* was normal.... and I might have been a very different person.

I didn't need anyone to explain 'sexuality'.... however, I did need someone to validate how I 'identified' - which was as a girl who liked girls and a girl who would later discover that the earth would not open up the first time she made out with a girl.....

Every night for the last - wow... almost a year now - I've sat down Sun-Thursday and blogged. Roughly 1500 words a night - usually around midnight or just after, I have sat down and shared - with bad grammar (that's gotten a bit better, hasn't it?), swearing (that has not gotten "better" nor do I intend it to), sometimes I'm winning, sometimes I'm losing.... most of the time I'm a freakin' train-wreck.... but it's been here for whoever wanted to read it.

I have never set out to "impress" anyone... nor do I think I'm special..... I was just willing to put it out there.  I was willing to share this journey and be honest about it.... why the hell shouldn't I?  What's so wrong about "airing your dirty laundry...."?  I mean - I never actually set out to DO THAT... but if that's what happened - who the hell cares? Life is far too short and I've learned *a lot* from many of you -and as I've said a dozen times - I refuse to discount the value in having made connections with people just because my honesty or my writing style or my grammar irritates you.... See that little red box in the corner of this page?  Click the f*ck on it and go away if you don't want to read what I write.... you won't be missed.

just sayin'.

Today I woke up to a VERY NASTY email from the husband of The Friend who excited my life shortly after I came out... it was LACED with accusations and nastiness.... he even said that "all" my friends are only friends with me to get free photos..... he THEN went on to say this gem:

"I would really be impressed if you ever admit (even if only to yourself since you have an image to uphold) some fault about your marriage.  Especially in light of the "recent" coming out But, that was probably [El Capitan's] fault too. " 

They actually requested that I reprint their ENTIRE email instead of quote one line (if I used it on the blog  "            I won't be surprised if you copy paste only parts of this email in some blog post that people with no lives read that you feel the need to impress.  If you are going to quote me do it in its entirety.")  however, given that this person used their FULL NAME and sent it from their work email that includes the company they work for... I'll refrain from doing that for their benefit (your welcome).
 
I will however address what *has* to be the most ignorant comment anyone has made to me since I came out - the suggestion that El Capitan "made" me gay.  
Sigh.

What "image" have I tried to 'uphold' on The Blog......?  I kind of think I look a bit like a mess.... so, I fail to see what "image" I have so craftily created.  The Book and The Blog are riddled with fault and mistakes on both sides .... I have never said I never did anything wrong in my marriage.  

Regardless.... no one "made" me gay.  The mere suggestion by an adult man with a college degree that *anyone* is "made gay" is shockingly ignorant.... really.  Shocking.

Over the next few weeks I will painstakingly share MY version of what being "gay", growing up "gay" and everything else.... I will blog about the night I came out to my family, my friends, their reactions.  The night I came out to El Capitan - and later to La Novia.  I will blog about my new life - my new friends - and telling the children.... 

This *will* bring ridicule upon me.  I know what some people will say and suggest... I can already hear the slurs and the nastiness... and that's ok.  I've done it before - I've weathered that storm and came out the other side and was *still* willing to be open and honest and bare...... but THIS story.  The story of ME - is more important than almost any other I've ever told before because there are too many of us PARENTS who are ignorant to the sexuality/gender identity of our children.... and - some of us are still living in closets.....

So.... here goes........ 

When I was 9 years old I was at a sleep over and all the other little girls were talking about boys.... I was talking about boys, too:  I was always boy crazy.  BOY.CRAY.ZEEEEE.  and then some.  We planned our weddings, down to our taffeta dresses and super long trains - because every little girl in the 1980s wanted to be like Princess Diana.

I chased boys on the playground, I dreamed of being Cinderella and having a Prince.... I gushed over Michael Jackson and Jason Bateman and Jerry O'Connell.  I was *very much* a child who craved, not so much attention, but acceptance and validation - I would do anything to 'fit in' and make other people happy - especially my loving and doting parents.  

So.... raised on a healthy diet of Sweet Valley High books and love songs by The Cure:  I was boy crazy.

My Barbie's however.... they were queer as f*ck.... lol.  I was very interested in how girls might have sex.... where did the parts go?  Who got on top?.... I was too young to understand about fingers and strap-ons... so my Day to Night Barbie (a special gift from some family friends from Australia) used to "scissor" with Golden Dream Barbie (she had a plastic curling iron that would "curl" the gold wires in her hair)..... for those who need to know, "scissoring" ... you can look it up.  lol

*I* was boy crazy and in love with Jason SomethingWithAMullet in the third grade and Troy WithTheBlondCurlyHair in the fifth grade and one of the many "Aarons" we had in our class in the sixth grade.... Day to Night and Golden Dream, however, kept getting it on in the cardboard Town House complete with white pillars and plastic yellow hand-pulled elevator.  Those lezzies were gay.  Believe that.  

Up to this point I had been raised for half my life in my Grandparents Jewish home.... I knew that G*d was good and kind... but piss The Man off and you'll be a pillar of salt, yo.  For reals.  That's some scary sh*t when you're a kid.... when we moved away The Bubbie decided we would all be Catholic (don't ask me why.....) - so it was off to Catholic Church I went.

I did the communion thing in my white dress and promised to G*d to be pure and honest and good.... and you know the whole white dress/veil thing is *meant* for you to be a "bride" of sorts  - and I understood that the underlying message was that I should be a "good girl" and grow up to marry a "nice boy".  (oopsie on that one, eh? just kidding....)

I had my First Communion, my Confirmation... I went to Church every Sunday and Youth Group once a week. I worked in the Nursery for the earlier Mass.... I prayed the Rosary and when I was 9 if you had asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up I would *very seriously* tell you that I was going to grow up, get married, have kids and either my husband would die or I would divorce him, then I would become a Nun, and then a saint.  I knew all about the Saints, my *favorite* Saint being St. Agnes.  I knew all their names, how they died for the G*d we both loved and followed.... I knew what they were the patrons of -  instead of trading baseball cards or Garbage Pail Kids cards - I collected metal charms of all the various Saints and wore them on a chain around my neck.

I knew a lot about Saints.... mostly, I knew for *sure* they weren't gay.... and therefor, neither was I.
Well... I didn't *have* to be.  I could chose G*d - I could choose to live His life, marry a man, have 2.5 kids, living a house with a picket fence and die.... happy.  
Right?

It was *clear* that if I wanted my parents to be happy....I would choose this path.
It was *clear* that if I wanted to make my loving G*d happy.... I would choose this path.
and while my sexuality wasn't clear to me at all..... I knew *who* I wanted to make happy:  The Bubbie, The Papa and G*d..... isn't that what most kids want?

So.  No one "made" me gay..... however, I can tell you down to the year when I was "made" straight.  

It's no one's fault.  My parents hold a certain faith - they value that faith and hoped that the morals and values of that faith would be instilled in me and make me a better person.... and for the most part:  it did.

I wanted nothing more than to make G*d The Father proud of me... *happy* with me.... so while Day to Night continued to have her dirty Romans 1:26-27 way with Golden Dream on a daily basis, *I* continued to chase boys on playgrounds, pass notes folded into tiny origami shapes and wear Paul WithTheCrewCuts jean jacket through the fifth grade because we were "going steady".

These early days... before sweaty hand-holding and kissing.... they were easy.  Being with boys was fine because really... I spent all my time with girls anyway - playing after school, riding bikes, having sleep overs.... making those paper "fake nails" and eating popcorn and lip-syncing into hairbrushes with Angie my childhood BFF.... I never "crushed" on a girl until I was much, much older......

My world was a bubble of happiness.... straight fed, straight raised, straight fueled:  happiness.
Gay.... however, did not exist.  
I had no concept of who I was and how I felt because no one exposed me .... to myself.  

No one showed me pictures of two woman holding hands and said:  this is normal.
No one showed me showed me an image of a family with two "Moms" and said:  this is okay.
No one showed me a picture of two brides on their wedding day and said:  this could be you.

I thought only *men* were gay and some kid named Jeremy WhoWasTheTallestBoyInSchool told me once by the tire swing that gay men got "raids" from Monkey's..... I wasn't sure what 'raids' was - but I was glad I was not a gay man and that I didn't have a monkey. because it all sounds *bad* and *wrong*... very, very wrong.

I knew that I wasn't a man..... so I thought I couldn't be gay.
Ergo.... problem solved:  I'm straight.  Phew.
Sigh.

Before I had a chance to grow up and grow *into* my own primal feelings.... I was already being told that they were wrong and bad and not something I should do or be..... 

And, like any "good" Catholic girl I chose G*d.  I chose the only path that had been presented to me that would lead to a "happy" life  and meet the approval of The Bubbie, The Papa and G*d.

I chose to be straight.

So..... when it gets down to brass tax.... can *YOU* tell me when you chose to be straight?
Probably not.

I can tell you when I chose to be straight... because the truth is, I thought it was my only choice.
I couldn't understand why my loving G*d who knit me in my mothers womb when He created me wonderfully and  fearfully and where all the day of my life were already written and ordained by G*d (Psalm 139: 13-18) could screw this up because in The Bible G*d doesn't make mistakes and only men are gay and gay is bad and gets you 'raids' from monkeys .... well....it took me a very long time to understand that like it or not, *understand it* or not .... G*d did make me, and when He did... *G*D* made me gay.  

So..... nasty email writing husband of The Friend:  G*D made me gay... not El Capitan. 
And now.... we all know, but I *really* wish someone had told 8 year old me that it didn't have to be that way.... that I didn't have to choose, that I didn't have to be so quick to define myself .... that I could have just been *me*.... 
#biggestregretofmylife