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  While we were trying to get pregnant, I told my mother that Elvira and Chloë had asked me to be their donor. I braced myself for a negative reaction, but my mother’s response wasn’t critical. She asked me how raising the child would work and if I’d thought carefully about all the ramifications. Her questions were thoughtful and practical. She’d met Elvira and Chloë and had immediately liked them. After I explained what my role would be—deadbeat donor—she gave her blessing, “All right.” Then she said as an afterthought, “Children are wonderful, but you’re opening yourself up to the possibility of great pain.” She looked at me intently, making me think that she was referring to my sister Carol’s suicide. Her comment made me reflect on how courageous it is to have a child. Unconditional love also holds out the threat of unconditional pain. Her comment wasn’t meant to shake my resolve but was more of a reflection on how much both my mother and I missed my sister.

  A few weeks later, my mother called and I told her I was packing for a flight to Toronto.

  “For the miracle?” she asked, which made both of us laugh.

  When Chloë and Elvira called to tell me we were pregnant, I experienced the thrilling elation that’s always portrayed in television shows and movies as a moment of rapturous joy. And it is. It was one of those moments where you remember exactly where you were when you heard the news. I was in a 1960s-vintage motel room with my friends and colleagues in Key West in a show called Funny Gay Males. When I broke the news to them, one of the Males, Danny, responded, “Oh, Mrs. Smith, you’re going to be a mother!”

  Chloë was six months pregnant when she and Elvira were married in Toronto. I was their best man and was horribly tempted, as comedians often are, to introduce myself with a joke to their family and friends. “Hi, I’m Bob,” I imagined myself saying. “I’m the best man who knocked up one of the brides.”

  When it got closer to the baby’s due date, we discussed the actual birth. Chloë and Elvira wanted the birth to be an intimate event between the two of them and asked nicely if I would wait to visit the baby after he or she was born. Their request seemed reasonable to me; I didn’t mind not being at the baby’s birth because I hadn’t been at the conception either.

  Chloë and Elvira were convinced the baby was a boy while I had no doubt she was a girl. I can’t explain my certainty other than a gut feeling that after my sister’s death, which had been devastating for me, another woman would enter my life. My conviction wasn’t based upon a belief in reincarnation. It was based upon a belief in symmetry; an important woman had left my life, and the universe owed me one.

  I wanted Chloë and Elvira to feel that the baby was theirs, although I did insist on being the first person they called after the baby was born.

  Speaking in a low voice, Elvira called and left me a message on November 25 announcing the birth of Madeline Inez Brushwood Kurt. She was in Chloë’s hospital room, trying not to wake her. I’ve received several birth announcement calls, and the caller’s voice is always suffused with the unmistakable sound of incredulity and relief. Every sentence sounds like it’s punctuated with a question mark. Listening to the message, I realized how relieved I was by the news. You avoid thinking about all the horrible things that could go wrong, but those fears can’t be shaken until the baby makes an actual appearance. During her pregnancy Chloë had preeclampsia, and her health was as much a concern for us as the baby’s.

  I immediately called my mother. “Oh, that’s wonderful!” she said.

  Meeting Madeline for the first time, I wondered if I’d feel some special connection with her and worried that perhaps I wouldn’t. We met when she was one month old. I’d already seen photographs of her and was relieved that she looked cute. (Other less partial observers told me they thought she did also.) Shortly after I arrived, Madeline fell asleep in my arms. While I lay on the couch for two hours, she slept on my stomach, and all the tender feelings of love I hoped would appear did.

  From the start, Maddie has been wildly enthusiastic about being alive; her first word was “Wow!” (I’m still not certain this wasn’t part of an incomplete exclamation, “Wow! All three of you are queer?”) Every time I see Maddie, I observe new aspects of her: her love of drawing with watercolor markers, her excitement when holding a tiny frog in her palm, her telling me that she wants to paddle the canoe, and then her instantaneous discovery that it’s much better to be a passenger as she handed me the oar. People are always asking me, “Does she resemble you?” Physically she doesn’t. She has blue eyes and blonde hair, but her love of frogs is mine and so, unfortunately, is her desire to have someone else paddle.

  One of the unexpected bonuses of becoming a deadbeat donor is that it became a new source of material for my stand-up act. People always assume that comedians do everything for material, but in my case it honestly didn’t occur to me. But then I’d make a remark to my friend Eddie Sarfaty such as “I love that there are gay parents now. Twenty-five years ago, did anyone ever think that one day bottles of poppers and lube would need childproof caps?” He laughed, and then I thought it was so wrong to think that—let alone say it. But of course, I’ve said that onstage, and it’s gotten a big laugh. And then I added, “That’s so wrong for me to be saying that.” And that also gets a laugh.

  After Madeline was born, my mother naturally wanted Chloë and Elvira’s address in Toronto to send a gift for the baby. A dress and card were sent, followed a month later by Christmas presents and a card. Then a New Year’s card, and Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, and Easter cards—basically every holiday except for Arbor Day and Lincoln’s birthday.

  It soon became apparent to all of us that while I wasn’t going to be Madeline’s dad, my mother was going to be one of her grandmothers. This concerned me because I hadn’t discussed it with Elvira and Chloë. It was logical because my mother had no other grandchildren, and she’d mentioned to me several times in the past that she hated that. “All the girls in card club talk about their grandchildren,” she said enviously. “I’m sick of it.” For almost forty years my mother has played pinochle with the same group of women, and my mother was the only one without grandchildren. Chloë and Elvira quickly dispelled any concerns I had that my mother might be infringing upon them. They immediately dubbed my mother “Grandma Sue.” A trade imbalance of baby clothes from Buffalo soon followed.

  My mother’s unconditional love for Madeline gratified me. And her love was clearly unconditional because at Madeline’s first birthday party, we heard that Maddie was using her tiny fingernails like a velociraptor, scratching kids at her day care. My mother laughed approvingly. “She’s a pistol!” Later when Maddie swatted me and cut my upper lip, my mother appeared to be delighted. “She won’t take anything from anyone!” When I checked my gashed lip in a mirror, I realized I wasn’t upset either. I loved that at the age of one, Maddie already displayed the attitude of a tough biker chick wielding a switchblade: “Don’t fuck with me or I’ll cut you!” My response reminded me of my father’s when in the eighth grade I was suspended for three days for fighting. My dad was more pleased than upset when he heard the news.

  Elvira and Chloë decided they wanted a brother or sister for Maddie, and they asked me for another donation. Our son, Xander, was born when Maddie was four.

  Giving my mother grandchildren has given me a leg up in my mother’s esteem. And I’m also not above using them to get my way with her. Before an election I always worry that my Republican brothers will sway my mother to vote for their repulsive candidates, so I use my trump card. I remind my mother that the Republicans are antigay. “You know, Mom, if Madeline and Xander lived here, the Republicans would be against their parents.” And I’ll add, “They’re also antienvironmental. So your grandchildren will inherit a shitty planet.” It thrills and amuses me when my mother responds, “Those bastards!”

  I’ve always been an environmentalist, and I want my children to enjoy a beautiful world, so global warming isn’t an impersonal issue for me. If you’re a pa
rent voting for antienvironmental, climate-change-denying idiots who don’t conserve anything, then child protective services should put your kids in foster care, since it’s clear you don’t care about their welfare. I definitely want to teach Maddie and Xander that being angry about other people’s selfishness and lack of compassion is actually a virtue.

  I don’t dwell on the hardships or dangers Madeline and Xander might face—or the sorrow they might experience—because I’m consumed with the more distressing anxiety that I might be the one to hurt them. About a year after Madeline was born, I was diagnosed with ALS/Lou Gehrig’s disease. (I don’t have familial ALS, I have the sporadic version, so Maddie and Xander won’t inherit this fucking illness.) While I worry about my health, I also worry about my children. I’m afraid I’ll die before they are old enough to know—or even remember—me, and I’m immodest enough to think that people who don’t know me are missing out on something terrific. During the last ten years, Maddie and Xander have seen me lose my voice; it has made Maddie cry since she thinks I’m dying. I don’t want them to remember me for this fucking disease.

  There are so many things I want to share with Maddie and Xander; for example, how marvelous it is that they are Canadian. My father was born in Canada, and they come from a long line; they’re eighth- or ninth-generation Canadian. Their direct ancestor Nicholas Smith fought with Butler’s Rangers and the Iroquois against the Americans during the Revolution, something I never learned until my midforties. My grandfather lived in Buffalo for his entire adult life but always proudly referred to himself as a Canadian. (He would watch the late-night American news and also the Canadian news, which seemed strange to me as a child because in the pre-cable days, television reception from Canada was a blur of snow. I now think that was strangely apropos.) It’s amusing to think that being American was a one-generation aberration.

  I’m not worried that Maddie and Xander will be bereft of wise counsel since their parents, Elvira and Chloë, are two of the smartest, most loving, and thoughtful people I know. Of course, it’s hard not to wonder while I’m writing this if Maddie and Xander will be reading it when I’m dead. (Hi, Maddie! Hi, Xander!) Books have been vastly important in my life—as both a reader and a writer. I’ve learned that the great gift of literature is that someone else’s tale becomes a chapter of your story. And I still feel books are the best art form for making contact with another consciousness, which is why reading a good book by yourself never feels lonely. But I don’t want Maddie and Xander to know me only through my books.

  I also have a small store of wisdom I’d like to impart to them: my belief that it’s okay to be skeptical but never to be cynical; and my one litmus test for all religions—never believe in a god who’s meaner than you are. (And I’m limiting the “you” in that sentence to Maddie, Xander, and myself because you—the reader—could be a nasty nutjob.) My most important piece of advice would be to have fun, something Maddie and Xander already understand instinctively.

  On our last day at Treehab when Michael first met Maddie, the four grown-ups were sitting at the picnic table drinking coffee while Maddie was drawing on the deck with bright-colored chalks. She drew a green frog surrounded by magenta daisies. Next she drew two stick figures holding hands. “This is Bob and Michael!” she shouted. One figure was cobalt blue, and the other one was rose colored.

  “Bob’s the pink guy,” Michael declared, making the four adults laugh.

  The deck was an island of sunshine surrounded by a dark tangle of trees. There were neighboring cabins, but the forest made other people seem like woodpeckers. You could occasionally hear them, but you’d have to search to find them. Sipping coffee in the woods feels like you’ve found the perfect balance between civilized and wild, an elusive ratio in every life.

  Suddenly a loon called out on the lake, a sound that is always called “haunting,” but that word has never seemed precise to me. The connotation of haunting is too somber for such an exhilarating cry. (My definition of an asshole would be someone who hears a loon’s call and says, “I hope we don’t have to hear that racket all night.”) Maddie kept drawing, which was fine because she’ll have many opportunities to hear a loon, but Michael had never heard a loon before. Then the loon flew over our heads and cried again, something I’d never observed before.

  A loon’s cry is beautiful and strange. Life is also beautiful and strange. It’s strange because we’re chalk drawings that will fade away. I want Maddie and Xander to know that their father thinks hearing a loon’s yawp is a better sermon than listening to any preacher. That holding a frog is more fun than holding a gun. That sitting at a picnic table in the sunshine in the woods with people you love is better than any fancy dinner with millionaires. And they’ll know it when they read this book.

  My Stone Age

  Even as a boy, I never understood the cautionary proverb “Curiosity killed the cat.” The trade-off sounds fair to me. The cat’s life might have been short, but at least it didn’t drag.

  My greatest adventure was due to my curiosity about whether I could become a comedian and writer. Most of the time, I’ve found that my initial curiosity can be satisfied quickly, as a short conversation with an underwear model once proved. But it’s marvelous and disturbing to admit that while I steadily develop new interests, I never seem to lose any of my old ones. I still enjoy almost all the things I liked as a boy and teenager: dinosaurs, UFOs, snakes and turtles, Native Americans, wild-life, history, Alaska, Canada, Australia, Russia, archaeology, ancient Greece, ecology, outer space, the Ice Age and Neanderthals, comedy, lost tribes, lost cities and lost civilizations, fossils, rocks and minerals, politics and presidential elections, architecture, art and artists, reading and literature, and Hercules movies. (Alas, I’m no longer interested in Hercules movies, although I’m still fascinated by men who look like demigods.)

  Recently I’ve been thinking about the curiosity of boys. When my son, Xander, was two years old, he was transfixed by toys, pets, spoons, deflated balloons, wagging fingers, crumpled-up balls of aluminum foil, and was fascinated by all people. Everyone. I guess a baby’s immune system to boredom also needs time to develop. Xander loved to pick up rocks; he thought they were dinosaur eggs. He also loved Lady Gaga’s music and demanded it in the car.

  Of course, I don’t think curiosity is determined by gender. At the age of five, his sister, Maddie, could tell you which dinosaur skeleton at the Royal Ontario Museum was a Maiasaura. But as an infant, Madeline was more reserved than Xander. Long before she could talk, she had a cool, appraising, blue-eyed stare that asked, “Who the fuck are you? And why are you holding me?”

  Xander was just beginning to talk and hadn’t started to listen. Once he learned to listen, he had a reason to cry after figuring out how dull and stupid some people can be. At the time, Xander’s tender smiles were bestowed upon the world with a largesse that was the essence of innocence. He reminded me that I was also a curious boy and have grown into a curious man.

  Not all of my juvenile interests stuck. I loved trains as a little boy and my father would drive me over to the railroad tracks to watch the choo-choos. Trains lose their allure once boys are old enough to understand that locomotives are just a form of transportation, and having a fascination with trains is about as interesting as having a fixation on buses.

  I can’t remember not being interested in dinosaurs. All parents encourage a love of dinosaurs since the chances of your kid finding a baby triceratops and bringing it home and begging to keep it as a pet are pretty small. By the second grade, I grew warm blooded at the thought of brontosaurs walking the earth. The trouble with being a child is that satisfying your curiosity is dependent on adults. It took weeks of nagging to get my mother to take me to the Buffalo Museum of Science, where she patiently let me look at every fossil exhibit while she puffed her way through a pack of Parliaments.

  When I wanted to buy a dinosaur book at the gift shop, she suggested that I borrow one from the public library, which was wit
hin walking distance of our house. I borrowed and read three children’s books on dinosaurs, a word I learned was Greek for “terrible lizards.” Terrible lizards was kind of a letdown. It made a Tyrannosaurus rex sound like an unhousebroken pet being scolded by my mother.

  After I finished those books, Miss Momberger, the librarian, kindly suggested that I try the adult section of the library to see what books they had on the subject. Miss Momberger was a tiny, elderly, unmarried woman whom my mother referred to as a spinster, a word that sounded appealingly like beatnik slang to my ear. (I went through a phase where I was enamored of beatnik slang. In the third grade, I said to my teacher, Miss Hill, “Cool it, daddy-o!” In retrospect, she was clearly a butch lesbian, which might explain why she didn’t take kindly to my remark.) Miss Momberger led me upstairs to the adult book section, and it felt like a rite of passage. She recommended the first book I ever read that had more print than illustrations. It was called All About Dinosaurs, an account of Roy Chapman Andrews’s fossil hunting expedition in the 1920s to the Gobi Desert, where the first dinosaur eggs were discovered.

  This immediately led me to the belief that fossils could be found anywhere, my reasoning being that the rocks of the Gobi Desert and rocks in the suburbs of Buffalo couldn’t be that different. That summer, I started hunting for fossils and made my first find at Allegany State Park. It still sits on a shelf in my living room. It’s a piece of shale with three impressions of 250-million-year-old brachiopods, which to the untrained eye look like prehistoric clams.