Man Child

I love Wednesday nights, it's my writing class. All those warm beautiful women in our cozy loft. It’s no accident. I’m supposed to be here - to learn something. They all have boys, I have a boy. Yes I know Susan has a daughter, but for the purposes of my writing I’ll ignore that. All boys. Men-children. Man-child. Raising a boy into a man. I’m supposed to learn something, what is it? It feels familiar, listening to their stories. There is traditional, the untraditional, then the traditional that became untraditional. Yet we all have the same tasks; to raise a man. Raise a man who won’t end up on Dr. Phil or worse Oprah - because he won’t wash a dish or wipe a child’s behind or wipe his own behind or say I love you I need you I want you.

Roz, I love you I need you I want you I feel you I learn from you I see you I cherish you I hear you I thank you I believe in you - in your dreams for yourself for me for Coleman for us. You/me, we gotta raise a man.

It’s not gonna be easy for me. I feel like I just got here. My entry into manhood is very recent, very, very recent. Like in the last couple of minutes.

I gotta show him how to be a man. I wasn’t shown by a man how to be a man I had my mom. No it’s not one of those sad stories you hear on the 6 o’clock news. It’s a great story - I’m here and I’m a man. So good job mom. Yes my mom is a pill. She’s long on unsolicited advice and short on patience for any opinions that don’t agree with hers, but I’m here and I’m a man. I could drag my mother to therapy and make her admit all the things she did wrong, but she would probably look at me like I was a fucking moron. So I’ll just let it go because I’m here and I’m a man. I’m a man and I have to raise a man, with Roz.

I can remember that September day. It was warm, the kinda warm that made you think summer was gonna last till December. I sat with my friend Nicole in her car waiting for Roz to show up. There she is: black wedge sandals, denim skirt, pink top. I can’t remember if the top was tube or halter, but I remember the shrug. Not really a sweater or a shawl, you just put you arms through it and it covers your shoulders. One of those bizarre pieces of clothing women wear, like the skort. Our first date, in a small Italian eatery in Chelsea. Sitting across from each other, dipping our bread in the olive oil and balsamic vinegar. My big smile, her big smile, our actor/waiter’s big smile. Scientists say subconsciously I was making sure her hips were big enough to birth my babies. Subconsciously she’s making sure I can provide for her and our babies, so our actor/waiter is gonna get a big tip.

The night is easy.

I feel at ease.

This is her, the woman who is going to help me raise Coleman.