Four Dads

Dad One was married to Dad Two until Dad Two left Dad One for Dad Three and Dad One met Dad Four on a dating app called “Bottoms Up.” 

What our two households lack in womanness they make up for with ripe-smelling loafers and small tufts of hair on freckled lower backs. The decor of both homes could be called minimalist, mid century, masculine, gay.

At the center there’s me, concentrated man, a father for each twigish limb.

As a unit our strides are giraffian: long and stiff, a zoological organization of muscled bodies and deodorized armpits.

I visit the houses of friends who have mothers and wonder over the way womanhood dots their lives: a claw clip on the bathroom sink, a limp bra in the hamper.

“You really don’t know anything about her?” My friend Pete asks, controller in hand.

“Nope,” I say.

“Dinner’s ready,” Pete’s Mom says, peeking her head into his bedroom. A smell of cinnamon wafts in. Pete doesn’t look away from the screen.

Returning home I feel disturbed by the purselessness of our house–the way hobo totes don’t dangle from door knobs. There’s a dusting of protein powder on the counter. Dad One is in his study, fashioning weapons out of rubber bands to use against the flies that land on his desk. Not even the kitchen smells like cinnamon.

“You could get a girl dog,” Pete texted me. “Did you know they’re called Bitches?”

Our family tree is tall and sinewy, a chromosomal Y with gnarled biceps and a brawny trunk. The fruit it blooms is fuzzy and firm like an unshaved quad. There is a buffet of fathering available to me at all times. And yet, there lies the missing rib, the ladylike hip of the question mark, the chromosomal X that starts at the center, and, forever, in every direction, moves away.

 

 

Even the Horses 

All the money we would have spent on children we spent instead on horses. Two stallions, four mares, five ponies, three stable boys, and 100 acres of land. We have water troughs, pitchforks, stablebrooms, wheelbarrows, daisy reins, coat conditioners, fly masks, camelina oil... I like the weight of my foot in the stirrup. I like the up and over of the leg. Horses don’t bend, they bow. In the saddle, I can lean over at any moment, wrap my arms around her giant neck, plant my face in her hair, be carried like a child. A canter is a three beat gait. A colt is a 4-year-old boy. The pink part of their noses are soft like a palm. The ponies wait like toys on the hill: stocky bodies, thick manes, short legs. A healthy horse is called a sound horse, as if we are listening for each other’s damage. The horses give birth to more horses. I feel proud as if I’d done it myself. A horse’s height is measured in hands. A filly is a 4-year-old girl. I muck and I muck and I muck the stalls. When it’s time to be brushed, they climb lazily onto their legs, bored by my need. I control them. “Do this, do this, do that, do that.” Lead ropes, curry combs, body brushes, mane comb, sweat sheets, bits, whips… From the window I watch them in the pasture, running, like children, unaware that they are owned, which makes them free, like children. Hackamore, hay net, hoof pick, horn. Gaskin, gallop, gelding, groom. Riding my horses makes me an equestrian. Nothing makes me a mother.