By Rebecca Donohue
Editor’s Note: In her first two installments, comedian Rebecca Donohue gave her future gayby some advice on oral hygiene and learning other languages. Today, she gets serious for a second.
Dear Future Gayby,
I think I have 16 years left to have you. Iʼm basing that on the fact that a woman
recently had two babies at 55 years old and then another one at 57. There is a woman
even older than that who had her ﬁrst baby at 60. But, Iʼm drawing the line there. I
donʼt think itʼs fair for me to be 80 or dead when youʼre 20. I think – though – that this
“how old is too old” conversation in regards to baby making is rather arbitrary. You see,
just the other day, myself, Wifesy, and two female friends had the “how old is too old”
debate. One of our friends, about 35 years young is trying to have a baby currently.
The other friend is also about 35. The lady trying for the baby was a little more “open”
to the idea of older parenting. The other friend was so annoyed about it that I thought
she was going to slap me in the face with the cold cuts I had provided. I thought at any
moment she might say, “B*tch, 55 is too old. After 40 is too old. You selﬁsh!” and then
slap me in the face with a piece of thinly sliced roast beef.
I donʼt know what I think. There is nothing wrong with having kids young if you
are somehow – magically – in the right frame of mind emotionally. However, I will say
young parents look dirty to me. Itʼs like theyʼve been rolling around in the mud trough
with their kids all day or ﬁnger painting their chests with the food remnants left on
highchair trays. Thatʼs great and all. You know, parents who are willing to get dirty with
their kids. But, at one point, the parent should be old enough to say – “Letʼs take a
shower. Other people might see us.” I want my kid to know that thereʼs a time for Pig
Pen-ish-ness. But, thereʼs also a time for silk shirts and expensive shoes.
I worry about Wifesy and I having you as older moms. As it stands now, weʼll
both be in our 40s when you ﬁnally come around. This means a slew of problems. For
example, Iʼve been having the occasional stomach issue as of late. Apparently, my
quickly approaching 40 body can no longer digest one of my favorite foods – Mexican –
which I have lovingly taken to calling, “Mexicanʼt!” So, I wonder when you ﬁnally come
around, will you ask to go to McDonaldʼs like all children do? Iʼll take you there and try
to order a cheeseburger for myself, but it will tear up my insides so much that the ER
doctor might say, “Her insides looked like she swallowed razor blades. What did she
eat?” And your little voice will have to look up and answer, “A cheeseburger. It was a
cheeseburger that killed my mommy.”
Now, thatʼs not fair. Plus, if I die, Iʼll need some type of contingency plan for you. If I
die, right now, in a childless-state, thereʼs not much to worry about giving away. Iʼd
have to ﬁnd someone to take good care of my comedy notebooks, a barely used
exercise bicycle, and my laptop, but thatʼs about it.
But, who in the hell would I leave my gayby to? This is a much harder decision. If
Wifesy is still here, not a problem, Iʼd trust her to raise a gorgeously gifted non-a-hole
version of a homo sapien, but others – well – I donʼt trust them so much.
However, Wifesy loves me so much I would expect (demand?) her to die of a broken
heart with me gone. If the broken heart didnʼt take her, the cheeseburger would
because Wifesy and I tend to share meals. Not to mention, Wifesy is even older than I.
So, the problem remains? Who would I leave you to? Who would be your best
guardian? Iʼd trust my brother, but he may have plans for kids of his own. And he has a
tendency to overeat rich foods, which has led to his gout problem. Therefore, I worry
that he will suffer an early foie gras death or death by some other kind of pate and red
wine disaster. He is a gay man, after all. Who in the hell does that leave? Not my
friends, my friends ﬂake out on dinner plans. Lord knows, theyʼd ﬂake out on a gayby.
There is only one answer – Jake Shears of the Scissor Sisters.
It takes a village to raise a gayby, my gays. Especially, when a lot of us are so feckinʼ
old. So, Iʼm asking – Jake Shears – will you raise my gayby in San Luis Obispo should
anything ever happen to me and Wifesy?
Weʼre going to your upcoming concert so you will say yes. Gayby, if he says no, just
follow him around in that closet full of matching outﬁts I made for you. No respectable
gay man can say no to a little one who looks just like him…wearing a matching, mini-
leather outﬁt. Wait, thatʼs not how I meant that…oh, you know what I mean!
Rebecca Donohue writes the Sweet Mother blog and spends her nights slinging jokes as a comedian in L.A. You can check out her comedy at www.beckydonohue.com and keep up with her blogging ways at www.sweetmotherlover.wordpress.com.