Priscilla King of the Kindergarten

See what happens when lesbians raise children...

So there we were Bets and I at a fairy princess birthday party in the enormous home of a school friend of Betsy's. We arrived late thanks to an earlier party at an ice-skating rink. The ice-skating party was a funky affair at an outdoor rink where Fat Boy Slim was blasting through speakers and kids and parents were falling all over themselves on the ice.

Walking into the fairy party was like stepping into another world. Middle-aged women dressed as fairy princesses were leading a parade of no less than 30 little girls each - with a musical instrument - around the house. A sweet friend of Betsy's took her hand and wove her into the parade. That left me alone in the manse with nothing to do but attempt to mingle with the other parents.

For me mingling with other parents is one of the hardest parts of parenting, harder even than sleep deprivation, diarrhea and snow days. I swallowed hard and headed for the kitchen.

There they were. Suffice to say it's a multi-million dollar crowd. No joke, our entire condo is the square footage of several of these family's foyers. It's just like that. Because it was an all-girl party none of the other lesbian moms were there. Even though there are six lesbian families in Betsy's class, they're all moms of boys. So there I was, the lone poor white lezzie in a crowd of heterosexual$. And my pants were damp and stained from skating all morning.

Hi everyone.

A dad approached me. The dads are frequently more forthcoming than the moms. Could be the moms are freaked by a lesbo, could be the dads are titillated. I'd seen the dad in question before, he's a short and serious fellow, goatee, crew cut. We got to talking. As we talked about carpool and sleep schedules I couldn't help but notice this man was even shorter than me (and I'm no tall drink of water at only 5'3"), that his voice was, well, high-ish. He looked at me with such an unblinking penetrating stare, I found myself squinting as if to read between the lines.

Blah blah blah about homework and camp.

What's different about this man?

Blah blah blah about after school.

There's something familiar about him.

Blah blah blah about language arts.

Something small and slight and wait a minute!

Blah blah about wood shop.

This man is a woman or was a woman! And I thought I was the odd girl out.

Around us were the straightest, most mainstream gazillionaires. Did they know? We finished our conversation. Our daughters came in for cake and raced away again. We each mingled with other parents and then everyone said their good-byes.

You never know is the moral of this day. The ice skaters with their funky Peruvian hats and beat-up Hondas in fact were all straight and blue-blood. While among the nouveau riche there was a transsexual.

You'd think that'd make mingling fun. But I still shudder at the thought of it. Maybe next time I'll go as a guy.