Guess Who's Coming to Dinner!

There was a time (not very long ago, I might add) that I believed myself to be one of the few human beings on the face of the planet without prejudice of any sort. As a young girl, I remember being outraged (yes, I was capable of outrage even then) whenever I would encounter blatant acts of disregard, disrespect, or cowardice directed at a soul visibly different from the offender. I vowed privately and aloud that when I had my own children, I would make double sure that they understood my belief that people were people, beautiful and equal, no matter what package they happened to arrive in. Being raised Pentecostal AND southern, you might and should imagine that there were numerous opportunities for me to refine my outrage and individual responses. Up until not very long ago, I took great pride, amid all of my gargantuan screw ups as a mother, in the fact that teaching love, acceptance, and equality was the ONE thing I was getting right. Then came the birthday dinner. This birthday dinner was like no other, in that though it was not MY birthday, it gave me cause to re-examine myself as a mother and as a human being, in a way that was terribly enlightening and uncomfortable all at once. To celebrate my father-in-law's birthday, the family decided to meet at a local Japanese restaurant. You all know the one: flying shrimp, loud banging, hot, legal fire on the table, the whole sha bang. I dressed the kids in their mid-finest, lectured about table manners all the way to the joint, and made mental love to the fresh sushi awaiting me. Granted it was past bedtime. It was a given that I was to have a full glass of icy Sprite dumped into my clean, warm lap. I never questioned the fact that the spawn would harass the "chef" to the point of jaw muscles twitching. What I did not take into account, not once, was the two people who would join us for dinner. As you well know, in order to pack people in as tightly and lucratively as possible, you must share your table with strangers until you are sitting atop one another and all visible and invisible seats are full. As we settled in, I became aware of the two very amorous females who would be joining us for the remainder of our family night. One was obviously well on her way to a next day hangover, and her friend was playing catch up as quickly as possible. As they whispered words of great fondness into every ear they could find (no, I wasn't eavesdropping. I have already explained that I was sitting in her lap, and could probably tell you her t-shirt size), I was suddenly confronted with a "Holy crap. I do not know what I'm feeling right now, except that I know I am uncomfortable, sweating, and praying to God that I can keep my children's attention away from the love fest so that I don't have to try to make whole sentences in my brain right now." Or something like that... My husband was ignoring it as best he could, even as I gave him the "Please help me Do SOMETHING... crazy.... this is such a weird, unusual, I haven't been here in a very long time, I'm having trouble breathing" wacko eye. He shrugged his massive shoulders at me and went back to his miso. Affection started to bubble and pour over as the ladies began to make out. No, I didn't say order take-out. M.A.K.E. O.U.T. There were tongues, giggles, squeezes and sighs bouncing left and right when I finally did it. I made mommy eye contact. I had found my reasoning. Realized the origin of my perspiration. Decided what my heart felt and knew to be right, and knew that I could still rest comfortably in my "Super hero love the world" mommy position. It was not that two girls who loved one another had decided to step out in public for a bit of sake and sushi. It was not that I had worry of "lesbian germs" hopping seats and landing on my little girl, for I know in my heart that I would and will love and support either of my children in any healthy decision that they may make in the course of their lives. It was simply this: I did not want to see this public mating ritual, especially while eating, even more so while eating with my small people. It could have been two boys, two girls, boy and girl, monkey and elephant, so on and so forth, and it would not have mattered. It all boiled down to time and place. So I did (I think) what any other mother who does not live in the Playboy Mansion would do. I gave them the "There are children and adults who are trying to swallow their fried rice here, who so not want to witness your body search, who have no desire to try to explain to the two small ones under six why you must keep looking for treasure under one another's shirts" mommy glare. I said a million things with one tiny, totally silent, almost non-existent cut of the eyes. With my gaze only, I told them that it wasn't because they chosen to love each other. I told them it had nothing to do with lifestyle. I told them I actually hoped that they lived the rest of their lives as happily as they were living at that very moment. I told them I loved my children that much and more, and that I wasn't quite ready, whether it be in regards to same sex love or man/woman love, to explain that sort of physical expression to my children...or at least not in THIS place of the flying seafood, complete with real, live models. Finally, I thanked them for understanding (because their eyes and smiles assured me that they did) that we were all, all three of us, doing it out of the deepest, most beautifully honest, sincere spaces of our souls.