I've started taking Jake to swimming lessons. He's getting along very well, WAY better than I feared.

Jake is, well, Jake likes to do things Jake's way and telling him that Jake's way of doing things isn't quite like the World's way of doing things can get messy.
He won't throw a tantrum. Or whatever it is that he's holding. He just gets really upset that he thinks he has something all figured out and then when you tell him that he doesn't his lip sticks out and you can actually FEEL his tiny little heart break and you can HEAR the tears flood his eyes and while he won't cry about it, I sometimes do.

I don't really want to wreck his independence and creativity, but I can't have him screwing stuff up either. Or swimming doggy style his whole life. (Is there a nicer, less burlesque way of saying that? There has to be. Something about a paddle, maybe? Now I'm thinking about spanking. I have no idea why anyone ever gave me a license to blog.)
Someday that kid will invent something, I'm sure.

I just hope that it is something good. When he is bad, I secretly call Jake the Duobomber. The second coming of Ted Kaczynski. If something goes wrong in his life I will send up a red flag, I promise. The boy is crafty, and sometimes that scares me.

Anyway. Swimming is going very well. Jake loves the teacher and is catching on pretty quickly. Things he won't even do in the tub he will do in the pool. Which is good, because at this rate the pool is the only prayer he has for being completely clean.

After class is over, I take Jake for a treat. Saturday we went to the coffee shop right next to my gym. The gay coffee shop right next to my gay gym. I enjoyed a fat free iced vanilla latte and Jake washed his chocolate chip cookie down with some lemonade and the patrons went wild for my very handsome son and his amazing brown eyes with their milelong lashes and Jake ate that right up too and told everyone his name and age and counted to 25 and told everyone wearing Chuck Taylors that he wears Chuck T's too and sang Life is a Highway and doled out high fives and we all laughed and had a great time and Jake waved goodbye to those that left before us and thanked the baristas for making him a snack on our way out and a bluebird opened the door for us and we walked on plush green grass with bunnies and baby deer and kittens wearing big blue velvet bows all the way to the bus stop.
Kidding about the last part. But just barely.

Jake took a nap on the ride home and I got to thinking how goddam lucky I am to live in a town where gay men feel free enough to tell some chick that her son is beautiful without the fear that she will point her finger and yell GO TO HELL YOU SINNER ASSHOLE KIDDIEFUCKER!!! CALL THE POLICE, HE WANTS TO STICK HIS DIRTY AIDS DICK INSIDE MY BABY!!! Because in lots of towns all over our country, all over our world, a mother would freak the eff out in a minute if a faggot said that her boychild was beautiful.
Never mind the fact that it is totally okay for strange women to tickle random babies in the store, or hug the neighbor's toddlers in a park, and the motives of women are almost never questioned when they stop other women to poke at the kids on the street and ask where they go to school and what block do they live on and where do they hang out and where do they take dance class/karate/soccer/whatever it is kids are into these days.

Reason 876g why I love my town: Unrivaled tolerance and the general attitude that nobody gives two shits who/what/when/why/how you like to fuck, as long as both fuckers are growedass consenting fuckers.
I think we are still concerned with where. I'm pretty sure there are still laws and mores about that.