We've been here almost four years now and everything is pretty good. I like my school and I've made a lot of new friends, some since we first moved and some new ones every year. There's always some jerk who likes to make life difficult, but Papa says they're just ignorant and unhappy. Since the last person to call me circus midget also set off the fire alarms and broke the fire extinguishers while he was at it, I'd say Papa is probably right.

I know. Circus midget. It's not even creative. I'm tiny and I have curly hair. Har dee har har.

So, I get asked all the time, "What's it like having two dads," and I still haven't figured out how to answer. I mean, it's like…having two dads? One isn't the mom which totally makes me mad when people assume that. It doesn't help that Papa does things that people normally consider mom things like cooking and baking and sewing but have you seen him? Have you met him. He's a guy. G-U-Y guy. Dude. Who, you know, happens to cook and bake and sew and tut at me when I don't fold my clothes with a stupid t-square or something. But, he's my dad. And Dad's my dad. And they love each other and they love me, so that's what it's like. I can't think of a better way to say it.

Other than it's awesome. Because it is. Yeah, I still miss Mom now and then. I mean, she was my Mom but Papa and Dad are just…well, like we've always said, we make a good trio. And, I'm a guy and thanks to Papa, I like to bake and sew now too, so how's that for you? I even made my own monster a few months ago. He sits up on my shelf with Lizzie. Keeps her company. Even monsters shouldn't be alone, right?

Anyway, it's awesome. New York's awesome. I love living here. With Papa and Dad.

Except for times like one night last week. Sometimes two dads, two moms, a mom and a dad, a parent and whoever they're dating, whatever your deal is, can be a big pain in the butt. Because sometimes they fight. And oh my god, do they fight over stupid things.

I was in my room doing some math homework, so the night couldn't have gotten much worse anyway. Math and I are not good friends, especially mixed number fractions. They make my brain bleed. Sort of like hearing Papa and Dad fight over stupid stuff.

"Blaine, for the love of…how many times…?"

"What? I didn-…what are you even…?" I heard the television go off and I knew it was going to be a doozy. Dad doesn't watch much TV or sports, but he has a few football games he really likes and you just…you know, you don't interrupt them.

"How many times do I have to ask you to take your glasses and cups to the sink?" I could just picture Papa standing there over the coffee table pointing at it like he was accusing it of some crime.

"But, it's not even mi-…"

"This. THIS table was your idea, if you recall. Let's get the mahogany, Kurt. It will last longer. It's classic. Timeless. Well, sir. It won't last forever if you keep letting your juice glasses sit here and condense all over it all day."

"So, now it's my fault we got higher quality furniture AND when they show any signs of age – they are four years old now, Kurt – that's somehow my fault too?"

"I believe the problem is you not using a coaster and leaving half-filled glasses all over the apartment."

"So mahogany has nothing to do with it. Why did you even bring it up?"

I thought I was going to scream. I mean, really? Why didn't we just get metal tables and chairs and we'd never have to worry about condensation, rings, dings or who left their juice glass there all day. Adults are, were, always will be weird. I don’t care that it's not nice to say. It's simply true.

"Because…because I feel like I'm running out of reasons and arguments to get you to just put.your.glass.in.the.sink. And? Why don't you ever drink it all anyway? It's wasteful. Honestly, Blaine."

"You know why I never drink it all? You really want to know?"

Dad was mad now. I could tell he was standing and they were doing that arm flailing thing they do and…oh my goodness.

"No Blaine. Do tell me the existential reasoning behind leaving half-filled glasses all over the house and on our FINE mahogany furniture."

"Because I keep thinking that maybe. Just maybe. One time you'd stop buying that gawd awful brand of apple juice but you know. You don't. You keep buying it and I pour and think, after x-many years, he'll get it and then I take a swig and nope. It's tin. For four years, it's been tinny apple juice."

"Then, I suggest you start doing the grocery shopping yourself. And maybe while you're at it, you could learn how to read so you could check the label first. Oh, and maybe learn how to write so if you have such a specific niggling little need, you could properly note it on the list and not tell me in the middle of an argument where I'm likely to not only ignore it, but forget it."

"It's APPLE JUICE. How complicated can that be!?"

And that's when I'd had it. You know, having two dads is awesome. Except when they need another dad to snap them out of their stupid. I might only be nine and a half, but I know stupid when I hear it. And Dad and Papa? Were being stupid. So, I went out. And prayed I wouldn't get grounded until my 18th birthday.

"Give me the glass."

"Adrian, not now." Papa yanked it away from me. Like.a.child. Honestly.

"Papa, please. May I have the glass? It's mine."

"It's…what?"

"It's mine. From this morning. I'm sorry I didn't use a coaster and I'm sorry that I left it half full."

"Ha. I tried telling you that it wasn't mine, Kurt but you just wouldn't let up."

"Dad. You do this every single day. If it's not here, it's on the table in the hall. I can't figure out how or why you leave a glass of juice on that table, but you do it. Every stupid day."

"You do, you know." Now Papa was just being smug. Adults. I swear, they are so childish sometimes.

"Well, I get…sidetracked."

Papa and I looked at him like he'd grown another head. How do you get sidetracked at the same spot every day? That didn't even make sense.

"Dad, just…oh my god." I took both of their hands and pulled them into the kitchen. I dumped the glass, rinsed it and put it in the dishwasher. "See? It's not that hard."

"Alright, Adrian, your tone is pushing it."

"I know. I'm sorry, but just…if you don't want him yelling about it, just do it."

Papa crossed his arms like he'd won an auction on an entire Alexander McQueen men's line. But, I wasn't done.

"And Papa? Your apple juice sucks. Minute Maid tastes like…" I could see he was stiffening up and getting all weird and snappy, so I grabbed the glass back out of the dishwasher and poured him some. "Try it."

"I'm not fond of apple juice."

I thought Dad's head actually might pop off at that point, but I just glared at him. Papa has taught me the best glares and oh my god, do they ever work.

"A sip. Please?"

So he tried and he made a funny face and he dumped the glass and the jug of apple juice out without saying a word. Until, all prim and proper he asked, "What brand would you gentlemen prefer?"

"Motts."

This is why I love my Papa. He took the pen that was strung onto the grocery list on our fridge, wrote down Motts Apple Juice and that was that. No more tinny apple juice.

And Dad, you know, he hasn't left his half empty juice glasses anywhere since. Even water. Or pop. Or beer. Of course, he never left those half empty to begin with. Dad loves his beer.

So, at that point, I just left them staring at each other in the kitchen.

And on the way back to my room, I looked at that little table in the hall? There's a vase where Papa keeps fresh flowers, and? A picture I took of them on their wedding day. Nana gave me a camera and I had so much fun snapping pictures. Most of them sucked, but this one, well.

It's no wonder Dad gets sidetracked. They're so in love, it's a miracle the picture doesn't melt every time someone looks at it.

Anyway, before I closed my door I heard an apology and the smack of a kiss and then an offer for a glass of wine. There was the pop of a cork and then their bedroom door closed.

Come to think of it, I don't think they ever came back to kiss me goodnight.

I've learned that around here? That's a really good sign.