Tag Archives: lesbian families

Want Need Wear Read Christmas Challenge



My wife shared this idea with me and I love it. The thinking is that kids get overwhelmed at Christmas if there are too many gifts. If you have kids, and are lucky enough to be able to buy gifts, you’ve seen it on Christmas morning: that glossy stare. It means, “I’ve gotten too much. It’s all wonderful, but I can’t remember it all already.” It breaks down into a very crowded tree, tons of packages, trying to keep up getting them opened, and months later some or many gifts not played with, worn, or used.

Yes, it’s hard not to give your kids gobs of gifts (if you are able), but what message are we sending them? How about doing something different? Give them something they want, something they need, something to wear, and something to read. See how it goes.

We are doing it this year and it has already changed things for us. Shopping is easier and we’ve spent less. Which category is that? If we don’t know or it’s none of the 4 (and doesn’t belong in a stocking), then we don’t buy it. I will let you know how well it is received. 

Have any of you done this or anything like it? Share what you’ve tried in the comments so we can learn from each other. 

It’s Butch to give your kids presents while teaching them gratitude. Be Butch. 

Any Monday in June

Hi everybody,

What’s up? It’s one of those times where I want to say hi, want to write something brilliant, but I have no brilliance in me just now. Has this ever happened to you? That is, of course if I ever have brilliance in me.

My point is… What is my point? Well, I want to say hi. Want to write. But, alas, I’ve nothing interesting or pressing or important to say. Maybe y’all will just have to wait another week, like say till next Monday.20130618-085431.jpgYes, I’ll post something interesting, passionate, or funny next Monday. Oh, or maybe the Monday after that. Who knows. You don’t mind waiting do you?

No, I’m sure you don’t because this blog is fun and fluff. My goal is to entertain and maybe do some good along the way. But what about you, Supreme Court Justices? We want to hear from you. For some, our lives, loves, and families depend on hearing from you. Or more specifically, hearing the right thing from you.

You said on a Monday in June. We held our collective breath on the first Monday in June. Then again on the second. Now the third Monday in June has come and gone. You are running out of Mondays in June. In fact, there is only one Monday remaining, June 24th.


We will all (equal rights supporters and haters) be holding our breath next Monday.

It’s butch to be just and do the right thing for equality. Supreme Court Justices, I beg you… Be Butch.

On Being Butch … and Tristan


Usually as a big ol’ butch, I don’t have to come out. Walk into a room, people know I’m a lesbo – unless they mistake me for a dude. Whatev. But recently, I had to decide whether to come out. Again. The first time I was 17.

I knew it would happen. It had to at least if I was doing it right. I’m talking about my blog. I’ve written ButchOnTap as Butch Jaxon since the start. What? You thought that was my real name? I did it this way for lots of reasons:

1. It gives me the cover of darkness. Fail miserably? No worries. Say something too risqué? Not a problem.

2. It protected my then-girlfriend. She’s very private and I always wanted (and still want) to honor that. If I was Butch Jaxon it would be easier to share a few things about our lives, and she could decide with whom she wanted to share the blog, and therefore a little of her, and keep it private from everyone else.

3. It allowed me to shield my kids and parents. I’ve decided to put myself out there. They have not. Imagine, “Mom! Like, I’m sooo embarrassed! OMG!”

4. What about work? I’m not a professional writer promoting a book or movie (yet… but I’m open to all inquiries). I’ve a day job and one where my private musings might be frowned upon.

But, I always knew that if it took off, if I did it right and with a touch of luck, I’d have to switch to my real name eventually.

Well, as luck would have it, this happened over a week ago. A reader of my blog was kind enough to send my post, Why I Hate the TSA over to her friend Noah Michelson, the editor at the Huffington Post Gay Voices. Thank you Dara at Fascinate Media for doing me this unbelievable solid! She’s a writer and a media guru. You can find her at dara@fascinatemedia.net. I’m looking for the first possible moment to buy Dara a drink.

Turns out, the HuffPost wanted to run my piece. I was OVER THE MOON when I heard. I could not believe it. The HuffPost has like 45,000 subscribers online. They are massive, and they loved the piece, but can’t run anonymous authors for policy reasons. “Do you have a good reason to be anonymous? Are you in any danger?” Noah asked politely. Well, I have 4 good reasons, but danger? I figure if Salman Rushdie can publish under his own name, then so can I. I still had worries about my kids, family, any femme I might date, and my job, so I got some input from my best bro, parents, and a lovely femme I’m … somewhat sweet on. Sssh, don’t tell her.

All agreed that I’d be crazy to pass up this opportunity. My parents are 100% fine with you all knowing who they are. My kids are tough and I’ll keep shielding them. And as for dating, I think I’ve decided not to. Or at least, Butch has decided to be a confirmed bachelor – if you get my, erm, her meaning. And, I need to protect that lovely femme… you know, in case she’s sweet on me, too.

So, it’s on. I told Noah and he was wonderful. The post went up five days ago and it’s been an absolute blur since. I’ve been in Tokyo for work. The schedule and time difference have made it almost impossible for me to keep up as I like to. Meaning, I usually reply to each tweet, comment and Facebook post (at least to acknowledge the commenter). I appreciate you all so much! But, as of now, the piece has 399 comments on HuffPo and y’all have been tweeting, sharing, and commenting in other ways like crazy. Sometimes life gets in the way of art.

I had to decide if I wanted to come out as Butch. Did I want to subject myself to scrutiny? Meh. Does it change the kinds of things I can post, tweet and comment on? Yes, perhaps. But I’ve been pretty aware of this since the start. So, I say bring it. I’m ready to come out … As Butch. Jaxon. I mean, everyone who knows me, knows I am butch, but not Butch Jaxon. That’s me in the photo up there, by the way. I mean, the blog photo is me too, but you can actually see me in today’s shot. Hi!

One thing I will say I wasn’t quite ready for (though I should’ve been) were the negative comments. With my blog, I’ve only had one critical comment which I dealt with happily and head on – indeed I got to choose to post it for you all to read. With twitter and FB, zero negativity. The audience is smaller and more organic, I guess. With HuffPost proudly featuring me on their main page, I got lots of new eyes and some didn’t like what they saw. That’s ok, though. Bound to happen. “Not everyone is going to like you,” I say to my kids.

As I ended the TSA post, it’s butch to be yourself – no matter the cost. Be Butch. And for me, that also means … Be Tristan.

How to Date with Kids


Ah, the maternal looking femme. A model mother.

Dare I talk about this? I feel like a bit of a pariah in my community. I have … two kids. The death knell, I think, for dating. Sure, I know there are lots of lesbians with kids. But, these are mostly married or seriously committed partners who had kids together. That is no longer me – hasn’t been for a while.

It would be bad enough if I was a lovely, maternal looking femme. All soft and fluffy. Perhaps even driving a mini-van (shudder) or some sort of giant Tahoe and wearing a pink cashmere sweater. You know the kind of woman I am talking about? She is a perfect mother. Always has gum, never forgets water for the kid’s practices, can do a perfect French braid. Nurturing. You see her and it’s easy to see her as a mom.

But that’s not me. Nope. I am, in case you haven’t read anything else I have written, a big butch. A proud butch. I’ve got a Mohawk – check that little avatar over there. That’s me. People are ALWAYS surprised that I have kids. So, here I am, a big butch. I get it. I don’t really even talk that much here about having kids. There are several reasons for that. First, it’s not sexy. Second, it’s not always funny (sometimes, sure). And, third, I want to protect them. I am the writer opening myself up to scrutiny, not them.

Speaking of writers, a couple of months ago, my idol Butch Wonders *butch swoon* posted a great piece about dating a woman with kids. I’d like to talk about it from the other side. Here I am starting to date. Out and about. Ready to be suave and charming (don’t laugh, I’ll try hard and try hard not to look like I am trying hard!). And, I have all these questions about my kids and Her – that’s what I’ve nicknamed any woman I might approach or date. Pretty clever, I know.

1. When Do I Tell Her?

Oh, yes. Very, very smooth.

Oh, yes. Very suave and charming.

First and foremost, when is the right time to tell Her that I’ve got kids? Do I walk up, buy Her a drink, and as I am handing Her the Cosmo say, “I’ve got kids!” No. Clearly not. Turn off. What? Am I asking Her to marry me? But, how long do I wait? If She comes home with me, She will immediately see evidence of children. If not, it could be kept a bit. Not much more than a few days though, practically, because of my kid obligations. “Butch, let’s go to a movie this weekend.” Oh, I’m sorry, but… I, uh, can’t.” Why? Do I bust out the T-ball/martial arts/chorus practice reason?

I joke, and obviously I need to tell Her relatively quickly, but when? I don’t want Her to think that I am thinking so long-term that She has to be on board with kids now. What if we are just having a bit of fun?

2. When Do I Introduce Her?

My instinct here is pretty strongly that this doesn’t happen until I am very serious about Her. My kids have been through a divorce (from their mom) and the loss of my now-ex gorgeous fiancé. The kids love them both. I don’t think it’s fair to introduce a new Her every couple of months. Kids fall for people pretty quickly, and I don’t want Hers coming in and out of their lives too much.

The problem is that I can see this being a real sticking point with Her. “Don’t you love me?” Yes, I do (at some point, right?). “Well, why can’t I meet your kids?” I want to wait until the time is right. “When will that be?” Gosh, I just don’t know.

3. How Involved Is She Supposed To Be?

Assuming I haven’t scared every Her away, and we’ve moved on to being in love and introductions, what is Her role? My belief is that, although kids can never have too many adults in their lives who love them, they only need so many parents. As I said in Wanted: Femme for Butch, my kids don’t need another mother – they already have 3.

I want Her to be a good role model. I want Her to be kind. I want Her to be happy to see them and spend time with them. But, I don’t want Her so attached that She wants to take over my role. I will handle the care and feeding of my munchkins. She gets to be a happy bystander for the hard stuff, and hopefully, a willing participant in the good stuff.

4. Is It Alright If My Kids Know I am Sleeping With Her, or a Variety of Hers?


Would that I dated often enough to actually have one of these…

Being a shy and proper butch, I am very concerned about my kids knowing that I am committing cardinal sins with Her (or a variety of Hers). Cough. Anyway, religion out of it, I don’t really want my kids thinking about this. We haven’t had the birds and the bees talk yet, so I think I am safe for a while. My point really is that if I date, I don’t want my kids to see a revolving door – regardless of how frequently that door actually revolves. Anyone have any WD-40?

Interestingly enough, my kids gave me the perfect opening to discuss this with them recently. Both of them are pressuring me to get a girlfriend – which if you think about it is adorable and kind of hilarious. Why, guys? “We just want you to have one.” Anyway, when they said this a week or so ago, I jumped at the chance to talk about dating. I said that I was ready to date, and indeed was out and about having fun. I told them that I was going to keep them from the details, that I might start seeing someone and not introduce Her. My daughter was shocked and said, “You are going to date behind our backs?”

I laughed and said, “No, I am going to date right in front of you. I’m just not going to introduce you to anyone for a while.” Why? I explained that I didn’t know when I might find the Her that would be in my life (and, thus, their lives) for a period of time, and I didn’t think it fair to introduce them to a bunch of women. Now, I realize that I might be making myself out to be a real ladies man here, and sadly, this is really not the case. But, hopefully, you get the point. The kids seemed to accept this, although they didn’t like it.

I wish I had a crystal ball the moment I meet Her. One where I could gaze at it and peer into the future. If I could see that She will be in my life a year later, two years later, of course I would introduce Her to the kids. But, how do I know?

One Her to Rule them All

One Her to Rule them All

As lucky as I would be to find the One True Her (the one to rule them all) right out of the gate, I think that is unrealistic. Of course, if the Universe sends me the Femme from my Want Ad, I suppose all bets are off. But still, when do I introduce Her to my kids? Help me out, friends.

It’s butch to protect your kids, isn’t it? Be Butch.

“MOM! The Tooth Fairy Didn’t Come!”


It’s not fair that we have to work all this “magic” for our kids, without actually having any!

Oh geez. Just reading the title, you probably know what’s coming. Mom is an idiot. That’s me. Damnit! I made a mistake. Don’t worry too much, I’ll give away the punchline now and tell you that I fixed it – I think. But, I messed up. If you’ve been around a while, you will remember that playing the Tooth Fairy (TF) is not my best thing. Read my last harrowing experience with the TF here (http://butchontap.com/2012/10/29/tooth-fairy-butch-style-2/). So what happened this time?

Two nights ago, my daughter lost a tooth. Actually, she pulled it out and came running to show me. Being a proper butch only extends so far, and so when she shows me a gaping hole in her mouth that is bleeding rather profusely, I get a bit, erm, squeamish to say the least. Blood is not my best thing. “Wow, honey, that’s great,” I say walking out of the bathroom and away from the blood. “Make sure you put it under your pillow,” I add casually.

Well, she forgot to put it under her pillow, and I forgot to care. Yikes. Anyway, the next morning she was upset that the TF did not come. I was able to nimbly explain that the TF won’t come unless the tooth is in the proper TF place – under one’s pillow. She had, in fact, left her tooth on the bathroom sink. “Too bad, baby. Make sure you put it under your pillow tonight.” Right? Good job, Mom.

Flash forward to last night. She remembers to put the tooth under her pillow, complete with a note. She made sure to tape the tooth to the note – apparently wanting to ensure proper pillow placement. I removed a ten dollar bill from my wallet and left it in the kitchen – so I wouldn’t forget. Well, after getting the kids to bed, I was exhausted. As many parents can probably relate, I did the dishes, laundry, packed my gym bag, etc. and then finally sat down to do some work, along with urgent tweeting and facebooking (natch). Several hours later, I was wrecked and … headed to bed. Not a thought in my mind for the precious tooth taped to the note under my daughter’s pillow. Or for the ten dollar bill patiently waiting to find its way under that pillow.

This morning I was awakened by my daughter knocking on my door in tears. “Mom, the Tooth Fairy didn’t come,” she sobbed. OH MY GOD! I kick myself and curse my horrible parenting skills as I open the door to see her there – clearly still fully believing in the TF. “What the hell are you going to do?” the voice in my head is screaming. To my daughter, I say, “What do you mean, baby? She always comes.” “No, she didn’t come,” she cries. “Well, let’s see,” I say ushering her towards her room. “Did you put it under your pillow properly?” I have remembered the ten perched in the kitchen, just so. If I can just get that ten into the bathroom, maybe I can pull it off. I need to stall, thus the extra questions that I already know the answer to. “Yes! I even taped it to the note!” I walk into the kitchen sending her into her room – “One second, baby,” I say.

I grab the ten and slide it onto the bathroom counter where her tooth had been two nights earlier, and then rush into her room to find the note under her pillow. Now, how to make the transition? My son saves me. He innocently says, as he looks at the note, “You can’t tape it to the note. That’s why she didn’t take it!” Whew! Yes, this will work. I jump onto the 6-year old bandwagon, “Yes, baby, I bet that is it. She came, saw the taped tooth, and wouldn’t take it. A breach of TF protocol, clearly. Are you sure she didn’t come?” My daughter looks at me confused. So, I add, “Did you look everywhere? How about the bathroom?” My son sprints to the bathroom and yells, “THERE’S A DOLLAR!!” He returns to the room smiling and waving the TF evidence around – with is actually a ten (he’s just learning to deal with money).

Now, to drive it home, I usher them both to the couch. “Let’s talk this through,” I say. “What do you think happened?” We decide that the TF wanted them to know that she sees every tooth immediately, even when not properly placed, and so she left the money on the bathroom counter (where the tooth had been mistakenly placed). And, that you must not tape the tooth to a note. WHAT A RELIEF.

This TF business is exhausting. How many more teeth are my children going to lose?

It’s butch to protect your kids’ fantasies, even if it means being a fairy. Be Butch.

Butch Jaxon & Her Posse of Ruffians

Remember how I told you that I get stared at a lot? I’ve written about this before (http://butchontap.com/2012/03/12/what-are-you-lookin-at/). I am tall, with a bleached blonde mohawk. I do not wear women’s clothing. I tower over many men that I encounter. I do not apologize for walking into a room. When my gorgeous fiancé is with me, I dote on her and it is obvious to anyone who sees us that we are together. It is the same thing when I am with her and my kids. We are obviously a family, and we sometimes get stared at by people whose families do not seem to resemble ours. Here is one specific and glaring example that took place in a very conservative and religious suburb of San Diego. Not too many moderate Republicans in the room, let alone Democrats. It went something like this…

You could hear nothing but the sounds of our own footsteps. The saloon had fallen so quiet that we had to look around to see if we were alone, or if some mystical or alien force had suddenly transported an entire bar full of patrons elsewhere. Poof! From the sounds of it, we were alone. But we weren’t. In addition to the 8 of us (4 women and 4 children), the saloon was positively stuffed with people, those dusty from the trail and those fresh from their Sunday morning church visits. All of whom, it seemed were staring intently at us. So what had made them all drop silent and stare so rudely, so unabashedly, as we walked in? Were we intimidating and ferocious – as if they had just seen drawings of our faces on a “Wanted” poster? Butch Jaxon and her posse of ruffians? Was there about to be a showdown at the OK Corral, err, Hamburger Factory, right there in the middle of Podunk, California?

Crazy as it sounds, this was the scene that we walked into late Sunday morning as we went out to breakfast. Dear friends of ours had come to visit for the weekend, bringing their two kids. We had a wonderful time, wrapped in that little extra familiarity and ease that comes from being with another family that looks like yours. In that space, it is so comfortable, so relaxing, that I forgot how differently we are viewed by people outside our family. I say “viewed” because I know that my family is like yours…and yours…and yours. Unless you happen to be the Obamas, the Hiltons, the Jolie-Pitts. Then, maybe not so much, but if any of those families are reading, right on! Oh, and we are not like the Sopranos or the Mansons. If any of you are reading, please stop.

It is unfortunate that this rude gaping and gawking happened to our two families at all, but especially on this morning. We were all still high and buzzing from the joy of being together, of being part of, of belonging, when a room full of assholes tried to make us feel different. We filed into the room, past the idiots and heathens, to our table. A nice twist was the absolutely amazing service we received from both our server and the manager. Had they seen the tumbleweeds roll down the town streets as we sauntered down the middle of the dusty street? Had they noticed that the upright piano stopped banging out a tinny tune when we pushed open the swinging saloon doors? Had they heard the lone whistle that replaced it, the one from the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly?

Possibly. Or, maybe these two cool souls were just the Universe’s way of showing us kindness, of reminding us that we are alright, that not everyone is a rude asshole. Thank you, Universe.

We had a great breakfast, anyway. Or, I should say, in spite of the townspeople willing it to be otherwise. As we walked out, I held my shoulders and head high, kissed my gorgeous fiancé and shepherded all those kids out to play in the park. I have to admit, though, that I did wish for twin gun belts, a black cowboy duster and hat, and shit-kicking boots with spurs so I could make that fantastic spur sound as I walked out. Can you imagine the look on people’s faces if I’d stopped by the door, held my hat in my hand, let out a yee-haw and shot a few rounds into the ceiling?

“I am Butch Jaxon, wanted in 4 states and in Mexico. The next time me and my posse come ’round here, if y’all don’t greet us at the swinging doors and welcome us with arms wide open, and a short stack with bacon and a stiff shot of espresso, I’m a do a whole lotta shooting and me and my posse are gonna tear this place up.”

I can only imagine. Having a posse of lesbian friends and kids Wild West style is butch.

Be butch.

I am a butch.

I am a butch. This blog is about what I think.

If you do not know what butch means, you are probably on the wrong blog. In the interests of inclusion, though, I can tell you that “butch” means a lesbian that is big, strong, tough, more macho, less girly. Of course, there are no hard and fast rules – which will be an ongoing theme in my blog (and hopefully, in the comments), but those are the basics. A butch will most likely not wear makeup. A butch is often referred to as “sir” by someone who is not paying attention.

What else? I am, after all, not just a butch. I am single and the happy mother of two. I am also a lover of, in no particular order, femmes, beer, bow ties, breasts, kayaking, movies, hiking, bookstores, travel, dogs, high heels, geocaching, polar bears, the gym, music, lingerie, gadgets, and more. By day, I am an intrepid corporate entertainment lawyer. Although I try hard not to be labeled as such – sporting a bleached Mohawk, for example. Think more entertainment and less corporate. By night, bring it all on!

In my blog, I will talk about things from a butch perspective, but this is not just for butches. We all love our femmes. Please do not let me offend femmes! If you like what you read here, I hope you will comment and let me know what you think. If you do not like what you read, well, what the hell do I care? Start your own blog.

Be butch.


Be Butch.


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