When I learned two gay families would be part of my kid’s first-grade class, I tried to stay open-minded. But with school winding down and pride month ramping up, I must blow the lid off the perverse way these gay dads molested my values—by being so goddamn boring all year.

It started in October when one of them asked me to co-chair the fall festival. For the theme, I suggested a drag brunch. Or Harvey Milk. Or the alienation of a youth spent in the closet. But this dad was like, “Maybe we just go with harvest?”

Harvest!? I tried to give benefit of the doubt, thinking he meant harvesting the souls of right-wing evangelicals. But nope—dried corn and pumpkins.

Then came the holiday bazaar. I was on the publicity committee with another of the dads, who stopped me one morning. “Great news!” he all but yelled. “Hubby and I tag-teamed it last night!” I was like, at last. Finally, some good sex stuff.

But know what it was? He and the husband had collaborated on a mail merge. The only trois in their ménage were our parent, faculty, and alumni lists!

From there, it only got worse. In February, parents were invited into the classroom for family shares. One of the dads said he was going to read, so naturally, I was like, “Who ya readin’, queen—a shady bitch?” He just looked at me blankly and said, “Shel Silverstein.”

At Spring Break, more of the same. I came back eager to hear of extravagant vacations with indulgent mornings and debauched nights. What I got was an indoor water park from one and a “staycation” from the other.

What the hell is wrong with these people?

Then came summer planning. I suggested we all do a Fire Island share because it’s never too soon for children to learn the difference between high and low tea. But they’d all signed up for camp instead. And by camp, I don’t mean teaching kids the finer points of esoteric kitsch—I mean archery and swimming.

It’s simply obscene how they flaunt their whole “responsible parent” thing. They’re constantly reminding me about upcoming field trips, past due assignments, or to “pick up your kid on time.” Which, yes, of course, that’s helpful, but what about telling me where to score strong poppers?

Forget grooming our kids—we culturally clueless straight parents need someone to recruit us. But these dads? Two of them work in finance. FINANCE! Not a florist or art director or militant activist in the bunch.

Are they tops? Bottoms? Vers? Beats me. All these dads ever wanna talk about is the math curriculum, which they only know about because they’re always shushing my attempts at Real Housewives gossip during parent meetings since they’re—and I quote—"trying to listen." Sickos!

If I want attentiveness, I have the butt-kissing straight parents. Gay dads are there to tell us who Trixie Mattel is and then explain why “she be messy.” They’re supposed to laugh with me when I point out the nut-free zone sign, not remind me that peanut allergies are actually serious business. When I show up at dropoff looking disheveled, they’re to say something cruel about my unacceptable public appearance, not express genuine concern about my child’s sleep regression, before suggesting three books and two podcasts to help lessen the problem.

Because of them, my kid now has questions I wasn’t prepared to answer. Primarily: “Why can’t you be more like Siena’s dads?” But also: “Why aren’t Siena’s clothes wrinkled like mine?” And: “Can you please try harder next year?”

This is why I’m speaking out against this insidious agenda now. Yes, their sexuality is an amazing gift from God that deserves inclusion and celebration. But the abhorrent lifestyle choice to volunteer for class parent without even being asked? An abomination!