Penis. (Yep, you read it right. I just titled a blog entry “Penis”)

How often do you utter the word penis?  What’s that? Never?  Yeah, well, that is about right for most average adults (urologists and Mohels aside).  For the first seventeen years of my parenting life, I am unsure I ever said it, actually.  Each of my children had one, but aside from the ceremonial Bris on each of their eighth days of life, along with the quickly learned skill of “pointing it down” in the diaper, I cannot say I gave them (the penises, that is) much thought.  I can say, however, that hardly a day goes by now that it doesn’t come up (if you will excuse the pun) in conversation.  Yes, in everyday conversation.

Perhaps it arises in a chat with a well-meaning acquaintance who thinks that along with Jessie’s transition eighteen months ago came a penisectomy.  (Truth: someone asked me if we had had it “removed”.  Um, no.)  It could be with a closer acquaintance inquiring as to what we are going to do about it.  (Wish I knew.) Or it could be the voices in my head fretting over bathing suits, ill-fitting shorts or, truthfully, erections.

Much to my mother’s horror, I have been known to refer to Jessie as “my daughter with a penis”.  Much to my horror I have had to phone the on-call pediatrician to inquire about an issue with said penis all while using the female pronoun.  (Of course the doc on call happened to be the one in our practice’s rotation whom I have never met.  I am sure she figured it out, but awkward…)

Harrison (who might just disown me after this blog post) entered and completed puberty without fanfare.  He got taller, his voice got deeper and he sprouted hair under his arms and on his legs (which, when it first erupts, is gross.  What?  It is.) and, voila, he was done.  In fact, it was completely unremarkable.  Not once did the need to use the word penis arise.  Everything that was supposed to happen happened.  End of story.  Not so with Jessie.  In fact, there has been discussion of all things pubertal: height, hair, Adam’s Apple, hormones, foot and hand size and, oh, yeah, her penis.  Lots and lots of talk about her penis.

A question to all you parents of boys: have you spent a fraction of the time I have thinking (in the least creepy way possible), worrying or talking about your child’s penis?  I am guessing you have not.  I will further surmise that you are grateful that you haven’t had to.  You might even be blushing at the fact that I have used the word “penis” ten times in these five paragraphs.  I can honestly report that a day does not go by without the word penis (that’s eleven) entering into the equation somehow.  It is part of the new normal.  It is not even strange to me anymore.  It is all part of the process…one which, thus far, has not included the word vagina.  Not once.

NOTE: As you know, I often include pictures with my posts, although sometimes I am unable to find anything appropriate.  Rest assured: for this one, I did not even look…

Tire Pressure

It all began yesterday.  As I pulled the car out of the driveway, I noticed that the “tire pressure” light was illuminated.  Since it was a cold morning, I went on the assumption that the tires had shrunk (or had they swelled?) and further assumed that the light would go off just as soon as the tires got their groove back.  I went about my day, only cursorily checking to see if any of the tires were blatantly flat (they were not) and considering that I might want to bring it into the dealer given the fact that the last time the light came on it was due to a nail in my tire.  By the time I had this thought, however, it was moments before I was due to collect Jess from school and take her to an appointment.  So, I ignored the light.  The damage was done, however…I was worrying about the damned tires.

Well sonofabitch if the light wasn’t on again this morning.  It became evident that waiting for the temperature to change and restarting the car (what? it works with computers!) were not going to darken the light, so I decided that I would swing by the dealership and have them take a look.

I drive what is considered to be a luxury car and, as such, the dealership is very fancy.  I drove in unannounced and was immediately attended to.  When I say attended to, I mean I was escorted out of my car and over to my personal consultant for a quick assessment of the issue.  From there, I headed to the waiting room where there is a full kitchen, stocked with breakfast, lunch and dinner items, bottles of water, coffee and juices for every taste.  (In fact, I happened to arrive just around noon at which time a bevy of sandwich options were put out for consumption.  I didn’t act quickly enough and missed what was truly akin to feeding time at the zoo.)  I settled in with my Words With Friends, surrounded by the newest “People Magazine” (which I certainly would have read had I not done so yesterday while at the gym), and today’s “Wall Street Journal” and “New York Times.”  It was downright relaxing, actually.

One of the words I played in WWF was “denim.”  It was then that I remembered that I was just a block away from Target and that Jess has outgrown all her jeans, and that we could use toilet paper, oh, and milk and that they might even have this year’s bathing suits out for Jess (that is always fun) and, well, I just had to get to Target.

Shortly thereafter, my consultant (Joe? or maybe it was Jim?) came out to tell me that I indeed had another nail in a different tire than last time and that they were in the process of plugging it.  We just needed to let them finish and then wash the car (another perk of driving a nice car) and I would be on my way.  $21.50 later, I was out the door, headed to Target.

I walked into the store and was assaulted by the display of bikinis and tanks just waiting to be donned poolside.  “Good,” I sort of thought to myself, “I can grab a few new suits for Jess.”  I worked my way further in to the girl’s department: something I am holding onto tight…Jess is really about to outsize the department, but the leap one must take to segue from “girls” to “juniors” department is a bit too much just yet.  (Aside: I count my blessings that I am no longer expected to fit into the little suits that are supposed to pass for swim wear these days.)   This year, in a step up from last, they had cute little quick dry shorts complete with compression shorts underneath which peek out, looking adorable.  I am quite sure this was not the designer’s intent, but they are pretty much the perfect bathing suit bottom for a transgirl!  This might not be so bad.

I moved toward the jeans department (which, arguably, is an easier item than a swim suit) and was a little bit horrified.  Most of the jeans (in the girls’ department, let me remind you) were either super skinny, super low-rise, super tight or super ugly (sparkles and jeans are a big fail in my book). I rummaged through the piles and debated which size and which super fit to buy.  One size looked just a little too snug but the next size up was twice as large.  Crap.  This exercise was becoming increasingly stressful and I really needed to find some jeans…what to do?  And then, in what might well have been a moment of insanity, I meandered over to the boys’ department: a place I’ve not dared to venture in over a year.  I perused their jeans and immediately noted that they looked much more likely to fit Jess’s body than any of the others I had reluctantly dropped in my cart. (Well, duh.) After a deep breath, and some quick soul-searching, I tossed a few pair in the cart with the anxiety that only the parent of a transgender kid can know.  She might flip out.  Then again, she might not care, and just be happy to have a pair of jeans that fit comfortably.  I just don’t know.

As I wiped the thin layer of perspiration that had settled on my upper lip (my sweat spot of choice) I briskly left the clothing area and headed toward the frozen foods to gather a few Key Lime Pies for Harrison.  Something for everyone.

I checked out with only one impulse item (a lip gloss) but a fire in my belly.  I suddenly felt needy and anxious.  I felt the relief of not having to buy a new tire as profoundly as I worried about my jeans decision.  I grappled with whether Jess would appreciate the jeans, regardless of who they were made for, or would she interpret my having purchased a pair from the boys’ department as somehow passive aggressive.  Was it passive aggressive?  Does she know what passive aggressive means?  Welcome to my world.

What is a girl to do in this situation?  I was stressed, despite having taken care of the two things which needed to be attended to.  I even remembered to buy milk, for crying out loud!  I was knotted up with the knowledge that I might have managed to create a potentially volatile situation.  I was feeling the sweat bead up on my upper lip again.  I needed to fix this somehow.  So I went shoe shopping.

I didn’t mean to, really.  I had good intentions of just heading home and taking care of some things there.  But somehow, I wound up trolling the never-ending aisles of DSW which, in and of itself would make me happy, but even more so when I recalled that $10 off coupon burning a hole in my wallet.  I could turn this around.  And I did.

It is still too cold in these parts to wear them, but soon enough it will be warm and they will come out of hiding.  Knowing that they are at the ready gives me peace and strength to deal with whatever reaction Jess will have upon discovering her new jeans.  Never underestimate the power of a new pair of shoes.

Congratulations! It’s a ….

Damn if it didn’t happen again.  There I was, preparing to cheer Harrison on at his swim meet (during which he collected two first place finishes) when another mom and I struck up a conversation.  It began when I noticed the opposing team’s swim caps and questioned aloud which “W” team we were swimming against as there are two “W” towns nearby.  The woman sitting next to me clarified for me, as she was the mom of a swimmer from said “W” town.  As tends to happen (to me, in particular) in situations such as this, we began to chat: about swimming, the time commitment, the pros of swimming (there are no cons) and whether my son was planning on swimming at college (undecided).

Since the only captivating part of any swim meet are the races that your child is in, there is plenty of downtime during which all that happens is you become acutely aware of not only how damned hot it is in the pool area but also the probability that your hair is curling from the humidity.  As such, it is always a bonus to be seated next to someone who is not face down in their iPhone or wrapped up in whatever is on their Kindle.  (Disclosure: I did have my Kindle with me on the off-chance that there was no one to chat with.)

“W” mom and I were discussing how kids who swim tend to be a nice group and she, for some reason that I cannot recall, mentioned something about the Temple they belong to. (Random, I know.) Nothing like handing me an instant opening for a conversation!  We played a little Jewish geography (for the uninformed, this is the Semitic version of “Six Degrees of Separation.”  Put any two or more Jewish people together and they are guaranteed to know folks in common.  In fact, there is a great likelihood that you are somehow related or used to be related or some such.)  We went back and forth, establishing a few commonalities and then came a pause.  It was for no reason, really, just a lull in the conversation…or one of our kids was in the pool.

After our respective cheering duties had passed, she turned to me and asked if Harrison was my only child.  I knew right then what was coming next; by all accounts a fair and reasonable question: “is your other child a boy or a girl?”  Damn.  Saw it coming, but still, over a year into the process, I never quite know how to answer.  I gave birth to and saw through for the first ten years, two boys.  I’ve been through two circumcisions, on the receiving end (more than once) of a shower of urine from the changing table, bought countless superman underpants and boxer shorts and been informed by both of my children of the joys of being able to pee outside.  Despite the year of longer hair, ear piercings and shoe shopping, I still hesitate to say I have a daughter.

I am aware that admitting this is probably going to sound as though I am not on-board. (I am.)  Or perhaps it will come across as my being mean. (I’m not.) It may even compel some of you to no longer “admire” my approach to parenting my transgender child. (Up to you.) I get that.  But I, perhaps more importantly, appreciate the need to be honest not only with the general you, but with myself.  While I do not think of Jessie as my daughter, I don’t think of her as my son, either.  I just think of her as my child; my second born, my wonderful, quirky, artistic, creative, hysterically funny and challenging child.  Whether she is my son or my daughter matters little.  What matters more is that I know how she ticks.  I know that there is no point in buying her decent mittens as she is sure to lose them somewhere between the kitchen and the car.  I know that unless I viciously and repeatedly flush the toilet in the bathroom, she isn’t going to get out of the shower until she has been asked a minimum of seven times.   I know that she needs a snack in the car on the ride home from school – not when she arrives at the house.  I know that she is capable of making me laugh and cry within the same hour.  And I know that I wouldn’t trade her…most of the time.

When “W” mom posed her query, I smiled and said, “Well, I sort of have both” and went on to tell her the Reader’s Digest version of the George/Jessie transformation.  To her credit, she did not visibly react in any way.  She didn’t even look at me as though I had two heads.  Her response made it clear to me (having answered this question innumerable times over the past year) that this was not the first transgender kid she knew of.  With nary a pause she remarked that she knew of a kid at her temple, although hesitated as to whether they were MtF (male to female) or FtM (female to male, duh).  I, in turn, knowing which Temple and, likewise, knowing many other parents of transgender kids, knew precisely who she was referring to and finished her thinking for her by telling her the child was FtM and doing great.  Now there’s a round of Jewish geography that I am fairly certain my parents never had!

I truly appreciated not only the ease with which she accepted my disclosure, but also the fact that this time around, another family paved the way for me.*  I have been doing plenty of my own paving which, truthfully, is difficult, isolating work.  This simple (and fair) question, which has, historically, brought me not-quite-to-my-knees was just that much easier this time.  So, too, is watching Jessie walk out the door bedecked in head to toe pink, head held high, confidence squarely in place at a time when, honestly, her mother’s is not.  It’s a process for me and for my child(ren) – boys and girls alike.  I am wise enough to know that this exchange was more the exception than the rule and wise enough to appreciate it having happened.

So, the next time you meet someone and ask them about their children know that you might not get the answer you were expecting.  Trust me when I tell you…it isn’t the answer they were expecting to give, either.

*Thanks, JP

Swimming Despite the Rain (?)

Last night I attended my tenth (and last – insert sad face here) Swim Team parent meeting.  Harrison has been swimming competitively since he was seven and, as such, I have attended many a season kick-off meeting.   Despite  having graduated from the JCC to the High School team, the information shared in these meetings has stayed virtually identical; commitment to the team, importance of coming to practice, work hard blah blah blah.  The meeting took all of twenty minutes (thirty-five if you take into account driving back and forth to the high school, parking and finding a bathroom in the hallowed halls of academia).  Wham bam, done.

It was not until this morning (while sipping my new love: Trader Joe’s Candy Cane Green Tea) that I glanced over the handout and noticed the final line of the Coach’s “Goals and Expectations”:

I hope you will do things you never thought you could.

Hardly a new sentiment, it managed to jumped off the page and to firmly attach itself to my psyche.  Eleven basic words in a seemingly simple, even trite, formation which have gotten under my skin…in a good way.  Oh, the things I have experienced which I not only never thought I could, but, frankly, never occurred to me to attempt to attempt.  For someone who is not exactly adventuresome, I’ve done (some of) my share of things I never thought I could.  Just last year (at exactly this time) Jessie had already shared her feelings regarding her gender with me and Rich.  At precisely the time she was embracing the sensation of her shoulders dropping from the relief of sharing her “secret” (her words), mine were inching up to my ears at breakneck speed.  I was nearly crippled at the mere thought of how we were going to go wider (read: tell anyone) with the information.  I was quite sure it was nothing I was ever going to be able to manage, for either my child or, frankly, myself.  At the time, I would definitely have filed under: there is absolutely no way I am going to be able to handle this.  But, alas, here we are, a full year later, and everyone is still standing.  Who’d a thunk it?

Perhaps an even greater (not to mention more impressive and less self-serving) is Jessie’s resolve.  I’ve never asked her, but would be willing to bet that for the first several years of her knowing that she needed to transition she never thought it would actually happen.  I suspect that her tortured thinking and desires would have fallen safely (yes, I note the irony of word choice) into the “something I can never do” category, yet here she is, a full year into her transition.  So deep into it, in fact, that yelling “Jessie” (either to or, if we are being honest, at her) has long since ceased sounding strange and my pronoun slip ups are rare.  Truth: referring to my son as “her” and “she” is yet one more thing that I never thought I could do.

The swim coach’s words are, on the surface, meant to encourage the boys to kick, stroke and breathe harder than they ever imagined in the hopes of out-swimming the other teams, but the lesson is so much bigger than that.  Just when you lose hope and think you are going to drown, you might just have a little more kick in you which is all you need to reach the end, perhaps even victoriously.  My legs and arms are tired.  It has been a long and challenging year.  There are hours (I began to assess by the hour when I realized that taking it a full day at a time was often more than I could handle) that I am ready for dead-man’s float, but then I remember that I can do this.  And so can you.

In the past several weeks alone, friends of mine have faced enormous challenges: unexpected deaths, illnesses which were supposed to have gone away but have reared their ugly heads, lost jobs, broken marriages, sick children and financial struggles.  In the words of the swim coach (and my father):  you can do this.  And in my words: if I can do it (whatever “it” may be)…so, too, can you.

Sending special thoughts and love to: RR, BM, ED, MS, JW and everyone else who is struggling with something big, small or somewhere in between. <3

A Pleasure To Meet You

Yesterday I got a text from an old (and wonderful) friend that said “can I give someone your number?”  My relationship with the sender is such that I was not concerned, rather curious.  I responded by saying “of course…but why?”  People are often offering my contact information (and implied knowledge I might have) for any number of reasons: a breast cancer diagnosis, an issue with a child’s learning disability, a recommendation for a kick-ass hair stylist or, wait for it…a transgender kid.  I am more than willing to speak with anyone about any of the aforementioned, but I do like to have an inkling as to which hat I am expected to be wearing before the conversation begins.  In this case, it was putting another mom trying to traverse the unchartered transgender parenting waters in touch with me – if only because I am a few (baby) steps ahead of her.

Not long after the original text, my phone rang.  On the other end was my friend who, having received my blessing for initiating contact, decided to skip over the email or text introductions and put us in touch immediately.  Turns out she had just met this other mom while they were “chaperoning” a field trip (while on the phone with me, that is) and talk had turned to transgender parenting.  (Note: when you are the parent of the child who arrives at school presenting as the opposite sex from their prior school years, everyone knows who you are.  As such, when these two met, my old friend already knew who the new friend was…transgender announcements have a way of facilitating the process of identifying oneself.  Go figure.)  I answered the call and, with nary an introduction, was speaking to Joanne who I am quite sure will be a friend in short order.

We are a unique sort, us trans-parents and, as such, need to seek one another out and grasp on – sometimes for dear life.  Our parenting challenges are just like everyone else’s; if you were to put those challenges on steroids, that is.  Sure, some of the crap, er, issues, are ones no one ever thinks of (remember the bathing suit quandary of just a few months ago?) but, they are additional and not replacement worries.  In the few short moments that we were chatting we covered about ten of them…and we were just getting started.  (Aside: we each used the “f” word twice.  Just sayin’.)  With a promise to meet for coffee or wine (doh, wine is definitely preferable) we hung up so that she could resume her chaperoning and I my errands.

Here’s the thing: as much as she was happy and relieved to have been put in touch with me, I was equally, if not more, ecstatic to be put in touch with her.  Yes, I have tremendous support and love.  I have become friendly with several other moms from the PFLAG support group who have provided invaluable empathy and “yep, us, too” moments.  But who doesn’t want more support and more empathy??  I know I do.  So, Joanne, if you are reading this – great to speak with you and let’s keep reminding one another that we’ve got this.  And Jen, love you.

Making Points

What seems, at this point, like an eon ago, each day as her Facebook status, my friend Karen posted a cryptic number.  Being as clever as I am, I soon realized that the numbers were in descending order as the days progressed yet I did not know why.  Finally, in a fit of frustration over my inability to determine what exactly the numbers represented, I finally inquired and was told that it was her countdown until school started.  What?!  It was the beginning of August.  Here in the Northeast school is a September through June kind of deal…what is up with those Nebraskans?

From the moment she shared her good fortune with me I have been envious.  There, I said it.  She has already settled comfortably into the school routine and has, in all likelihood, been availed of the opportunity to catch her breath and (at least attempt to) regain her sanity.  No fair.  I am still nearly a full week away and am riddled with  (a healthy dose of ?) anxiety leading into the start of fifth grade, not to mention Harrison’s college applications and senior grades which need to be kept up to (or beyond?) standard fare.  Oh, dear Lord.

As if this summer has not been Herculean enough in its challenges, now I have to manage not only the wait for the start of school but the actual transition itself.  Damn.  While I am counting down, I might just as well count up, too.

 

For example, the fabulous fifth grade team at school was considerate in sending out their supply list on the early side this year (right around the time Karen’s kids were getting on the school bus) and I, in a moment of clarity and thoughtfulness, managed to get to Target before it was overtaken by mob scenes and empty shelves and successfully check off everything on the list.  That’s one point for me.

Jessie’s shoes all fit.  The volume of clothing she owns would put a Kardashian to shame.  Her hair could use a trim, but it is nothing that a well placed headband or hair clip won’t rectify.  However, in a show of pure girl, she is chomping at the bit for a few new outfits for the start of school.  Of course she is.  I still have close to a week in which to find some time to do a little shopping, so no points earned yet.

Harrison is well in control of his college application process having just this morning completed the common application (friends with like age children relax: we’ve not hit the submit button…) and is beginning to get mentally prepared for the start of his senior year of high school with an eye on the prize of acceptances at any of a number of schools that would be a good fit for him.  I get one point if for no other reason than having had the wherewithal to hire a college coach to help us.

I’ve put money in both kids’ lunch accounts (yep, I have been known to add to one but not the other…oops), gotten Jessie a new (pink) snack bag with the threat that, should she lose it, she is shit outta luck as I am not buying another one, ever.  I have begun the task of getting everyone to at least consider going to bed before midnight in a (perhaps vain) attempt to make mornings go smoothly.  I have even begun hoarding snack sized snacks to drop in backpacks in the morning.  I will take that as four points.  I need ‘em where I can get ‘em.  That brings me to six which is a stupid number – it isn’t five but it isn’t ten, either.  Where to scrounge up another four points?  Let me see…

Medical and dental check-ups have either been had or are scheduled.  If I were greedy (and desperate) I would could that as two points, but will settle for one.  I’ve thought about disassembling the drying rack from the tub which has served as a bathing suit hanger for the summer.  I have gone as far as to consider where it will be stored during the non-water based season.  In my world, that is worthy of a point.  Two more, two more.  I can do this.  Oh, I know!  I have not done it yet, but I am planning to input into my phone/calendar all the important dates of the coming school year (read: the early release and no school days) so I am not caught unaware…not that that has ever happened to me.  And the final point will be earned when I get a chance to unload on my therapist who has been on a much deserved vacation which will, in turn, relieve both me and my family of the walking ball of stress/anxiety/short temperedness that I have become over these few short summer months which everyone else in the world other than me, hates to see end.

I anxiously await the moment when I can point and shoot the “first day of fifth grade” picture and throw it up on Facebook for all to “like”.  I also have high hopes for reaping the benefits of being in a routine and, if nothing else, having six whole hours to myself during which I will be looking for a job.  (Note: anyone with projects or gigs that you need someone like me to fill, I can be your girl!)  With ten points in my pocket I am well on my way to successfully embarking on another adventure: the school year.  To all of you with kids on the same September – June schedule as I:  Good luck as your children go back to school in the next few days.  For those of you who are already well entrenched in the rhythm of the school year: Time to start counting points again!

And The Beat Goes On

This morning, as I lay awake in the wee hours of the morning, I was thinking back on yesterday: the drop off at Jessie’s weeklong overnight camp.  We have all been looking forward to this since back in January when I learned that a wonderful camp exists which is exactly like any other camp with the exception of the fact that all the kids in attendance define themselves as either transgender or gender variant.  There was something magical and surreal about stepping onto those grounds.  A place that, a mere year ago, never would have been on my radar, was suddenly in my nav.

Early in the afternoon Jessie, Harrison, Rich and I piled into the car to head to camp located just over two hours away.  Speaking for myself (which is all I can ever really do, although I have been criticized for being “me” focused) I will cop to an underlying anxiety over what lay ahead.  I had very little idea what to expect and tried to imagine how it felt for Jessie to be heading away for a week with all new people who were, in a profound way, very much like her.  Just as I was driving into a world I can never completely understand, she was leaving a world that doesn’t quite understand her and heading into one in which they do.  That is something that you and I have the luxury of living in every day.  Stop and think about that for a moment.

When we pulled onto the grounds we were greeted by a team of friendly faces welcoming us to camp and directing us where to pull the car for unloading.  As we parked, another car came in directly next to us and out stepped a beautiful teenage girl and her father.  We parents exchanged immediate “hellos” as did Jessie and the other girl.  It took me a beat to realize that she was the camper.  Had I been in any other locale I would never have thought twice about her gender. Seeing (and not taking a second look at) this tall, beautiful long-haired teenage girl who, I belatedly realized, was a biological boy, was a brief and powerful moment for me.  That could well be Jessie in a few short years.

From there we (and by “we” I mean Rich and Harrison) pulled Jessie’s luggage from the trunk (including a huge, fluffy, bright pink pillow) and worked our way over to the welcome table.  I admit that in my head I was silently trying to determine who was transgender and who was not.  It was not that it mattered as much as it was a peek into the future and an attempt to de-emotionalize the experience and see if I could even tell.  Wanna know something: had I not known that we were at a camp for transgender and gender variant kids, I would never have guessed it.  We were at a rustic (read: RUSTIC) camp, with a volleyball net set up in the middle, kids running to embrace friends from last summer, counselors trying to learn who was who and parents hastily throwing sheets over half-inch thick mattresses.  Sounds like any other camp to me.

There were, however, a few telltale signs that this was a special place. For starters, despite my having made Rich stop at McDonald’s for a Diet Coke on the way up (and having used the bathroom while I was there – which I am telling you for a reason…) upon arrival I had to go to the bathroom (see Diet Coke comment).  I asked a nice young man (hmmm) where the bathrooms were and he pointed to a shack a few hundred feet away.  Out of habit, before entering I took a look to see if it said “girls’” or “boys’” but instead was greeted with a sign that said “everyone’s”.  It was a small, but meaningful sign that we weren’t in Kansas anymore.  (Aside: Having been in that bathroom I think it is safe to say that Jessie is going to be longing for her bathroom at home.  She is my kid, after all.)

We proceeded to her bunk where we were greeted by two counselors who, upon learning her name, handed Jessie a sheet of construction paper which had been adorned with her name and allowed her to choose her bed for the week.  After having discussed it in the car, she (in opposition to my suggestion) opted to take the top bunk, with a window at her head.  (I understand the allure, I just never liked being on the top bunk in anticipation of night-time bathroom needs.  I never said I wasn’t neurotic.)  We put together her bed, turned around and noticed that she was gone.  I went to the door of the bunk and found her, along with a girl from her cabin, wandering across the central lawn to explore the camp.  As she did that first day of school as Jessie, she never looked back.  I took that private moment to inquire as to the make up of the bunk and was told that it was made up of all MTF (Male to Female) children, ages 9-11.  Just a beat off of your kids’ bunk assignments, right?

Rich, Harrison and I then began to wander around ourselves checking out the waterfront, the dining hall and the expanse of the grounds.  Set on a lake on a picture perfect afternoon it felt serene and surreal all at once.  At one point while we were strolling I asked Harrison if this all felt “strange” to him.  Without skipping a beat he responded that, “it would be strange if it didn’t feel strange.”  Amen.

With Jessie nowhere in sight, we hung out chatting with some parents that we have met over the past year as well as meeting new ones.  We are parents with a unique bond, coming from varying walks of life, parts of the country and stages of the process.  About 45 minutes after arriving we attended a parent support meeting for all of us to unload and feel the love of the others who are trying to navigate the same waters.  Some of the stories are strikingly familiar (Barbie dolls!), and others (almost exclusively of people other than the parents) would break your heart in a nanosecond.  Harrison attended the meeting as well and was given the opportunity to share his unique insight with the parents as to how their other children may be feeling.  His comment that “more upsetting than his brother becoming his sister is the fact that she can be irritating” garnered laughter and nods of agreement all around.  (Go, Harrison!)

At the assigned end time of the meeting the powers that be told the families that it was time to go.  I spotted Jessie in the middle of the volleyball court among scads of other kids.  I grappled with getting her attention so I could give her one last squeeze before we left but it was clear that she was comfortable and engaged.  We had said our goodbyes earlier and she was officially at camp.

As we were heading to the car, Rich began a conversation with a gentleman with the name tag “Wayne” (oh, by the way, we were all wearing name tags).  We chatted for a few moments when I realized that this was Wayne Maines who (see if you can follow this…): is the father of the twins who were the focus of the article in The Boston Globe which I was reading on George’s tenth birthday which resulted in his (gender and name choice intended) responding with, “you mean I’m not the only one?” and from which this whole adventure was unleashed.  (Insert exhale here).  I introduced myself and, having read some of my writings, he knew just who I was.  Again: unique bond.  I told him that Jessie will be ecstatic to learn that his daughter is there and that we are grateful to him and his family for their willingness to put themselves out there to make things that much less difficult (I won’t say “easy”) for the rest of us.  It seemed an apropos note on which to take our leave.

In the car heading home, the three of us decided that we would take a detour and enjoy a nice dinner just the three of us – something we seldom get an opportunity to do.  We stopped in Newport, Rhode Island and gorged ourselves on fried clams with ice cream chasers while sitting on a deck overlooking the yachts and energy of the pier.  I found myself looking at people wondering if perhaps they were transgender since I had a new understanding that you really cannot tell…more than you might expect.

As I toyed with getting out of bed this morning (no one needed me to wake them up or make them lunch!)  I reflected on the notion that when camp ended for most kids it was just the moment it started for mine.  I think that pretty well sums up a lot of how things go for this kid (and her mom): being just a beat off.  I wondered if she slept all night in that (icky) cabin and if she will manage to brush her teeth even once in the trough that camps consider a sink.  I hoped that her social connections would come more easily given the fact that every girl in her bunk has a penis and shares many of the same thoughts, concerns and issues that she has.  But mostly, I lay in bed hoping that Jessie is having the time of her life.

p.s. I wish I had a picture to show you but, out of respect for the families and the kids who are stealth in their gender identity, no cameras are allowed at camp.  Again, just a beat off.

A Little Slice of Heaven

Jessie has boldly, and without wavering, long declared a dislike for the beach.  Even when she was a little kid (when, I might note,  we were fortunate enough to have the luxury of a family house literally on the beach) “George” would be good for about twenty minutes and then be done, preferring, instead, to hang out on the porch or in the yard.  I never minded, really, because, truth be told, I am not a huge fan, either.  But let me explain: I love the sound and smell of the ocean, I even like walking on the beach.  It is the sand that I hate.  It is the lousy gift that keeps on giving – mostly taking up residence under my fingernails mocking me for days on end.  My disdain for sand was so well-known that the other families that shared our “private” beach area used to tease me when I would arrive by snarkily (yet lovingly) reminding me that there was still sand on our little stretch of beach so I had might want to think of finding another spot.  As such, my wanting to just see the ocean coupled with both Jessie’s and my dislike of sand resulted in not making our way to the shoreline all summer.  Until today.

After lamenting in my last post over missing just a quick siting of the ocean,  I decided that today was the day that I was going to get Jessie into the car, destination unknown (to her, that is) and road trip.  That house which Rich’s family owned for better than forty years (until selling it about five years ago), is a mere 45 minute drive from my house and the beach with which I am the most familiar so  Jessie and I hopped in the car, opened the sunroof, turned on a mutually agreeable radio station and hit the road.  As she continued to inquire (relentlessly) as to where we were headed I continued to ignore her query.  All I wanted to do was to see the ocean. Hearing it would be a bonus.  It wasn’t until she began to recognize some of the landmarks along the way (which surprised me) that I had to fess up.  My admission was, not surprisingly, met with displeasure.  Argh.

Once we turned the corner and saw the water which was filled with people who were more than waist deep, her attitude began to change.  She had spent enough time there as a little kid to know that the days that the water is warm enough to go in without turning blue were few and far between and the vision of more than a few people in past their ankles confirmed that today was one of those days.  She turned to me for confirmation that I had thrown a bathing suit in the car which, of course, I had not.  (Remember: she hates the beach…and my only goal was to see it!) As I continued driving past the public beach (after having been going there for 25+ years there was no way I was paying to park there…) and heading back towards where “our” house was, she grew increasingly excited and insistent that I turn the car around, go home and get a bathing suit.  Resolute in my decision to just look at the water, I reluctantly parked (illegally) in front of the old house and followed Jessie down to the beach.  When I saw, there on the private beach where the swimmers having a higher metric by which they judge the acceptability of the water temperature, a far greater than normal number of people actually frolicking in the waves, I agreed to see if we could buy a bathing suit in town…but only if I could find a spot directly in front of the store.

Being blessed with exceptional parking karma has its downside: I indeed found a spot directly across from a cute little store that I believe is new to the area since I have no recollection of ever having seen it before.  We went in, found a suit that fit her perfectly, added a cute pair of gym shorts with the beach name emblazoned across the butt (remember…we have to conceal that which indicates to the world that she has parts other than one might expect) and headed back to the water.

When we pulled back onto the street, I noticed that an additional car was in the driveway of “our” house that had not been there fifteen minutes earlier. It made me think (I am so clever) that someone had just gotten home.  So, (and anyone who knows me in real life will not be surprised by this), I knocked on the door, introduced myself and asked if they minded if I parked in front of the house.  (Since this is the private beach for residents only, the town police are very quick to tag cars that don’t seem to belong.  I really did not want to get a ticket.)  And, (again, IRL people will not be surprised to hear…) since I was halfway in the door already, I asked if I could see what she had done with the house.   She could not have been more gracious and proceeded to give me a top to bottom tour – the highlights of which included a fabulous kitchen, a new master suite, two additional full bathrooms and a sun shower in the back.  In short, she did everything that we all used to sit around and fantasize about, but, with a desire to remain true to its beach house status (and, frankly, not spend the crazy amount of money that it would require) never did.  The house looked amazing and different enough from the house we spent so many years in that melancholy did not set it.  A little bit of envy, maybe, but not melancholy.

Fresh off our tour, Jessie and I headed to the beach where she was, within about fifteen seconds, in the water (in her new suit) working her way into the crowd of a dozen or so tweens and teens who were all valiantly trying to boogie board on what looked to be several copies of the same yellow boogie board.  As I was in shorts and a tank, I lingered by the water’s edge, trying to determine what was being said and to assess how she was doing.  When I noticed some kids rolling their eyes and shrugging their shoulders, I grew concerned and summoned her back to shore which, not surprisingly, she ignored.  I did wonder to myself if she had “shared” (as she did for no apparent reason at the pool earlier this season) but because she couldn’t hear me over the surf (or something like that) I could not tell for sure.  When she did come out, just a few moments later, she assured me (before I even had the opportunity to ask) that she had not “told them my secret.”  We then walked for a few moments, gathering the best of the shells and rocks until she announced that she was done.  See?  Twenty minutes were all she needed.  Man, would I have been pissed if I had lotioned, blanketed and suited up for that.

By this point I was starving and suggested that our next stop be a celebrity hamburger joint one town over.  She, of course, balked and said she didn’t want to go.  Firm in my resolve to have a day trip adventure, I denied her any choice and headed to my next destination.  Once again, my parking karma was exceptional and we got a space directly in front of the entrance.  We walked in and were escorted to a table by a hostess whom I would soon learn, was named Alyssa.  She was adorable and Jessie was quick to engage her in conversation.  In the time it took me to excuse myself to the restroom to wash my hands, they discussed the gems on the nape of Alyssa’s neck (which, we learned, can only be surgically removed), her many tattoos, her insanely bright blue eyes as well as Jessie’s artistic abilities, love of “Project Runway”, desire to matriculate at Parsons School of Design and her support of “non-visible when clothed” tats.  We indulged in delicious burgers and sweet potato tater tots (which, incidentally, are out of this world) and continued to banter with Alyssa.  The meal ended with a hug between new friends and a promise from Alyssa that if the next time we come there is a line to make eye contact and she would hook us up.

Still in need of more summer experiences, I hoped to myself that the Dairy Queen which I recalled being on the way home was still there.  Guess what?!?!  It was!  We pulled into the parking lot with Jessie declaring that she was stuffed and my (being the great mother than I am) telling her that one could and, more importantly,  should, always make room for ice cream.  She very quickly agreed and we opted to split an Oreo Blizzard.  Yes, they are as good as you recall.  Armed with two spoons, we went back to the car and watched a babysitter try to wrestle her four charges into the car and off for their own adventure as we inhaled our frozen confection.   From there we headed in the direction of home.  As we were driving we both settled into our own food comas and I commented that I could not believe what we just ate.  Jessie’s response: “that, mom, was being in heaven.”

And, for the first time in a very long time, I would say that indeed, she and I were in heaven today.  We both got just enough of the beach, a delicious lunch complete with a new friend, delectable dessert and smooth waters all around.  I don’t think I even have any sand under my nails.

When we arrived back home I asked if she wanted to head to the pool.  “No, mom.  Today was already perfect.  Let’s not mess with it.”

Still Waters Run Deep?

Today marks yet another transition for Jessie and, if we are going to be honest here, me.  This morning I brought her to what will be her first true camp experience as a girl.* After many sleepless nights and countless conversations with other moms, I was finally able to take a leap of faith and register her for the creative arts program offered at the nearby community center.  I did so with a healthy dose of anxiety and trepidation but if the drop-off is any indication of what is to come, we might be good. (Note to readers: that is me being an optimist.  Take it in…it may not happen again for a while.)

I had determined that swimming (which she loves) would account for the trickiest part of her camp experience (solely because of the need to change into or out of a bathing suit) so I was forced to discount several excellent camps for the exact reason I would have chosen them when Jessie was George: the number of times they swam each day.  Many offered swimming several times throughout the day which my “son” would love, but my “daughter” would find stressful – again, for no other reason than the need to change into or out of a suit. As a result of this conclusion,  I was faced with the task of finding a camp that offered the creative challenges that she delights in which also only swims at the end of the day.   File under “things you never thought you’d have to think about” – a file which, incidentally, has grown exponentially thicker over the past several months.

After batting it around and hoping the complexities of the situation would somehow (magically) work themselves out (they didn’t), I finally made the call to the director of this camp.   The conversation went something like this:

Me: Hi, I have a few questions for you, but before I even ask, can you tell me if you have space available during weeks 7 and 8 of camp?  (I wanted to ensure that there was space before launching into our story.  Good thinking, right?)

Director: We do.  Is your child a boy or a girl? (Not intended to be a trick question, I am sure.)

Me: (Ignoring her query) Are you able to tell me when the ten-year olds swim? (I am sure this struck her as an odd first question.)

Director: (Ignoring my having ignored her) They swim once during the very last period of the day.

(Paydirt!!)

Me: Excellent.  Do you have a few minutes to talk?  (Now that I had gotten the “right” answers to my inquiries it was time to bring out the big guns and tell her a little bit more.)

I then proceeded to tell her all about Jessie.  And she was wonderful.  (Aside: Prior to calling her I did ask several people who know her how they thought she would react.  To a person they told me she would be great.  They were correct.)  She told me that she had not had a transgender child in her program before but was perfectly comfortable working with me to ensure that my child (be it a boy, a girl or a martian) could have a fun couple of weeks doing the stuff that she loves.  She further commented that she has lots of “quirky, left of center” kids at camp which, not surprisingly, made me love her.  This might just work.

We arrived at camp this morning just like every other kid and parent.  I found Jessie’s counselor, a young man who had an easy smile and enthusiastically shared with her the activity choices offered for the week.  They included: costuming, mosaics, pottery and costuming again.  Jessie was thrilled.  She shuffled me out of the camp area (always a good sign) and I headed down to the gym to work out.

En route to my date with an elliptical machine, I bumped into the director with whom, as you know I had spoken, but never met.  I introduced myself and we chatted for a few minutes.  I asked her if the counselors knew of Jessie’s situation and she told me that they had been told at the beginning of the summer that there would be a transgender child in the program but it had not been discussed further.  Translation: no big deal, no special treatment.  Perfect.  I laughed at the thought of the more astute of the staff eyeing each and every kid wondering if this was the one, but I also felt very grateful for the slice of normalcy.  Jessie is considered just another kid at camp which, particularly after this past year, feels great.

With drop-off and introductions having gone smoothly, I exhaled ever so slightly.  Ninety minutes later, as I was leaving after my workout,  I happened to catch the eye of Steven, Jessie’s adorable counselor, who pointed to Jessie in a crowd, smiled and gave me the thumbs up.  Here’s hoping this transition continues to proceed as easily as it started.  We could all use a little bit of smooth sailing right about now.

* Her cooking class of last week – which provided my family with the five finest nights of eating ever – was fantastic, but not traditional camp in terms of activities or transitions.  Oh, that word…

p.s. Thank you to amj5376, septyacht, TheJulian, okJ4, Maurazoe, Anotherkate and a few zyngawf #s not only for starting Word with Friends games with me, but for, to a person, kicking my ass.  Yeah, thanks for that.

Sink or Swim?

“I’m a girl who used to be a boy”

-Jessie 7/5/12

This summer I have been swimming laps.  It is simultaneously relaxing, invigorating and crazy-ass boring, but excellent exercise for my ever cranky back.  While in the lap lane I am able to empty my mind of all thoughts and focus instead solely on keeping count as to what lap I am on, currently stopping at thirty-three which Harrison, my swimmer, has promised me is a half a mile.  Time-wise, it actually doesn’t take me very long to accomplish this feat yet the other day it was long enough for a (potential) situation to have arisen.

As I finished up and waded my way through the open area of the pool, I released my hair from the knot on top of my head and tried in vain to focus without the benefit of either the blue goggles in which I swim or my glasses.  (Now might be a good time to remind y’all that I am blind without the benefit of corrective lenses of some sort.  I tried to deny this for years, but finally had to give in and admit that I had inherited my father’s vision.)  Everything was fuzzy and, perhaps as a result of my weakened eyesight, my hearing was keener than ever.

A group of tweens were somewhat eerily standing around (not a splash in sight) in the 4′ area asking one another questions: “who will she marry?”, “how is that possible” and “so what is she?”  It took me exactly no time to realize who and what they were talking about, and I felt my heart sink to the bottom of the pool.  Oh, G-d…what has she done?

I continued to wade over to where Jessie was perfecting her dive among even more tweens and motioned for her to come over as I had a question for her.  Not surprisingly, she rejected my invitation and opted to continue to jump in and out of the pool with speed enough to ensure that I not catch her.  I decided to save my query for a later, more private moment, but I also felt the relaxation part of my swim dissolve.

There is a lot of discussion among the transgender community (or at least that which I am privy to) which dissects the pros and cons of going “stealth”.  Many children (and their parents) prefer to simply present as the preferred gender and not draw attention to anything; thereby considered stealth.  Others approach is different in that they prefer to openly share that they were not born the sex which they present as.  While the George to Jessie transition was anything but stealth, she has been favoring the “I am a girl” stance for some time so I was surprised at her having made this announcement.  And, by surprised I mean flummoxed.  And by flummoxed I mean freaked out.

I squinted in the sun, found my way back to my chair and took some deep breathes, wishing that my water bottle was filled with something more like wine.  My head was awash with curiosity over what might have precipitated her announcement, how she was feeling and, frankly, what the other kids were running to their parents to share.  (I know this sounds crazy since I am so out there with all of this but something about it felt so wildly, splashingly uncontrolled and, frankly, it knocked me out a little bit.)  It was officially driving me crazy, but I knew that I had to wait for the car ride home to even broach the subject.  Well, look at that…time to go home! (Before you judge, let me just say that we had been at the pool for several hours at that point, so our leaving was not totally crazy.)

I am a bit ashamed to admit that I was unsuccessful in containing my curiosity for one more minute and inquired on the walk to the car (as opposed to being in the car which was my initial plan) as to why she had felt the need to announce that she was “a girl who used to be a boy”.  Not surprisingly, her initial response was to not respond at all.  Knowing full well that she had heard me, I continued to walk in silence, trying my damnedest not to push her since I know, from experience, that this will do little other than shove her into unending secrecy.  Once we had loaded the stuff in the car, I asked again…making sure to point out that any response was fine, I just wanted to know why she felt the need today to tell a group of kids that, again, she “is a girl who used to be a boy”.  (Note we have logged many, many hours at the pool this summer so it wasn’t as though she was seeing these kids for the first time since last August.  In fact, she has been cavorting in the water on a nearly daily basis with most, if not all, of them. So, um, what the fuck?)

Sensing my shriveling patience, she initially responded with something along the lines of having known one of the kids “five years ago” (at which time she would have been five…yeah, I don’t think so) and then changed her story to “I just wanted them to know.”  Neither response seemed to reveal the whole truth, so I, of course, have been unable to either clear my mind or stop armchair psychologizing what it meant.  (I don’t think that psychologizing is a real word, but this is my blog so I can make up words.)  And, further, I am crazy curious as to what each of those kids told their parents once they got into their cars.  I have zero compunction over the shared information, rather the fact that this was the first time that it happened without my having any control whatsoever over how the information was disseminated.  And here’s the truth: I haven’t gone back to the pool since.

I have every intention of returning to the pool and am well aware that as concerned as I am about the potential fallout for Jessie as a result of so brazenly sharing that she is different (something most kids do not always readily support) she is equally, if not more,  unconcerned.  That is classic George and Jessie…beating to his/her own drum without a care in the world as to how other’s might react.  It is both a blessing and a curse.  It never occurs to her to tease, ridicule or ostracize other kids for being different in any way and, with the literal brain of a ten-year old, she assumes (I fear mistakenly) that other’s subscribe to the same mantra.  It is a hard lesson to learn and one which I, as her mother, dread even the anticipation of witnessing.  So tomorrow afternoon, off we will go to the pool; me taking my regular spot in a chaise under an umbrella and a trashy magazine (which I will have to be sure to purchase tomorrow morning) and her to the 9′ section of the pool to continue to work on her dive and her burgeoning friendships.  I only hope that the bevy of children with whom she shared is still there to get wet along with her.