No Sleep Plenty o’ Shoes

Oh, how I wish I could sleep.  I am quite sure that doing so would work wonders against the crying, short-temper and general bitchiness which seems to define me of late.  I am equally convinced that last night’s shoe shopping experience would have been wayyyy better.

In a few short weeks, my niece Sara is having her Bat Mitzvah (heretofore known as her BM, heehee…that never gets old) and, as such, several outfits for the entire family are in order.  I have begged Harrison to try on the suit I bought him last year for his semi-formal (did I mention that he long ago surpassed the ability to fit into a kid’s suit?  Read: man’s suit, man’s price tag) and he has, not surprisingly, failed to do so.  I am going on the assumption that it will fit.* I do so knowing that there is an excellent chance that it won’t.  That, however, is among the least of my worries.

Jessie needs two dresses; one for the service in the morning and one for the dance extravaganza at night.  I flat-out refused to purchase two new dresses, mostly because of the stress of doing so.  It is not that I bristle at her wearing a dress (that ship sailed a long time ago), rather her taste borders on eighteen year-old, stacked, leggy, curvy young woman as opposed to the eleven year old that she is.  In searching her closet I chose one dress that is more than appropriate for the morning which, for the kid set, at least, is far less important (fashion-wise, that is) than the evening.  In fact, she has worn it to Temple before with a sweater, tights and patent leather boots.  All we need to do to make it work is to lose the earlier accessories and add a cute pair of flats.  And therein lays the problem.

Okay, I admit to having a shoe thing.  I admit to having purchased more than, um, let’s say two pairs of wedges this season.  I even admit to perhaps having a problem with my love of shoes which may have been passed along to my child.  I cannot, however, sanction my eleven year old (transgender) child wearing heels or wedges to a BM party.  Am I wrong?

To her credit, she insisted that in our quest we go the way of Payless Shoes for her footwear.  “They are inexpensive, but not cheaply made” she argued (incorrectly).  So after a “Shabbat” dinner of Chinese food, off we went to begin the battle, er, search.  Now I don’t mean to sound obnoxious, snooty or rude (and if I do, blame it on the lack of sleep) but the shoes at Payless are nothing short of horrible.  And, much to my horror, she spotted several (all inappropriate) that she would have been more than happy to purchase.  In a not so proud moment, I got so skeeved that I insisted, in a perhaps too loud voice, that there was nothing there and we were heading to the far superior (and I used the term loosely) DSW.  Fortunately, the two stores are close together since this expedition began at 8pm on a Friday night and, as everyone knows, I am in a constant state of exhaustion and, um, short-temperedness.

As we entered the store, I reminded her of the parameters of acceptable footwear: black (will work with both outfits), flat or very little heel, under $50 and comfortable.  Next thing I know, she is trying on pink high top Converse stating that they would be cute with the dress at night.  Yeah, they would, but having attended many a BM in my day, I was quite sure that such a choice would result in hysteria upon arrival at party and subsequent discovery that no one else was wearing Converse.  Right?

I somehow managed to convince her to cut the shit, I mean, see things through the eyes of me, her mature, more knowledgeable, loving and sleep deprived mother and try on a few different little black shoes.  At the same moment, I noticed that she shoes that I bought for me the BM just last week were now marked down 30% and, blame it again on the lack of sleep, I got pissed and started rifling through my wallet for the receipt with visions of a price adjustment dancing through my head.  Do you have a visual yet?

In a victory for me (I have to tally them whenever humanly possible) we left with the perfect shoes for Jess and a promise from Brendan, the store manager, to adjust my pricing if I come back with the receipt today.  I assumed, from the double success, that a good night’s rest lay ahead.  I was wrong.  But at least we have good shoes now.

*Probably a mistake.  Oh, and his shoes might not fit, either.

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.

On Thin Ice

While not particularly athletic, Jessie has always loved to ice skate.  We are fortunate to live just moments away from one of the most beautiful outdoor rinks you’d ever have the pleasure of skating on.  As a little boy (yep, did that on purpose) we used to take George to the small area alongside the big rink which was populated with milk crates. We would (not always so) patiently direct him how to use one to balance his parka-ed, mittened, snowpanted self from falling on the ice, although with all his added bulk and short distance to the ground, no tumble was ever too significant.  It took only two or three such visits before he was raring to get onto the big ice with the big kids and whiz around…the faster the better. With a ridiculously reasonable $5 admission fee, it is perennial weekend favorite for the entirety of its season (which also manages to sneak in a little exercise with the kids none the wiser).

A week or so ago, Jessie unearthed her skates from last winter and announced that she was unable to wear them.  Since they are your traditional black boy’s hockey skates, I assumed that she was rejecting them for what they represented to her.  I was also acutely aware of her not so thinly veiled goal of attaining a new pair of white figure skates to accompany her pink jacket/hat/glove ensemble.  Noting my disbelief, she angrily attempted to pull one on and son of a bitch, despite having bought them with “room to grow”, the damn boots were two sizes too small.   So new skates it would be…just not quite yet.  She went to the rink with Rich and rented skates; an exercise which offended her as it seemed to suggest that she is not a “real” skater.  Fair enough, no one likes skating around with their shoe size emblazoned on the heel, old laces and dull blades.  It was agreed that she needed new skates.

Fast forward to this morning: a perfect outdoor skating day.  She initially declined the invitation to glide around the rink reminding us not only of her disdain for the rental skates but also (not so) gently reminding us of our promise to purchase a new pair.  With only a moment of hemming (we never got to hawing) it was agreed that she would get new skates before going to the rink today provided she promise to use them often in an effort to offset the hefty price tag.  With her pinky promise on the books, she and Rich headed to Dick’s Sporting Goods armed with $150 in gift certificates that Rich had been given as a corporate reward from work close to five years ago.  Even better: freebies… this wasn’t gonna hurt a bit. (Now might be a good time to mention that it was discovered the hard way that the certificates were only good for online purchases…damn.)

About an hour later, they arrived home toting a large box and sporting an equally large grin.   I will admit to bracing myself in anticipation of white figure skates being pulled from the package.  I will even admit to being grateful that I was not a part of the shopping experience.  And I will further admit to be confused, happy, bewildered, dismayed and curious when she proudly displayed black boy’s hockey skates.  But, WTF?

This is the kind of thing that trips me up.  I know that plenty of girls opt for the boy’s hockey skates.  I know that it is probably a meaningless gesture.  I know that it doesn’t matter.  And I know that it messes with my head.  There, I said it.

There is lots of discussion among the transgender community about the very real existence of “gender fluidity”; it’s meaning self-explanatory.  While I am fully prepared to be chastised for saying this, I have to say that, for me, “gender” and “fluidity” in the same breathe is much more difficult to reconcile than transgender.  More than that, it jars me in a fall-flat-on-your-butt-on-the-ice-and-get-the-wind-knocked-out-of-you way.  Lest you think that this is always easy and that I am this wonderfully accepting mother, let this serve as admission that I am not.   I am attempting to negotiate these waters and finding that there are pockets that are frozen solid, ready for skating enjoyment and others that are just waiting for someone (me) to fall through.  I feel the potential to be the moron we see every winter on the news who charges out onto the half-frozen pond only to need a team of EMTs and first responders to pull them to safety.  And it sometimes makes me wonder if there is any sort of solid ground beneath me anymore.  I know it was just a pair of skates…but those blades are sharp.

First Birthday, Eleven Years Later

Today is Jessie’s eleventh birthday…but it many ways it is her first.  Today marks not only the date that she was born in 2001, but, and perhaps more importantly, it is the first anniversary of the day that she turned to me after seeing this article in The Boston Globe http://www.bostonglobe.com/metro/2011/12/11/led-child-who-simply-knew/SsH1U9Pn9JKArTiumZdxaL/story.html and said, “You mean I am not the only one?”  That day our world, and more importantly, George’s (nci) world would forever change.

I remember it like it was yesterday.  Just days earlier, he had tearfully shared his weighty emotion that he had always wanted to be a girl and was gingerly teetering with having shared the information (none of us quite knowing what to do with it) when the article appeared on the front page catching his eye just before we were to go out for a celebratory breakfast with a newly minted double-digit aged boy.  The remainder of the day (and for several weeks to come) was akin to the feeling I get when I take Sudafed: like I was speeding and moving in slow motion all at the same time which, as I am sure you can imagine, is a disconcerting and uncomfortable way to attempt to maneuver a day (or weeks).  I knew, on some level, that the world I had known for ten years, the life of being a mom of two boys was never to be again.  I can assure you now just how ill-prepared I was for the enormity of it all.

Sitting at the counter of the diner poised for a greasy breakfast, the only overt discussion on the subject was the offer to go to the Target down the street to purchase an article or two of girl clothing.   Gulp.  George vigorously shook his drooping head and said he did not want to…it was all just sinking in for him.  (Oh, yeah, and for me, too.)  I silently and secretly breathed a massive sigh of relief at his refusal and thought that perhaps we would stay in this particular limbo for the foreseeable future.  I was right – if you consider his announcement at school the following morning (11 a.m to be precise) to be, in any way, a “foreseeable future”.

When my first child, Harrison, was born (gulp, eighteen years ago) my mother shared with me the directive of the child-rearing guru of her day, Dr. Spock, by quoting the famous (and comforting) opening line of his famous “Baby and Childcare Book”: You know more than you think you do.  Having found success in repeating this mantra over and over (and over) in my head for the prior years of my parenting life, I was foolish enough to think (hope?)that those words would easily translate to my newest baby: my trans-girl.  Yeah, that was something of a fail.  Although not entirely.

Some of the transition came more naturally than you might think.  Remember, George had been hoarding Barbies and reveling in mermaid fantasy life for so long that the progression from presenting as male to presenting as female was fairly easy…a relief, even.   The toys were all in place and the American Girl dolls, once relegated to quiet play alone in the house, were suddenly fair game for full exposure.  We need not pack away the Hot Wheels or Super Hero paraphernalia since we didn’t have any (other than those left over from Harrison’s early days).   And the love of sewing and designing felt less troublesome to Jessie than it did to George.  Cat, bag, out.

The clothing, however, was a little more difficult.  While previously content (enough) to wear t-shirts and sweats or jeans, my new baby wanted to be swaddled in pinks, purples and yellows…the brighter the better.  I was quickly (and slightly painfully) indoctrinated into the likes of Justice, Delia’s and the opposite side of the store at the likes of The Gap and Target.  Having bought nothing but aforementioned t-shirts and sweats (with an occasional button down shirt for school pictures) I will admit to a quick rush of excitement in foraging through the (way cuter than boys’) girls’ clothing and actually purchasing something other than blue, grey or beige.  I will likewise admit to feeling nauseated, anxious, uncomfortable and sweaty while doing so.  And then I thought: What was I doing?  How did we get here? Oh, dear G-d this is nuts and What are people going to think?  Here I was with a new baby, but I couldn’t announce, or, frankly, bask in the joys of the beginning of a new life.  It was just too frightening, overwhelming and incomprehensible.

I suppose I felt the way any new mother feels when it is clear that there is something amiss with her newborn.  I suppose it was a normal way to feel.  And I further suppose that, now that I have the benefit of a year’s hindsight, it was a little bit harder than I realized.  My fight or flight instinct kicked in and off we went…without the luxury of a baby nurse, a move-in grandma or even a fancy new stroller.

So this year’s birthday yields not only a change in age, but a more solid footing and a greater comfort in the requested gifts, a child with ever-growing hair and a still fading memory of George.  No one can tell me what the 12^th, 13^th, 14^th and subsequent birthdays will look like (believe me, I’ve asked!), but, for now, Jessie is relishing in the acceptance of her (not so) new self and, as her mom, that makes me feel just that much better.  Now to decide how many candles go on the cake…

Thanksgiving…Mostly Thankful

Thanksgiving: what a loaded holiday.  It is a day in which we take pause and reflect on all that we are grateful for.  We are keenly aware of the riches of our lives and the joys we have been fortunate enough to experience.  It is a time to be with family and friends who, perhaps, we have not shared a meal or even a visit with in longer than we ever intended. We consume every comfort food imaginable and pat ourselves on the back for having remembered to wear the loosest pants in the closet.  And, speaking only for myself, you sometimes feel guilty for not always feeling terribly thankful.  Yep, I said it.

And for me, it is often the hardest time of the year.  I have long associated my discomfort with Thanksgiving to my freshman year of college.   It was my first visit home after having left for school and despite the heavy backpack I am quite sure I lugged home, I had no intention of doing any work whatsoever.  My parents, my brothers and my new (at the time) sister-in-law all convened around the dining room table and pigged out on your standard turkey dinner which, of course, included a sweet potato casserole (I’ve never actually used that word) with the requisite mini marshmallows on top.  Midway through the meal, I started to feel unwell.  Assuming it was my body fighting back against the late nights at school during which I had imbibed more and slept less than I should, I didn’t make think much of it.  And then I was in pain.  I retreated upstairs just as the table was to be cleared and assumed the fetal position.  My folks were far more empathetic than one of my brothers (naming no names) who strongly suggested that my “illness” was actually a ploy to get out of helping with the dishes.  Boy, did he have egg on his face when I was wheeled in for emergency surgery later that same night to remove an ovarian cyst which was so large that it was pressing on my back – thus the pain.

Back in those days, when you had surgery they actually kept you in the hospital for a few days (in my case I believe it was four, but I could be wrong) during which my brothers (both) showed their true colors and regaled me with attention due any college student who comes home from school only to wind up in the OR.  Among the wonderful things they brought to me were a Sony Walkman (remember those?) along with a stack of probably twenty-five cassette tapes (remember those?)  as well as a pair of slippers that looked like elephants complete with long noses at the end.  Thus began my disdain of Thanksgiving.

Fast forward nine years and one would find me to be among the most hugely pregnant-from-eyebrow-to-ankle woman (on the plus side, my hair was rockin’) this side of I don’t know what.  By the time the big feast arrived I was already six days late to deliver Harrison and had long since stopped finding it funny.  I was not one of those beautiful pregnant women who could pull on a cute fitted top (thank G-d fitted maternity clothes did not come into vogue until my child rearing years had passed) and head out the door.  In fact, the jean shirt which I had been donning became so over-worn that it was a. threadbare and b. requested to be lost by more than one person.  I was uncomfortable, scared shitless of labor and exhausted.  Ahhh…another Thanksgiving to remember.  (Note: Harrison did not feel the need to make his way into the world until that Sunday…10 days late.)

The next several Thanksgivings came and went without incident, yet I always had a gnawing feeling in the back of my head that something was gonna happen.  Fast forward another nine years (hmmm…just realized that coincidence) when I was exactly one week post-op from my bi-lateral mastectomy.  I am not sure he even realized this at the time (I know I didn’t) but my brother David, days before the surgery, sent me a huge package containing a boombox/cd player for my bedroom along with a stack of probably twenty CDs (times they are achangin’) this time of all comedy bits: everything from Mel Brooks to Jackie Mason to Jerry Seinfeld to Margaret Cho.  Yes, a theme has emerged.  I happen to be a rock-star patient and managed to get myself into an outfit of sorts – most definitely something loose to accommodate the drains that still hung from my torso –  (after having had my fabulous hairdresser wash and blow out my hair…I was not allowed to shower and my post surgical arms were seriously lacking mobility) and make it to the table along with my entire family, including my father (who was, at the time, fighting lung cancer), my children and five of my nieces and nephews.  This time, there was no discussion about my bailing on the dishes…I had a pass.

This year marks the eighth since my diagnosis.  Since that time so much has happened.   I lost my father and gained a daughter.  I have experienced the joys, anxieties, thrills and frustrations of my children who were two and nine at the time, morph into real people who are both about to have birthdays.  I’ve lost and regained (some of) the weight gained from having been gloriously fed by my friends and families.  (It was a long time before I became re-interested in lasagna).  I have had a few different jobs and have learned a lot about being an adult.  I am grateful for my many blessings, but it doesn’t make me any less weary of this holiday.  Truth.

A few people I am thinking of more than ever: (this makes me nervous because I don’t want to leave anyone out – we are all fighting against, or hoping for something in our lives…please do not take offense if I have omitted you.)

MF:  who has had more than her share of a shit-storm but sailed through her own bi-lateral mastectomy this week with grace, humor and strength.

MS: who is knocking it out of the park with her own transgender child only to be hit with an out of the blue Leukemia diagnosis in her family.

SP: who was supposed to be recuperating with a brand new kidney right about now but her body didn’t cooperate as it should have, but will.

BM, JM, JM, BHM and DM: who lost a son and brother with no warning and far too young.

RR: who is loving and supporting her husband as he fights a devastating illness.

JW: who is tearing up the internet searching for the best way to handle her beautiful daughter’s angry thyroid.

RR: who is still trying to understand the untimely, unexpected and deeply mourned loss of her brother.

LH: who lost her lifelong summer retreat and store during hurricane Sandy.

I know there are more, and I am still reluctant to post this for fear of leaving someone out, but please know that I am thinking of you all.

Wishing everyone a happy, uneventful, non-weight gaining, pleasant, easy, tasty Thanksgiving.  And, yes, I do realize that, if my “every nine year” pattern holds, next year is probably going to suck.

****************

Gratuitous display of Jessie’s autumnal drawing:

Halloween

Oh, Halloween, how I hate thee.  I can trace my disdain for the holiday back to my own youth.  My (wonderful) mother (whom I adore) was not much of a planner or a seamstress.  As a result, I never had particularly good costumes.  It was not unusual to, at the last-minute, unearth a sheet (not even a white one!) hastily cut out eyes and be pushed out the door.  It didn’t help that my (warm, loving) father despised the tradition and would mutter about “beggars coming to his door” until he eventually declared that no one over five feet was allowed to get candy from us.  As the years progressed he and my mother would go out for the evening, leaving the house dark.  On more than one occasion he came home to an egged or TP’d crib.   Oh, memories.

Fast forward to my own children and the angst of Halloween.  I vividly recall October 30, 1998.  Harrison was almost four and totally got it.  I was working full-time and had been putting off going to the store to buy something unbearably cute for him to wear for the preschool parade. Suddenly I was panicked and decided that lunch would be a good time to go to the local iParty (yeah, the one with police directing traffic into and out of the parking lot) to pick out a costume.  My naiveté got the better of me in that I actually thought there would be something left to choose from.  Imagine my heartbreak when I discovered that there were basically no costumes left, save the cowboy or the creepy clown.  Since he was a boy, I naturally grabbed the cowboy, threw in whatever toy gun I could get my hands on and stood on-line for a good half an hour to make the purchase.  I wish I could say that in subsequent years I planned further ahead, but, alas, I did not.  It never presented a problem as there was always a “boy appropriate” something that could be thrown together: Superman (complete with a six packed chest), Spiderman (at an age when wearing red tights was still okay) and the old standby cowboy get-up.

By the time George (n.c.i.*) came along, I had become fairly adept at pulling together a costume and, in my infinite wisdom, was actually ahead of the game having saved all of Harrison’s from years gone by.  It was all cool until George was three.  No longer content to be sausaged into one of the super hero costumes at his disposal , he declared that he wanted to be a fairy.  Or a princess.  Or a fairy princess.  Or Belle (from “Beauty and the Beast”).  Okay, that’s cool.  So, a fairy (or princess or Belle) it would be.

Now this is not so out of the ordinary as I happened (through the powers of Facebook) to have seen at least three of my friend’s little boys dressed as princesses this past Halloween.  And none of them, to the best of my knowledge, have (or intend to) identify as transgender.  But when George did it, there was something different – a pure, unadulterated joy – and a deep desire, in his mind, for every day to be Halloween.  So, on we went and you all know where we’ve landed.

Since having transitioned to Jessie she has pretty much grown out of her princess phase, but I fully anticipated a female-based presentation this year.  It would only stand to reason, right?  Wrong.  No, this year, after batting around a few different options (one of which was a witch – hmmm…dark, scary female, but decidedly female) she opted to make her own costume.  With a few trips to AC Moore and WalMart she was able to create something way cooler than anything I would have bought (yesterday).

The burning question among you, faithful readers, is probably: “so…how did Jessie celebrate her first Halloween?!!?”  (A fair question, for sure.)  Hint: she wasn’t a fairy, or a princesses, or a cocktail waitresses (seriously, have you seen some of the outfits they are marketing to kids now???)  No, this year, Jessie was a tiger.  An adorable, genderless tiger.  Now, I am no expert, but methinks that has to mean something.  Anyone?

*name choice intended

Out With (Some of) The Old

When my children made the transition from crib to bed I did not fool around.  Each went directly to a full  (as opposed to either a toddler or twin-size mattress) thanks to my foresight that as little ones they would appreciate the space available for me to dole out cuddles and read books as I lay beside them and/but they would eventually grow to be large enough human beings to be insulted by a twin.  I have logged many hours over the years laying alongside my kids and, as pathetic as it may sound,  nearly every time I have mentally patted myself on the back (because it would be weird for me to actually pat myself on the back) for having made the “full mattress” choice – one which I consider among the best I have made as a parent.  Given the myriad decisions I have been forced to make in my, gulp, 18 years of parenting, it should be telling to you that I determine this to be one of my best.  Yes, it is a little thing (particularly when you compare it to some of the, um, bigger stuff) but man, has it served me well.  I only hope all the other choices bode as well in the long run.

This weekend, Jessie (with some assistance*) rearranged and fumigated, er, cleaned up her room.  As a result, she has developed a new adoration for just hanging out in there.  The removal of the seven bags of crap (okay, there were closer to ten, but that sounds so outrageous, so pathological) which went on to be delivered to either the trash or Goodwill created the illusion of more space but the reality of a new serenity.  Yes, Jessie, it seems, has become a bit of a hoarder**… not in the creepy, reality show sense (yet, anyway) but what was unearthed (and discarded) from the many shelves, drawers, crevices and, perhaps the most frightening: under the bed, did give me pause.  I knew that it was cluttered with a few too many dolls (and wigs, and costumes) but perhaps my familiarity with it trumped my ability to acknowledge that it was in need of a mini makeover. Once it was all done, and for the first time in longer than I care to admit, it was a pleasure to go into her room.   It has been just four days, but the difference is noteworthy…if only for now.

Late yesterday afternoon I was aggressively searching for a new book to download when I realized it had been some time since I had either seen or heard from Jessie.  (I know, why not leave well enough alone, right?)  I wandered upstairs to see what she was up to and found her happily splayed across her lavender-quilted, pink-pillowed bed engrossed in something or other on her Kindle Fire.  (I would like to be able to assume that it was a book, but I suspect it was a game of some sort.  No matter.)  The room can certainly pass for a girl’s (despite the light blue carpet and complementary walls from male days gone by) and her hair, once again in need of a trim, was hanging in her face as it would any ten-year old girl.  I patted her on the butt and with a slight rising of my chin silently requested that she make room for me.  This time, unlike others in the past, she happily obliged.  I nudged her over a bit to ensure my own comfort and lay my head on her newly washed pillowcases.  I had every intention of engaging her in conversation, but instead I closed my eyes and reveled in the (newfound) serenity of the room.  The irony of discovering calm in, of all places, Jessie’s domain, was not lost on me.  Thoughts of her (on-going, never-ending, perpetual ) transition(s) from baby to toddler to kid to tween, not to mention the whole male to female thing, hindered my ability to form a thought or utter a word.  I was literally overcome with a surge of contentment…and exhaustion.

I am not sure that I fell completely asleep as I recall hearing noises around me and a dull commotion downstairs, but I definitely drifted in that space between consciousness and unconsciousness where one’s head and eyes are heavy and whatever might be happening nearby is of no interest or consequence.  I only lay there for about twenty minutes or so, but when I did drag my unapologetic ass off the bed, I was refreshed.

It, like many other things these past several years, snuck up and caught me unawares.  I was just glad to have been awoken by a gentle shake from Jessie asking me if I wanted to have dinner.  Sweet, right?

(Oh, but I would be remiss if I didn’t usher us all back to reality and point out that she wasn’t inviting me to dinner, rather she was requesting that I make it.   Oh, snap.)

*Hugs, kisses and thanks to DP for taking the charge on this one.  I wonder if he realizes that Jessie is still awaiting a paint job…preferably lavender.

**Let me assure you (and protect whatever may remain of my dignity) that there was nothing utterly, or even close to utterly, disgusting found.  It was just your average, run of the mill, everyday crap to which my kid has a (serious) affinity.

A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words

It arrives home every year right around this time.  In the past I have, with zero thought, checked the appropriate box, written a check for the assigned amount and placed it in the backpack to be returned to the teacher the very next morning.  This year, I have given it a place of honor (dubious as it may be) on the counter as a (constant) (and ignored) reminder as I move it to various spots, allow it to get stained and wet while resting  (too) near the sink; all while remaining incomplete.   No, this year is different…this year I have not quite been able to fill in the blanks of the school picture form.

Here is my general philosophy regarding school pictures: I will never sign my child up for a re-take, no matter how awful the picture may be.  In my mind, the final result is the final result.  It  provides a snapshot (pun intended) of a moment in time and should remain exactly as it is taken: no re-takes, cropping or photoshopping allowed.  One of my all-time favorite pictures is Harrison’s portrait from first grade.  He left for school that morning with the requisite plaid button-down shirt (which was only worn for school pictures) and no signs of illness.  Sometime between when he left my house and when the photographer said, “smile”, he contracted a vicious case of Fifth’s Disease.  (For the uninformed, the tell-tale sign of this illness is a red, puffy face which appears to have been slapped repeatedly.)  By the time we received the pictures back we had long since forgotten about his ailment and literally burst out laughing upon viewing the picture of him heroically tackling a smile while sporting a red, puffy face and, oh, yeah, a fever.  Not the cutest, most iconic or highest quality image of him, it instead had a story behind it and is thus, by far, the most memorable of all his school pictures.

I have taken and shared hundreds (thousands!) of pictures of Jessie over the past year but this is somehow different.  In a curious way, the school picture feels like a more permanent remnant of a child’s life than any other photo taken.  It will live not only in my collection, but also in the archives of the school and in the homes of the other families for time immemorial.  It may prompt further chatter among the families as a reminder of George’s transition to Jessie; which has, on the surface anyway, managed to morph into a reality with an almost eerie ease.  And, if Jessie should, at any point, determine that she would prefer to go back to living as George, its presence in the book will be that much more stunning.  True, it will serve as a perfect visual in my quest to capture “real moments”, but somehow that fails to make it any easier.  File under: I just never know what is gonna trip me up these days.

Undoubtedly Jessie will primp for the occasion.  She will look beautiful. When the final result finds its way home in several weeks, I will dutifully slide it into the next available page in the album which holds every school picture of the kids and muse over the apparent “sudden” change in the images.  Years down the road it may be seen by my grandchildren and their grandchildren.  Perhaps in those many years of cultural evolution it will be looked upon with nary a question as gender fluidity will be widely accepted and better understood.  But right now (and here is where my brutal honesty surfaces) it is tripping me up.

I will fill it out this weekend. I will write the check for the amount due.  And I will slip it into her backpack to return to school on Monday.  But I think I am going to go against a certain ten-year old’s wishes and not sign up for the “Fashion Designer’s” package.  Just cannot go there today.

Is It Thursday Yet?

Tomorrow marks the start of the first full week of school for my kids.  Last week’s Thursday opening was merely a courting of sorts.  It was a time for them to meet their teachers, get reacquainted with the kids they had not seen over the (interminable) summer, revel in the excitement of an advanced grade and, theoretically, anyway, emotionally prepare for the rigors of school.  Despite how irritating it was for this parent, I have to admit to understanding and even appreciating the thought process of the school committee to kick off the year with a weekend right around the bend.

As a rule, I tend to subscribe to the “easing into things” method.  It certainly beats being hurled, thrust, tossed, flung, heaved, pitched or propelled; trust me, I know the difference.  Even though George’s behavior and tendencies were long indicative of a pull toward more female expression, her transition to Jessie was hardly a long, protracted exercise.  At the time, I would have given my left arm for a “Thursday” start, but in hindsight, there was something to be said for her taking the helm of the ship and pushing off the dock without dropping anchor.

Behind the scenes, the true evolution from George to Jessie occurred over the course of a few months.  It was early September when she first told me her “secret” and not until mid December that she went wide with the information.  However, once she “shared” with her teacher at school (at 11 a.m. on a Monday morning…yep, I remember it well) it was mere hours before the barn door flew open and the horses were galloping, albeit gingerly, through the halls of her school.  To the uninformed observer, it must have caused whiplash: Monday she was George and by Wednesday (which happened to be pajama day) she was bedecked in head to toe girl’s pjs and robe, hot off the shelves of Target.  By some miracle, none of the kids seemed to bat an eye nor did a single classmate tease him (no pronouns had changed yet) for his outfit.  No easing into things for her.  Once she had freed herself of the information that she’d been keeping inside for all those years, there was, in her ten-year old mind, no time for pussy footing around.  I would have loved a “Thursday” start but, alas, as the passenger on this adventure, no one asked me.

Likewise, no one asked me what day I would like school to begin.  Had they, I would have said Tuesday, the day after Labor Day which, in my memory, was always the first day of school.  But, having been denied the option  or the Tuesday start, and armed with the knowledge of how “Thursday” went (read: lead quickly into the weekend) I appreciate how nicely it fell into place.  The kids were energized but not overwhelmed, excited but not freaked out, relieved but not “over it.”  It was, actually, a perfect segue to a new year.

Now, with the benefit of nearly a year’s worth of hindsight, I truly appreciate Jessie’s thinking in jumping, feet first, into the unknown waters of living as a girl.  She must have known what would work for her and, as such, went in, never looking back.  She didn’t need a “weekend.”  She was down with starting on a Monday.  She had her energy, excitement and relief in check already and, it seems, did not feel the weight of being overwhelmed, freaked out or, certainly, “over it”.  Impressive, that one is.

As we kick off fifth and twelfth grades, I hope that my kids will have wonderful, meaningful and happy years.  I hope that we will quickly get into a rhythm that works for them (and, um, me) and that there are no other enormous changes in store.  That said, we should all fasten our seatbelts and prepare for all that lays ahead.  Oh, wait, have I learned nothing?  I have absolutely no idea what lays ahead…

Death by Kohl’s

Please forgive the air of snobbery and allow me put it on record: if I am destined to meet my maker in a retail store (which is entirely possible) please, dear Lord, do not let it be Kohl’s.  Today I was quite sure that was precisely how my eulogy would be written as I was forced to use every ounce of control I was able to muster to keep from either opening a vein with a car key (or a tooth or a pen) or perhaps dunking my head in the store toilet or, frankly, utilizing whatever means necessary in my quest for death.  Yes, I was back to school clothing shopping for Jessie which is not an adventure for the faint of heart.

 

As with everything I seem to do, it started off innocently enough.  Jessie’s request for a few “cute back-to-school outfits” (her words) is certainly a legitimate one, but not one I had personally experienced prior to today.  In years gone by, the boys would graciously allow me to purchase a few new t-shirts with snappy sayings, maybe even some new jeans and usually new kicks for their (smelly) feet, but “outfit” was not even in their vocabulary, therefore, not in mine.  This being the first September that I “officially” (for lack of any other word) have a daughter entering school, I will admit to being caught a bit unawares by the intensity of the shop.

By some (strange) miracle, Jessie only wanted to go to Kohl’s.  I have no idea why, since I can only recall having gone there once before, but was thrilled to be spared the mall experience of Delia’s, American Eagle and Forever 21 – all of which I have patronized in the past ten months.  I halfheartedly agreed to the outing and, despite being invited (read: begged) to join us, Rich opted out.  (In return for his choice, I armed him with a list for the grocery store with a strong reminder to be mindful of brands…none of this “doing it wrong so he doesn’t have to do it ever again” crap.)  We hit the road: she was excited, I was calm.  As has become my mantra of necessity: I can do this.

What will heretofore be known as “our” Kohl’s is set up in such a way that, depending upon which door you choose – the one on the left or the one on the right – you walk directly into the junior department which boasts, among other brands, a Britney Spears line.  Need I say more?   I now know, for future reference, to enter by way of the left door which brings you to the matronly, er, women’s department.  Having chosen the right door turned out to be the wrong choice and resulted in the onset of my undoing.  From the moment we stepped through the doors we were attacked by a bevy of tops that were all too short, too low, too tight, too flimsy and too ugly for my burgeoning tween who is only too anxious to be accepted as a girl…a teenage girl, that is.  As if her being transgender did not complicate the shopping experience enough, now I had to (subtly) direct her out of the junior department and into the kids’.  That was made even more difficult by the fact that she can easily fit into most of the junior stuff, but doesn’t have the right, um stuff, to fill them out appropriately (again, for lack of a better word).  Add to that her personality and gusto for acquiring large quantities of that which she likes (have I ever mentioned that she is the proud owner of six American Girl dolls?) I sensed that this was going to get really ugly, really fast.  And, I was correct.

With my arms literally aching under the weight of the clothing which had been hurled at me with a zeal reserved for only the most ardent shoppers, I finally gave into the need for a cart.  I was growing increasingly confident that this outing was going to signal the end of my life and was acutely aware that I do not want to perish in a store that has carts. It was at this point that her voice could be heard throughout the store debating and challenging my rejection of roughly 90% of what she was drawn to. Fully aware that this was going to be brutal, I fantasized staging an episode of some sort which would require we leave immediately…maybe even via ambulance for added sympathy.  I kinda even prayed for death a little.   (If I have to expire in a retail establishment though, please, dear G-d, let it at least be Bloomingdale’s.) As I was actively plotting ways to off myself in the ladies’ room (if for no other reason than to put myself out of the misery that is shopping with a girl) I had the wherewithal to physically separate myself from my little angel so that this did not turn into a homicidal situation. (If I have to be arrested for something as unseemly as murder, please, dear G-d, don’t let it be in Kohl’s.)  I (not so) calmly excused myself to go to the ladies’ room which, in hindsight may have been a flawed plan given the fact that all the suicidal plans dancing through my head took place in said spot.  I entered the restroom and considered my options and deemed them all too unsavory so, instead, utilized the deep breathing which I had been taught, ironically enough, to use during labor and delivery.  I gathered myself together and ambled back to the spot where Jessie was exploring the training bras.  That’s it.  Game over.

With less argument that I expected, she walked away from the lingerie and told me of her dire dehydration which, according to her, could only be sated by a Mocha Frappe from McDonald’s.  Imagine her irritation and disappointment (on the heels of my having forced her to weed out roughly half of the items she had planned on (me) purchasing) when I pointed her in the direction of the bank of water fountains which would better cure her thirst than any Frappe would.  It was officially time to leave before she perished from thirst, I from aggravation.

As we took our place in line at the register I noticed that we were behind a couple who might have heard me tell Jessie that I was going to kill myself if we didn’t wrap things up.  Hoping against hope that neither of them were mandated reporters,  I was relieved to learn that indeed they were not and, as if a gift from the heavens, they happened to have an extra” 20% off entire purchase” coupon which they gave to me, I believe,  out of sheer desire to get away from the crazy lady at Kohl’s.

On the way home in the car, armed with the knowledge that there was a drive thru McDonald’s on route,  I caved to the Mocha Frappe craving.   Hardly altruistic, I did so knowing that I could simultaneously  satisfy my Diet Coke habit for the day which we all know, cures everything…including, apparently, suicidal and homicidal ideations.

We arrived home and Jessie was only too happy to give Rich a fashion show from which he only rejected one piece.  I was hoping he would give the thumbs down to more, but alas, we all made it home alive so I had best not push my luck.  As for our next adventure in clothes shopping…maybe next September.

Note: There is nothing funny about either homicide or suicide.  I hope this will be taken in the spirit in which it was intended.  And, further, if you doubt the level of stress of which I write, I invite you to take her for an hour and see how it goes.  <3