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!

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.”

Mama Needs a New Pair of Shoes. Just Not These.

Who doesn’t like new shoes?  I know I love them and have been known to fashion an outfit around a new pair just for an excuse to wear them.  This, however, is not exactly what I had in mind:

As if the start of the week wasn’t traumatic and upsetting enough, yesterday I managed to drop this on my foot:

Which resulted in this:

And required a visit here:

Which garnered a recommendation of these:

Which just sucks all around.

The End.

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.

Sorry, Ma’am, That Item has Been Discontinued…

When I was a little girl I used to love to hang out with my father…it was all part of my perfecting (and loving) the role of “daddy’s little girl”.    Sometimes it would be an adventure as simple as going to the supermarket which not only provided time alone with him, but also provided the perfect opportunity to embrace our shared sweet tooth by throwing all sorts of stuff in the cart that my mother wouldn’t necessarily object to, but might not think to add.  We also went to Celtics games (back in the day when they were winning championships year after year after year) where he would first confirm that I knew who the starting line-up was going to be (I always knew!) and then go on to enjoy a minimum of two Sports Bar ice creams: the latter based on the belief that if my mother didn’t see him eat something, it didn’t count.  With his impressive education and intellect there was something endearing about his (feigned) naiveté surrounding his dietary choices in the absence of someone telling him not to eat a particular item.   I never outed him to my mother:  It was a daddy/daughter thing, of which we had many.

One of his favorite things to do while marketing was to give into his penchant for cookies by diving into a box and enjoying at least a third of them before we even approached the cash register.  He could (and would) happily down several Keebler Fudge Crème Chocolate Cookies (think round Vienna’s but everything is chocolate) while perusing the aisles and well before we reached the dairy aisle.  Despite my vocal protestations and pleas that he “stop embarrassing me!!!” it is a memory which I hold dearer than one would think.

As he got older, and was diagnosed with Type 2 Diabetes, he was forced to find a new cookie, which his grandchildren, to this day, refer to as “Poppy Cookies” (yeah, he indulged in them that much) (the cookies that is).  Initially deemed a poor relation of the deliciousness of the Keeblers, he began to keep these on hand (and discovered that putting them in the freezer made them even tastier) and believed that their slightly lower calorie- and sugar-count somehow made it okay to eat many at a time.  (This might be a good time to remind you that he was a very highly educated, intelligent man…)  Oh, memories of childhood.

This morning as I was making my way through the parking lot into the market to do my weekly food shopping ($299.00 and I am quite sure I will need to do a fill-in mid-week) I was behind a father and daughter, hand in hand, sharing a chuckle on their way into the store.  As happens with these things, we were alongside one another throughout my shopping.  Watching them,  I found myself feeling the nostalgia welling up as they lovingly interacted with one another and the father, with little more than a small smile, allowed several items (which I would venture to guess were not on the list from mom) to be thrown into the cart.  Anything for his little girl.

In the checkout line, I was, again, directly behind them.  I did not tell them (and they were totally unaware) that I had been observing them for the past forty-five minutes, nor did I mention all the thoughts that ran through my head as I did so.  (Which might explain why I forgot to buy hamburger meat to go with the hamburger buns?)  The dad, while physically not even remotely resemblant of my father, emitted an unquestionably loving vibe which felt crazily familiar to me.  The girl, who was probably about Jessie’s age, clearly adored her dad as was evidenced by the smiles they were sharing while mindlessly emptying their cart onto the conveyor belt.  It was, in all likelihood, a non-moment for them, but to this outside observer, it was magical.

It was also a moment, not to mention a relationship, which will never quite happen in my nuclear family.  Rich and I have six nieces (and, just in the interest of equal time, three nephews) all of whom have climbed on, tickled, teased and played with Rich in a manner that my boys never did.  They have also been allowed to get away with a great deal more silliness, shenanigans and temporary insanity with him based not only on the fact that they were not his children, but, and I am just keeping it real here, they are girls.  Cute girls, every one of them.  (A few of them are grown up now, so have ceased crawling all over him, but the others…they still do.)

Ever since Jessie embraced her social identity as a girl it has created a new kind of challenge for both Rich and me.  Having interacted with our second born as a (quirky, fantastic, artistic, funny as hell) boy it is, for me anyway, sometimes difficult to get beyond the outward appearance and try to create a relationship with a daughter (Jessie) that is the same, yet somehow different, than with my son (George).  It is incredible to me how powerful this gender stuff really is and how little thought we all give to it until we are put in a position that we are forced to.  (And, let there be no misunderstanding:  I was forced to.)  It also seems that I might need to learn how to love Jessie differently from how I loved George.   And, while I am relatively certain that my brothers will both confirm that they don’t think that my father loved me any more than them, they are likely to confirm that he loved me differently.  As much as we, as a society, like to avow that our treatment of the sexes is the same, it is sort of, kind of, in a way, impossible to do that… the sexes are not the same.  And I say that having had to switch gears ten years into the free-fall we call parenting.

I suppose it is somewhat akin to my father having to change his cookie of choice from the decadent sugar-laden insanity of the Keebler Fudge Crèmes to the very similar, perhaps equally delicious, but different Nabisco Snackwell Chocolate Crème Sandwich cookies. They look the same, and could (at one time) be found in the same aisle, but they are, in many other ways, very different from one another.  When my father was forced to change his cookie of choice it was a little sketchy at first, but then, in short order, it was as though the Keeblers never existed.  (And, ironically enough, they have long since been discontinued.  I know because I look for them every time I go to the cookie aisle…)

p.s. I felt like I used the word “different” (in varying forms) a ridiculous number of times in this post.  I even thought I might have unseated my record 14 (or so) uses of the word “ambiguity” in my last post but it turns out it was only four times.  But those four times packed a lot of punch!

p.p.s. Things are the pool are going fine.  A few people have been clamoring for a follow-up to Jessie’s big announcement but, alas, like much of this stuff about which I pre-worry, there has been zero fall out…I’ve gotta learn what to worry about, apparently.

What I Hate

I hate ambiguity; it is making me crazy.  I had never put much thought to how I felt about it, but ever since being told (repeatedly) that I need to be able to tolerate the ambiguity of Jessie’s transgender self I feel as though it (ambiguity, that is) is systematically eating away at my very fiber and forcing me to make announcements such as, “I hate ambiguity; it is making me crazy.”

Over the years I have professed my unwavering hatred for a few things.  Some of the most dyed- in-the-wool include (but are by no means limited to):

• Black licorice.  I believe it is actually thinly disguised poison.  I have really tried to like it and have even gone as far as to pop a Good N’ Plenty thinking (hoping) that the candy coating would help mask the offending flavor of anise.  Candy fail.  Cannot do it.
• Vomit.  This includes: mine, my husband’s, my children’s, yours, your children’s and strangers’ (hospital roommates are the worst – trust me).  I am equally horrified by hearing about it, smelling it or even thinking or writing about it.  I am a card-carrying, certified vomit-phobe.
• Chipped fingernails.  Not a good look for anyone.  Either maintain ‘em or leave ‘em naked.
• The final leg of laundry and supermarket shopping; I don’t mind doing it, I just hate putting it all away.
• Inconsistent assholes.  If you are an asshole, I am fine with it.  It is when you are only sometimes an asshole that I loathe.  Too hard to deal with the, um, yep, ambiguity.

I am a straight shooter which is probably why I detest being a situation in which I do not know where I stand.  So, you can only imagine how the ambiguity inherent in Jessie’s social transition is getting deep under my skin and festering.  Everyone knows that I have been told by more than one therapist (okay, three…not including my friends who are therapists…that brings the number to closer to 12) that I must, must, must learn to “tolerate the ambiguity” but, the truth is, I don’t want to anymore.  I want someone to tell me where we are going, how we are going to get there and where we are going to land.  Is that too much to ask?  Apparently it is.

Black licorice, vomit, chipped fingernails, the laundry and marketing piled on the kitchen counters and (most) assholes leave nothing to chance, pose no questions and simply are what they are.  There is very little room for interpretation, speculation, self-doubt or anxiety. While I have an intense dislike of not just the licorices of the world but the resulting emotions they create, nothing drives me as utterly crazy as the ambiguity.  (Well, the vomit does.  I guess that makes me not only a vomit-phobe but an ambiguity-phobe, too.)  Further, any interaction or exchange with any of the aforementioned horrors has a decided beginning, middle and end.  Ambiguity – no matter what it is specifically referring to – is, almost by definition, endless.  Oh, dear G-d…

To be clear, my support of Jessie has not changed, but does that necessarily mean that I have to like the process?  Well, it better not, because if it does, then I am screwed.  Truly.  This is a complicated, loaded, lonely, scary, tiresome and overwhelming experience for everyone who lives in this house, Jessie included.  Not surprisingly, some days (hours, actually) are easier than others and there are brief lapses of normalcy, but the (here it comes again) ambiguity is kicking everyone’s ass.  There, I said it.  It is hard to admit, but in fairness to myself and, frankly, anyone reading this, I need to keep things real.

While I don’t normally go in for the pity on these pages you have likely surmised by now that I am in the midst of a little pity party.   I might even close out the afternoon with a cry.  But we can all take comfort in knowing that Jessie, exhausted from the heat, the hours logged at the pool and, I suspect, the burden of her own ambiguity, is lazily killing off brain cells watching stupid television while luxuriating in the central air and is none the wiser to mom’s internal hysteria.  As long as no one force feeds me black licorice or considers (or, worse, goes through with) vomiting, I’ll be fine in an hour or so.  I hope, but who knows… g-ddamned ambiguity!

p.s. I have gone through trying to count the number of times I used the word ambiguity and keep coming up with different numbers.  It is somewhere between ten and twelve. I am blaming my inability to count on my overwhelmed state but will say that I’m glad the total never came to thirteen because I am a little superstitious.  And tomorrow is Friday the Thirteenth.  One of you is now going to count it for me (thank you) and give me the number which may ten, eleven, twelve or (hopefully not) thirteen.  If it is thirteen do me a favor and don’t tell me, okay?  Oh, man…welcome to my world.

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.

Lost and Found

For as many years as I can recall we have been attending the fireworks extravaganza held in the town in which I grew up but no longer reside. (Aside: as you all know, my parents sent my brothers and me away for eight weeks every summer so I never participated in this activity as a kid, but I can tell you that it is a happening and everyone who is anyone is there.  I might also note that my hometown is way cooler now than it was when I was growing up there, which, I will admit, makes me a little bitter.  True.)  Held on the front lawn of the high school it is a sea of people set up with chairs, blankets, strollers and impressive food spreads.  This year ours included quinoa salad, grilled salmon, chips, dip, crudités and “coffee” (otherwise known as wine).  We usually arrive around 6 pm (although my bestie and her hubby with whom we have been sharing this tradition for years, arrive early in the morning to set up “our” spot – seriously, this crowd is huge!) to hang out; listening to music, seeing people you haven’t seen since last Fourth of July and enjoying the weather.  Truth be told, when my kids were little (and hyperactive) it was a little (and by a little I mean very) unpleasant because they were off in every direction which served as a huge impediment to my being able to relax.  Apparently it was meaningful to them, however, since they both affectionately refer to it (and all other firework displays) as “magic sky”.

So, off we went (Rich, Jessie and me…Harrison bowed out this year) to “magic sky” armed with chips, salsa, Red Solo cups and some pre-mixed Margaritas (is that bad?) and found our rightful spot on the lawn.  Upon arrival we were informed by bestie of a financially minor, but emotionally major larceny: sometime between their early morning set-up and their late afternoon return, someone (the heathen!) had lifted one of their chairs.  Wow.  This sure has become a blood sport. As we were armed with an extra chair it was all fine and no one was relegated to sitting on the ground.  Problem solved.  The chair, it turns out, would be only the first item to go missing.

Within moments of our arrival, Jessie scoped out a group of girls, ranging, I would guess, from ages 10 to 12 who were set up right next to us.  She immediately worked her way over to their lot of land and managed to engage them within moments.  (This is a skill that George initiated and Jessie has perfected.  She is constantly making new friends everywhere she goes.) They were giggling, braiding hair and playing with a baby which I assume (hope) was somehow related to one of the girls.  Rich and I then proceeded to ignore her for a while.  It was perfectly acceptable to do so since it was light out, Jessie knew where we were sitting and we had “coffee” to drink and good food to eat.  Periodically she would check back in (mostly to ask for money for important stuff like Sno-Cones, ice cream and, um, laser swords) and we always had a general sense of where she was.  Until we didn’t.

As dusk began to turn to darkness we suddenly realized that Jessie was nowhere to be found.  At first I was fairly blasé but did make a mental note of all the times I had wished she would disappear (Shut up…you never wanted your kid to disappear?  Please.)  but will admit to feeling a bit of anxiety creeping in.  I knew that within moments it would be pitch black save for the fireworks exploding in the sky and finding her would become completely impossible.  Rich and I spread out canvassing in opposite directions looking for her while trying to maintain a degree of calm.  I knew she was around somewhere, but the specifics were hazy at best.  I was also certain that she was blissfully unaware of the fact that the sun would disappear momentarily and that she would be officially lost.

In the midst of my search I was stopped by a woman who I have met several times over the years in various places – initially, I believe, at my Ob/Gyn’s office.  Some time ago she had sent me a note reintroducing herself after having found my blog to express her appreciation for my honesty.  Not knowing that I was considering becoming panicked over Jessie’s having gone missing, she wanted to tell me, in person, how much she has appreciated and enjoyed the blog and I, ever in need in a pat on the back, stopped to take in the accolades and to thank her for reading and telling me that it was meaningful to her.  And then, mid-sentence, as I literally felt the sun dropping down further, I quickly exercised my brutal honesty by excusing myself and hastily explaining that I needed to find said child or this blog was going to take on a decidedly different storyline.  All those years of joking that if anyone ever abducted my children they would return them and pay me were becoming (a little) less funny.  I needed to find her.

Rich, growing equally, if not more, anxious was scouring the field looking for our ten-year old child…but the place was literally crawling with ten-year old children so it wasn’t easy.  I eventually thought to ask one of the mothers from the group of girls that she had been hanging out with if she had seen her and she, with the concern of any mother, started to look around the area and then pointed and said, “isn’t that your daughter?” and there she was, standing with Rich who, thankfully, had just found her.  While one would think that my initial reaction would be one of relief, it was, truthfully, taking pause over someone describing her as “my daughter”.  That’s weird, right?

Once found, we instructed her to stay on either our little isle or that of her new-found friends for the fireworks display.  Not surprisingly, she opted for the area that we were not and there she stayed, raptly taking in every boom, pop and burst of explosives as they lit up the sky, with complete disregard or appreciation for the fact that she had caused this otherwise anything-but-helicopter-mom to consider readying the search lights to find her.  And, yes, I did wonder to myself if I would have grown as concerned were she still George and the answer was a resounding “yes”.  No matter how low, ugly or unpleasant things become, I would never really want one of my children to be lost…whatever their definition of that may be.

p.s. There actually was a third “gone missing” which was never found; Jessie’s brand new, sportin’ sunglasses.  Yes, the ones that I strongly suggested she leave in the car since the sun would eventually go down (as we know so well), but no, she didn’t listen. Good news: I had only paid $10 for them.  Bad news: I paid that $10 on Monday.

p.p.s.  The fireworks were, as always, fantastic.

Some Fancy Footwork

“I told them George is my brother.  Just go with it.”

- Jessie 7.2.12

Today was Jessie’s first day of ESY: Extended School Year which is a thinly veiled euphemism for summer school.  The profound dyslexia with which she struggles forces her (and, um, me) to relinquish three hours each morning for the month of July to the 1,000 degree halls of a local school in an effort to maintain all that she has impressively learned this past school year.  This is her third, and hopefully final, year of the program and she has her feet on the ground knowing that it will ultimately serve her well.  She does not, however, look forward to going.

In anticipation of the start of class, last week I took great pains to be sure to actually speak, and not just email or voicemail message, with the head of the program to ensure that the teacher and any other professionals knew that “George” of summers past is now Jessie.  Not surprisingly, they were not only aware, but were fully prepared to welcome her with open arms.  Following the conversation, I wiped the imagery sweat off my brow and readied the two of us for another month of school. It is always my goal to try to get ahead of any potential issues surrounding the transition from George to Jessie and I actually take pride in consistently being ahead of the curve of most experiences, ESY among them.  File this one under: oops, forgot about the other kids.

It was mere moments after we arrived at school before we walked (literally) into Sasha, a forgettable and benign girl who attends a different elementary school in town but has, for the past two summers, been in Jessie’s class.  (Well, technically, she had been in George’s class, since Jessie did not exist last year at this time.  Strange, right?)  Not surprisingly, she looked at George/Jessie with a dropped jaw and a gazed-over look of confusion.  CRAP!  I had forgotten all about the other kids in class.  I slightly frantically caught Sasha’s mother’s eye and quickly realized that she was far more concerned with finding the classroom and dumping, er, dropping Sasha off for the morning in the sweat-hall than taking much interest in what was happening. That was fine with me as I was only concerned with leaving before a.) This became an issue and, b.) I started to sweat. (I hate to break a sweat any time that isn’t expressly meant to be counted as exercise.)  I picked up the pace a little and managed to avoid meeting up with any other summer school regulars (a motley crew, for sure) and got Jessie settled into her classroom (with the thermometer reading a hefty 86 degrees) all while avoiding being forced to interact with anyone else.

Fighting hard against the perspiration that was threatening to coat my skin (no, really, it was 86 degrees in the classroom), I did manage to spend a few minutes chatting with the teacher and confirmed that she knew the story behind my little beauty.  I also might have blurted out something along the lines of, “oh, shit, I totally forgot about the other kids who she knows from past summers…so, uh, good luck with that” before I quickly (but not too quickly so as to avoid breaking a sweat) left the building.

Three ridiculously short hours later I went to retrieve Jessie (who was, thankfully, brought out to the car.  The air-conditioned car.) and, like any mom, asked how her morning had gone.  Aside from the thick layer of translucent beads hovering over her lip and the shiny sideburns (she is my child, after all) she was all smiles and reported that she loves her teacher.  Phew.  I waited a few minutes while she quenched her thirst by draining what was left in my (greatly diluted from the melted ice) Diet Coke and turned the a/c fan up so high that her hair was blowing off her face as though in a wind tunnel before inquiring as to whether any other kids had been thrown by her new appearance.  She casually said that there were three kids in her class from last year.  One didn’t seem to notice the difference (um, the summer school crowd ranges from the “mildly” to the “dire” in terms of their needing summer schooling) and the other two, who continually called her George, were quickly quieted by her statement: “George is my brother” which, by some strange miracle, seemed to placate them.  I am guessing, however, that they are still scratching their heads and trying to figure out what the hell is going on and who the hell is Jessie.

Technically one could consider her response to be deceitful.   And, in literal terms, it was.  However, I cannot help but applaud her quick thinking and appreciate the pleasure she seemed to derive from acting on her feet.  When she told the story to me, she added (with impeccable timing), “just go with it” with a sweet smirk which made me laugh.  I love when she makes me laugh.  I love it even more when she is comfortable in her own skin.  And ya wanna know something else?  I kinda got a kick out of the fact that someone else is shuffling from foot to foot trying to gain some balance.

Should be interesting to hear what happens when she goes back tomorrow…

The Name Game

School is just about done for the year and, as is tradition, all sorts of papers, projects and other memorabilia from the grade gone by are making their way back home. (This might be a good time to remind you that Jessie spent the first three and a half months of school -not to mention the prior four years- as George: a complicated, funny, dyslexic and wildly artistic child.) Sometime last week she brought home her art portfolio, the work from which spanned the entirety of her fourth grade experience.  As we drove home from school the day she had carefully carried it all out, she insisted that we close the sunroof to ensure that none of it got sucked up and blown away by the non-existent wind gusts – she clearly revered the work she had done.  I hadn’t found any time to go through the portfolio until this past weekend and have to wonder if my psyche knew somehow to review it at a time when I might be able to allow myself the luxury of reminiscing.  And by reminiscing, I mean crying, thinking, wondering and (over)thinking.

As I pored through the pile of 9”x12” pieces I was struck by one in particular.  Upon cursory glance it appeared to be an abstract piece complete with the signature twirls and design of many a project of George’s/Jessie’s that I have seen over the years. Sketched in the middle is a beautiful, colorful and flowy dress which could quite possibly come to life off the carefully drawn mannequin and onto a six-foot tall, 110 pound woman strutting down the runway to “oohs” and “aahs” of a celebrity filled audience some day.  To the right of the dress is…what is that?  It looks like a delectable chocolate chip cookie with a sizable bite taken out.  An incongruous grouping, for sure, but that is pretty classic George/Jessie for you.  As I was critiquing aloud, Jessie, with just a trace of disgust in her voice, (not so) gently pointed out to me that it spelled George.  What?  (I was simultaneously thrown by hearing “George” and trying to see what the hell she was talking about).

And then I saw it as clear as day. It does indeed spell out George (which she casually explained was because it was from the beginning of the school year.  Oh, how silly of me!) in all its flair, pageantry and beauty.  I was initially amazed at how artistic and clever it was (bear in mind, I am fairly easily impressed with works of art – mostly because I am literally incapable of drawing a straight line, even with the aid of a ruler…it always winds up somehow slanted. Yeah, I know: that has to mean something) and then I got very sad, very quickly.  I miss George.

Back in 2001 Rich and I, like all expectant parents, spent a fair amount of time trying to decide upon a name for this baby in my belly whose sex we declined learning during my amniocentesis (due to my “AMA”: advanced maternal age.  Ouch!)  In keeping with Jewish tradition, we wanted to name the new baby for someone in our family who had died.  We had named Harrison for Rich’s maternal grandfather Harry and were batting around the remaining grandparent names for this one.  The choices: Esther, Elizabeth, Sadie, Bob or George.  We discounted both Bob and Elizabeth:  Bob also happened to be Rich’s father’s name and although he was quite ill, was still with us and Elizabeth had been spoken for in my niece who goes by Izzie.  Further, Rich had a thing against the name Sadie (I disagree – love that name!) but thought George was a cool name.  (Note: George was my grandfather and the man who began the tradition which my father would impressively uphold of making every one of his children and grandchildren completely confident that they were his favorite.  I will contend to my dying day that I was, indeed, both of their favorites.)  I half-heartedly agreed to George, primarily because I was quite sure that I was having a girl (oh, the irony) and was confident that I would have my choice of an “E” name somehow, although I was secretly rooting for Sadie.  Alas, the baby was born and declared a boy based upon the fact that he had a penis, a fair pronouncement for sure, and was named George Reuben (my grandfather Bob’s middle name).  We had the ceremonial Bris eight days later and we were off.  I had two little boys, Harrison and George and, despite what Rich might tell you: they were not named for the Beatles.

It took me some time to get used to referring to my little swaddled infant by such a grown up, antiquated, I mean, old-fashioned name, but before very long, it just seemed right.  He was this gorgeous little boy, the kind that people would stop me on the street to comment on (this, um, hadn’t happened with Harrison, so I was acutely aware of how often it occurred) and the name, I reminded myself, would be successfully grown-into some day.

During their baby, toddler and little kid years, it was virtually impossible to find a mug, magnet or picture frame imprinted with their names.  Occasionally I would happen upon an item with “Harry” (close enough, I guess) on it, but it was, more often than not, and for inexplicable reasons, a shot glass.  Finding it funny, I may have even purchased one or two over the years, but as a rule, any items emblazoned with their names were either “custom” made or pieced together with single alphabet letters.   Sounds silly, but it all somehow added to the strength of these names that they would do well by as adults…provided we all lived through their childhoods.  They were both kids who never had to use their surname initial in class because there was only one Harrison and one George.  End of story.  Or not.

As accustomed as I have become to calling my second born Jessie, I will admit that there are times that I miss not only George the person, but George the name.  When I saw this piece he/she had created it warmed and crushed my heart all at the same instant.  My marveling at the artistic skill was trumped only by the sadness in knowing that this piece, in all its uniqueness, is indicative of so much that I thought I knew which is, at least for now, gone.  If given the assignment today, how would it look different (aside from the obvious: it would spell Jessie and not George.  Doh.) and, perhaps more curious, how would it be the same?  I would hazard a guess that there would still be a beautiful dress styled on a mannequin, but not sure if the dress would have the same color scheme or hemline.  Would it be as bold and confident?  Would it use up so much of the available drawing space on the paper?  And I wonder about the psychology of the lettering: the first “G” and the final “E” are so small as to almost be missed…would it happen similarly with the “J” and “E” of Jessie?  I am sure a shrink could (and perhaps will) have a field day with this piece, but as the mother I feel a loss.  A sadness.  A mourning for the little boy who used to live in the room at the top of the stairs: the one that, despite its feminine accoutrements, once (and still?) belongs to George, namesake of my grandpa whom I adored.

Now this particular item of “George” memorabilia is prominently displayed at my exact eye level at the desk at which I sit with my laptop and ramble on about our social and emotional transition from George to Jessie.  Clearly, some days are easier and better understood than others.  Today is one of the tough ones.  So, too, was the day, that Jessie dismantled the circus-themed letters which had been attached to his bedroom door brightly spelling out GEORGE.  As it happened, Harrison, ever the sensitive creature, quickly grabbed the video camera to memorialize the event but, unlike this seemingly innocuous piece of school room art, it is hidden away in the bowels of a memory card somewhere and will only need be addressed or even thought about should I actively seek to do so.  Oh, I know, I could have hidden this one last obvious vestige of George as I knew him away in a folder or, perhaps more brazenly: in the trash, but instead I, with zero hesitation, have displayed it in such a way as to serve as a constant reminder to mostly me.  This is my desk, where I sit and compose nearly daily making it easy for me to see whenever I so choose.  Because it is true: I miss George.