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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mom of Boys?

For ten years, I was the mom of two boys.  I had it all sewn up: with birthdays just two weeks apart (oh, and seven years) I had the whole Bris thing down pat.  I knew how to change a diaper without being sprayed with a fountain of pee.  And the money I saved by having George (boy 2)  wear all of Harrison’s (boy 1) clothing which I had painstakingly packed away was nothing if not impressive.  Harrison’s toddlerhood (and, if we are being honest, early school-hood) was legendary in its wildness, it’s complete and utter boyness.  He was frenetic and inexhaustible.  He would commence being in motion no later than 6 a.m. and literally not stop until he eventually passed out after several hours of my (vainly) attempting to get him to bed.  My father used to laugh and tell me that he was “all boy”.

When George came along, he followed in his older brother’s footsteps: wild, exhausting and with unending energy, he, too, was an impossible toddler.  I was, ironically, far less concerned with George’s behavior, though.  By this time, Harrison had miraculously turned into a human being and chilled out to the point of actually being referred to as “a day at the beach” by one of his teachers.  So, too, I assumed (okay, prayed) would George.

As the mom of boys, I had a unique kinship with my friends who also gave birth to two penised children: we are (were?) a sisterhood whose daily life differed so vastly from our friends who were (are?) moms-of-girls and moms-of-one-of-each that we stuck together like glue.  We have (had?) an understanding of one another that often (okay, daily) allowed us the strength to get through it…even if only physically.  I recall my sister-in-law telling me that her singular goal during the toddler years of her one son (as opposed to his two sisters) was just to keep him alive:  his exuberant energy level had him regularly flying across the room to wreak havoc on something or another.  I dared to take it one step further and argue that my goal for my boys was to keep them alive, or, more precisely, to keep from killing them.

Despite their exhausting and unrelenting energy, I loved being the mom of boys.  Oh, sure, I was afraid of them much of the time, but not nearly as afraid as I would have been had they been girls.  I remembered all too well what it was like to be a girl growing up and had very little interest in living through it again.  No…I could do this boy thing.  For sure.

So what if my second son shunned the toy cars, transformers and the forty five million Legos I had stocked away?  Who cared if his costumes of choice required wigs and dresses as opposed to the ab-enhanced Superman costume?  And his drawing girls all the time?  Whatever.  I was a mom of boys, dammit, and had the penises to prove it.

I’ve always known that boys love their mommies.  (Much the way girls love their daddies.)  Explained by an amorphous blob that hovers somewhere between adoration and fear, boys just want to be with mom, be adored by mom and, yeah, probably want to sleep with mom.  (Crap, how did Freud invade this conversation?)  Not gonna lie: I liked our dynamic, and I loved being their Number One.

And then, in what seemed like an instant, I was no longer the mom of boys.  Just like that, everything I had lived through and, frankly, been preparing myself for was suddenly divided.  I was now supposed to switch gears and be a mom of a boy and a girl; a transition for which, I can assure you, there is no guide-book.  What the fuck?

It has been nearly a year and a half since George tearfully and bravely told me that “his whole life he had wanted to be a girl”, yet I still think of myself as the mom of boys.  I see a child who, in many ways,  looks so vastly different from sixteen months ago, yet so much the same: she is taller and has longer hair, but much of her personality is decidedly George.  I usually think of her as Jessie, but still sometimes slip and call her George. I get tripped up every single time someone asks me about my kids’ gender and never know how to refer to my second born when recalling stories from her first ten years.  I don’t consider her my son, or my daughter, really.  Neither feels right.  She is my child and I love her and he is my child and I love him.   It is more than semantics, for sure.  It is more than long hair and shopping in the girl’s department.  She has transitioned with little trepidation.  This mom of boys, however, is still trying to figure it all out.

B.S.U.R.

 

Several weeks ago, on the heels of what could only be described as an epic breakdown of emotional cohesion (Jessie’s), I calmly (and I believed kindly) reminded her that any decision she made surrounding her gender identity was fine by me.  I care not whether she is a boy, a girl or a Martian.  I care only that she (or he or it) is comfortable in her (or his or its) own skin.  I thought I was being a loving and supportive mom.  Well, yesterday I learned otherwise.

During our monthly visit to the GeMS (Gender Management Services) Clinic, I had a private and not all together easy conversation with the psychiatrist with whom we have been working.  Already privy to the exchange I just referred to, he pointed out to me that my words, despite being nothing but well-intentioned, were actually kinda, sorta, in a way well, bad.  Aw, crap.

In telling Jessie that she can “make any decision” she wants I was not, as I set out to do, freeing her.  No, by suggesting to her that it is a “decision” to be consciously made I was, in actuality, putting undo pressure on her.

This is not a decision.  This is an “is”. 

Had I said, “You can be a boy, a girl or a Martian” I would not be writing now, rather I would be polishing my mother of the year award.  But, alas, instead, I am ruminating over the (now obvious) error in my words and trying not to feel shitty about it.

I’ve often written of the ambiguity and amorphous nature of gender non-conformity.  I have not, however, always been able to appreciate how it feels from Jessie’s point of view.  I have tried to, but as someone who has never grappled, even briefly, with either my gender or sexual identity, I admit that putting myself in her shoes has not come naturally.  I have struggled, actually, with imaging having my girl parts yet living my life as a man.  I admit: I cannot imagine it…for me.  My identity as a girl has never occurred to me, actually…and I say that as a person who is more psychologically aware than the average bear.  This is intense stuff, more powerful than you, me or any “decision”.

When your child, or anyone that you love with every fiber of your being is struggling, the inclination is to try to fix things, make things right or, if we are being honest: make things go away.  It is truly brutal when you can do none of those things which is, unfortunately, the situation in which I find myself now.  It is not a decision for Jessie (and certainly not for me) as to how she proceeds on her life’s path.  She cannot lie in bed, stare at the ceiling for a few hours in thought and emerge with clarity.  It just ain’t gonna happen.

This is not a decision.  It is an “is”.

In some instances, an “is” is preferable to a decision (said the indecisive one).  In this case, it is neither good nor bad (most days).  It just is.  The true challenge is to find peace with the whatever “is” we have resting on our shoulders and from here forward, I will do my damnedest to encourage Jessie to be who she is – be it a boy, a girl or a Martian.

This is not a decision.  It is an “is”.

 

I Made A Good Choice (at least according to Jess)

Jess has a propensity for fixating on things. She will get an idea, need, thought or desire in her head and lord help anyone within a five-mile radius who might have some capability of making said idea, need, thought or desire happen and she will perseverate until she either gets her way or has reduced someone (usually me) to tears.  I have no idea where she got this habit (said the carrier of the trait) but it can be very tiresome.

Prior to her transition, the begging often centered around dolls.  She would see an ad for a cheerleader doll or a Barbie doll or a hooker doll and simply have to have it, no matter who got hurt in the process.  I tried like hell to stand my ground and refuse the acquisition, but admit to being beaten into submission more than once.  (Okay, many more times than once as is evidenced by the vast doll collection at my house.)  It always became bigger than her and I could almost see her losing sight of what it was she even wanted having gotten so caught up in the hysteria.  It was at once sad and infuriating.  Until I learned to walk away.

As I told you a few days ago, a recent episode lead me right into the hands of the local Starbucks for what would become a two-hour run away.  I warned her that I was nearing saturation of my nerves and, when she did not let up, I simply left.  (Okay, I might have slammed the door on my way out, just for dramatic emphasis, but…) It was good for both of us.  Really.

Fast forward to last night.  It was a cold, rainy/snowy, crappy evening.  Jess was perfectly content playing on “Our World” (a web game she likes) when she noticed that if she had more (virtual) gems, she could buy more (virtual) crap and all I had to do was lay out some (real) money.  Not surprisingly, I declined the offer.  Even less surprising was her taking my denial as an invitation to start making deals, offers and pinky promises that would assure me, if I laid out the credit card, of her never asking for anything ever again.  Yeah, cuz that works.

We got into the whole back and forth for a few moments before I stopped it all in its tracks and calmly told her that if she continued with this line of conversation (for lack of a better word) I was going to have to leave the house.  Secretly hoping that the threat would suffice, I sat back and was arrogant enough to think, if even for a nanosecond, that she was going to back down.  But, no.

“Ya know what, mom?  That is probably a good idea” she shot back, with just a trace of disgust.

Damn.  Okay, then.  All about the follow through, I, with the same calm as the initial threat, walked toward the door, slipped on the closest Uggs, grabbed my phone and keys and out I went into the cold, wet night air.  (I will admit to consciously thinking that, among other irritations from this encounter,  this weather was going to do bad things to my hair.  What? Is that bad?)

I turned on the car, was assaulted by the sounds of  my new favorite CD: http://www.amazon.com/Fall-Grace-Version-Paloma-Faith/dp/B0096YP8DU/ref=sr_1_1?s=music&ie=UTF8&qid=1363975772&sr=1-1&keywords=paloma+faith – a fantastic album which somehow gets into my soul and makes me a better person…if only temporarily) and threw it into reverse having no idea where I was headed, but feeling just a little bit proud of myself for not further engaging in the mishegas* that was happening at home.

I drove around the neighborhood, noticing a “sale pending” sign outside a friend’s house (didn’t know she was moving), a discrepancy in snow levels among streets and the fact that all the  other cars around me seemed to have a destination, while I had none.  I made a few phone calls and pulled over for a few texts.  About thirty minutes passed before I realized that my shoulders had dropped back down to their proper space and that it might just be safe to go back home.

I hit the “Home” speed dial on the Bluetooth knowing that it would be clear from the way she answered the phone whether it was safe to go back.  The first time I tried, the stinker let me go to voicemail.  My second attempt, a few seconds later, yielded a friendly “hello” on the other end.  No pussyfooting around, I came out and asked her if it was cool for me to come back home.

“Yeah.  I am calm now.  But not gonna promise that I won’t ask about it again, but I promise not to tonight.”

I was down with that.  So home I went where she greeted me in the kitchen with a hug and a smile and said,

“That was a good choice, mom.”

Just another reason I love that kid.

*For the non-Yiddush speakers out there: mishegas is best described as silly insanity – the crap we all have to deal with that is silly and insane all at the same time.

Can’t We All Just Pee in Peace?

Many of you have likely read about a transgender child named Coy Mathis who lives in Colorado.  Her case has been getting a great deal of press, most recently in this article in The New York Times: http://www.nytimes.com/2013/03/18/us/in-colorado-a-legal-dispute-over-transgender-rights.html?_r=0&adxnnl=1&smid=fb-nytimes&pagewanted=1&adxnnlx=1363642218-qLO0nNFjO1pqP8FoanZBig

Coy is a transgirl (has transitioned from boy to girl) and the primary issue of a law suit filed by her parents is their desire that Coy be allowed to use the girls’ bathroom at her school.  The school has made available both the nurse’s bathroom as well as a gender neutral facility elsewhere in the school.  Her parents, however, have “angrily” removed Coy from the school and are in the midst of filing a discrimination law suit, not to mention garnering plenty of media attention in the process.  I get it. It is admirable to support your child in this situation.  It can be a bitch to support your child in this situation…I know as I am doing it myself.  I do not, however, happen to agree with the Mathises on this particular issue.

Not surprisingly, the bathroom discussion has come up innumerable times with Jessie and her school administrators.  She, too, has been instructed to use either the nurse’s or a staff/gender neutral bathroom.  Yes, she has requested (again, innumerable times) that she be allowed to use the girls’ room.  It has been I, at the end of the day, who has vetoed that request.  And, I might note, Jessie has not pushed back.  I might even be so bold as to suggest that she is a bit relieved at having been denied.

Of course I want Jessie to be as integrated and accepted in the community as everybody else.  I want her to feel comfortable and happy both socially and emotionally.  I want her to pee in peace.  I also know that the one (maybe two) time she uses the “special” facilities in the course of a school day is in no way impeding her success or growth.  In fact, it is probably improving both.

All kids are special and different in some way (admittedly, some more than others) and while they should all be afforded the opportunity to be true to themselves (no matter how that is defined) it is simply impossible, unreasonable and a little bit insane to suggest that each be catered to for whatever their particular need may be; particularly when it is certain to have an impact of some sort or another on so many other people.  Let me remind you: I say this as the parent (as rabid as the next) of a transgender child.

That’s right.  I don’t want Jessie using the girls’ bathroom at school right now.  I have been a girl and remember well enough that far more than quick piddles and occasional poos take place in the restroom in a given day.  Any pecking order that exists in the hallways is on steroids in the bathrooms.  It is an easy place to be bullied or, frankly, be a bully.  My daughter has a penis and to think that such a reality will never come to bear within the confines of the bathroom is to be ignorant.

I would like to say that if I were a parent and learned that there was a transgender child in my kid’s class that I wouldn’t think twice about it…but that would be untrue.  I would like to say that it is of no consequence…but it is.  I would like to believe that I wouldn’t somehow, on some level, judge the family…but I probably would.  And I am pretty sure that I would not want my child (who is, in this scenario, a classmate of a transgender child and not the transgender child) put in any potentially awkward situations.  There, I said it.

Of course I want Jessie to be as much a part of the community and culture of the girls in the fifth grade as possible.  I also want every other girl in there to be afforded the opportunity to pee in peace, too, and if that translates to Jessie having to make a once (or, again, maybe twice) daily trip to the bathroom earmarked for her use; so be it.

Let there be no misunderstanding: I appreciate where the Mathis family is coming from.  I respect their desire to keep their child as whole as possible during a transitional period which is difficult at best.  My disagreeing with their position does not translate to not applauding their support of their child.

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.

Stupid Pink Rollers

It might have been the lousy post-haircut blow out.  Or maybe the threat of another N’Oreaster.  It could also have been the fact that I shut the tail of my light-colored sweater/jacket in the door of the car and did not notice it until twenty filthy miles later.  Perhaps it was the discovery of a crack in the bumper of my car (which I swear I did not cause).  Most likely it was the hot curlers.  Yep, I am pretty sure it was the curlers that sent me spiraling down.

When Jessie and her friend Sarah were, with my knowledge (my encouragement, even), coiffing one another, the curlers bothered me not a whit.  The visual of Jessie’s overly curled tresses didn’t do it, either.  It was when, after Sarah had left, (generously leaving the curlers here for Jessie’s pleasure) and I was invited (without the option of graciously refusing the request) to the bathroom to watch Jessie transform her hair from straight to curly that I felt it wash over me.  Anguish. Distress.  Sadness.

I am not proud.  I feel guilty even acknowledging that the visual of my male born daughter joyfully working with hot pink curlers shook me to my core.  Her obvious glee upon removal of each clip freeing the curl should have made me happy for her.  It did not.  It felt like a crushing blow to my chest.  And I feel horrible for my reaction.

It was so utterly girly, so unabashedly female and so hard for me to watch.  A (fairly significant) part of me wanted to slide my arm across the bathroom counter, knocking the pink tubes to the ground in a flourish.  I fought the urge to pull the plug out of the wall and disallow their use at all.  And, after serving as a model with half my head rolled into clips, I consciously rammed my shoulders down from my ears attempting to put them back in their proper spot.  Oblivious to my inner turmoil, Jess commented on how fabulous my hair looked curly (not to readers: I have naturally curly hair) as she circled around me in a (vain) attempt to curl the other side.

I couldn’t take it anymore.  I needed to be out of the bathroom, away from the insanity and, ideally, in a corner somewhere sucking my thumb.  But, alas, that was not to be.  I took a deep, cleansing breathe (the one thing I learned in childbirth classes) and announced that this model was officially off the clock as I made my way out of the confines of the bathroom, seeking breathable air.

Interestingly, my departure coincided with Jessie’s boredom with the project.  Within moments of my descent to the safety of the family room she was at my heels, having combed out the curls of only moments before.  Her mood was just as I had left her, and she was none the wiser to my mini breakdown.  Happily watching television, munching on a Creamsicle with hardly a trace of curls remaining, Jessie remains oblivious to my personal crumbling.  For that, I am grateful.

I never know what it going to trip me up or send me looking for the nearest sedative.  Who would think that something as benign as stupid pink hot rollers would be my undoing?  Lesson learned…the hard way.

Note to self: I can do this.

Good Mom

I am a good mom.  My children know that they are loved, supported and cared for.  They know that they can come to me with anything and that there is nothing they can do that would ever make me stop loving them.  I have striven to strike an acceptable balance between kvelling about and embarrassing them (although it sometimes requires a tweak here and there) and am confident in saying that they both know that I’ve got their back.  I am a good mom.

This weekend I met a way-bettter-than good mom.  She fits all the aforementioned criteria and then some.  Her (not real) name is Anne.  She is a foster mom; seeking permanent guardianship of a delightful young lady I will call Topaz.  Topaz adores Anne and Anne adores Topaz.  They live together and, despite having come from different worlds, they both want to keep it that way.  Topaz doesn’t come without baggage.  (Who does?!) She is one of several siblings, all of whom are living apart from one another.  Her father has served time in prison; for what I am unsure.  I am fairly sure, however, that it doesn’t much matter.  Topaz, at the ripe old age of eleven offhandedly commented that “he gave up his rights to me the first time he went to jail” with far more matter-of-factness and far less disdain than one might suspect.  It was the only life she knew.  Her mother’s issues are unknown to me, but I am quite sure that Topaz knows all about them.  She’s just that kind of kid: wise beyond her years and grateful for her second chance.

Anne and Topaz have only been in one another’s lives for two or three years.  Topaz left behind a rural home and moved to a hip, urban area; a move which was not without its challenges.  She misses the wide open space and life in a house full of siblings, who, despite their father’s challenges, are her family.  Given the warmth, love and trust so evident between them, it might never occur to you how fraught with complications this relationship could be.  In fact, despite the total lack of “family resemblance” I assumed from their interactions with one another that this was a lifelong mother/daughter relationship.  In fact, it wasn’t until Topaz called out to Anne by her given name that I even began to wonder.

Midway through Anne’s narration of their story, Topaz mentioned (again, offhandedly) that Jessie (who had been a guest in their home for the better part of the afternoon) is transgender.  Then, not surprisingly, the conversation turned to our story.  Anne was completely unfazed by the announcement (love people like her!) and asked the sorts of questions one might suspect.  And then she did that which makes me bristle: she told me that I am a great mom.  Well…this nearly set off a smack down.

“No!” I protested.  “It is you that is the great mom.  I was thrust (or hurled, tossed, thrown, catapulted) into being a good mom for Jessie.  I really had no choice (trust me, it isn’t that I am so wonderful…) while you, armed with the knowledge of how wildly complicated Topaz’s situation was (and continues to be) jumped in feet first and took it all on.”

Truth be told, while I fully embrace our story, our issues and our situation, I am fairly certain that I would not have actively sought it out.   And, yes, I know that there are enough “Great Mom” medallions to go around, but I still contend: Anne wins this round.

There are lots of great moms out there who have made far greater sacrifices and faced far more enormous challenges than I have and I am fortunate enough to know many of them.  Among the many, many moms I know (some only virtually) I cannot think of a single one who isn’t facing down one kind of challenge or another.  Some are doing it with great support, others with less.  Some have a lot of money to aid in their battles, others do not.  And some are “out there with it” (that would be me) while others choose to be more private.  I am not doing anything that 99% of other mothers would do for their children, I just happen to blog about it.  I am a good mom.  I might even be a little better than good, but so, too, are most of the other moms out there just fighting the fight, doing the dance or holding up the protective armor.  Doesn’t much matter as long as well all remember my mantra: you can do this (no matter what it is!).

P.S. There are so many awesome moms out there that I dare not even attempt to mention by name, alias or even initials because I am sure to miss someone…but it is a pretty safe bet that if you are reading this you either are a great mom or had one (I know I did) and if you didn’t, I am guessing you will shatter that pattern right about now.

Eighteen Minutes & Eighteen Seconds

During the course of having gone (very) wide with my story, I have met (mostly virtually) many people along the way.  I get emails from strangers nearly every day; some are transgender themselves, others are attempting to parent a transgender child and others still are just compassionate human beings (and some are all three!)  For their own particular reason, they are interested in the evolution of Jessie and the trials and tribulations inherent in such a dramatic transition.  I like to lend an ear, offer support and remind them of the mantra that I (try desperately to) adhere to: “you can do this.”

Today I received the following email from LNB, the parent of three children, one of whom simply doesn’t fit into any gender clearly:

I imagine you may have already seen this TED video, but if not, I am privileged to be the first to share it with you!

http://www.ted.com/talks/io_tillett_wright_fifty_shades_of_gay.html?source=email#.UQqg7s65UaJ.email

In fact, I had not seen it, although vaguely recall having heard about this incredible story.  I then spent 18 minutes and 18 seconds watching it, as enraptured as I’ve ever been while watching anything and feeling enormous appreciation at her having sent it my way.

This is a wild adventure.  Just today, I was speaking with a mother from my neighborhood that looked vaguely familiar as our children had gone to the same elementary school although none in the same grade.  She knew Harrison but asked me about “my other children” which, as it invariable does, lead to the question as to whether it was a boy or a girl.  (Aside: I hate this question.  I feel that no matter how I answer I am in some way lying…) Since she had been at the same school, I assumed she knew the story and introduced myself as the mother of the transgender kid at school.  After an awkward pause she said, (and I am not making this up) “how did that happen?”  In a moment of quick wit (and gratitude that said wit did not elude me at that moment) I responded, “Just lucky.”

I want her to watch this video.  I want everyone to watch this video.  I actually think that video should be somehow required watching for anyone who ever deals with kids.  Or adults.  Or anyone in the human race.

Find a time that you have 18 minutes and 18 seconds to devote to sitting in front of your computer screen or iPad or Kindle or Smartphone or  any other electronic device on which you can see it.  Watch it.  I dare you not to be moved, provoked and/or want to watch it again.  Go ahead.  Watch it now.  Let me know what you think. I will tell you what I think: fabulous.