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.

Best days of my life? Round II

Below is a post from exactly a year ago.  I don’t often go back and re-read pieces I have written, but I was curious as to where my head was a year ago.  Interestingly, I could have written this all over again today.  No, things are not settled, in fact, many things are even less settled than they were way back in February, 2012.  Everyone is a year older and has the war wounds of a year of turmoil to prove it.  Harrison is nearing the end of his senior year (and has a full-blown case of inoperable senioritis), Jessie has longer (but not long enough by her standards) hair and a wardrobe that would be the envy of any eleven year old girl you might happen to meet.  Rich and I have separated (it has been several months at this point) and are establishing a new normal which is working for everyone.  We did not split because of Jessie.  In fact, it is one thing that we are very much on the same page about.  His support of her and her decision has been exemplary; some readers might recall that he was the one who took her, on more than one occasion, to the American Girl Doll store to load up on accessories for her dolls.  On Saturdays.  Even when she was still George.  And didn’t complain.  We’ve done something right because Jessie, thankfully, doesn’t blame herself for the split.  Nor should she.   Our issues are our issues…not her’s or Harrison’s. 

We are all on this adventure together.  We have better than a year under our collective belts and will try, like hell, to indeed make these the best years of our lives.

xo

About a year after I had finished my run-in with breast cancer, Tony Snow (the former White House press secretary) returned to television for the first time since having been diagnosed with colon cancer.  It was a school/work morning and Rich and I were trying to get ourselves and the kids up and out the door.  “The Today Show” was on and we were half listening to the interviewer when he asked Tony for reflections on what he had been through.  He responded by saying that it was “the best year of his life.”  Rich looked at me and asked me if I knew what he meant.  Indeed, I did.

Whether it is cancer, or a death or a divorce or a little boy announcing that he is really a girl, difficult life experiences have this crazy ability to turn logic on its ear and prove to be wonderful times in one’s life.  Sounds insane, I know.  But, having had my fair share of trying times, I can honestly say that with each crisis, once the hysterical part of it has passed, I am a little bit better for it.  I am a little bit stronger and have a whole lot more faith in mankind.  Would I wish for any of these things?  No fucking way.  But in a strange and beautiful way, I wouldn’t take them back, either.

I always thought that feeling this way was peculiar at best, morbid at worst.  Not really a glass half full kinda gal, it isn’t necessarily my nature to find the positive in any given situation.  It is easier to get caught up in the fear, anxiety, anger and “why me?” than to see the upside of things like facing down a bi-lateral mastectomy  just days after my father-in-law lost his battle and my father was en route to losing his.  I could have opted for a complete shutdown when I landed in the hospital with a herniated disc in my back which provided me with what I can easily say was the worst pain imaginable.  And when George came to us to tell us that he felt that he was a girl, it would have been simpler to keep it to ourselves, go underground as best we could and simmer in the angst that any parent would feel when their child makes such a major announcement.  But, when you see the love, support, encouragement and strength that the people in your life are willing (no, not willing, but eager) to share with you, it results in a paradigm shift that can only be fully appreciated during well, a crisis.

Like many people, I am not particularly good at asking for help.  It used to be a source of pride for me – an indication that I was a strong and capable woman.  And then I got sick.  My family and I needed help with the everyday crap that doesn’t go away.  We needed dinners, and drivers and shoppers.  Once I acquiesced, it was mere hours before a cooler was outside our door and a sign-up list was fully populated.  We were fed, driven and attended to for weeks and weeks and weeks.  It not only saved us in the day to day, it saved our spirit, too.  (It also served to add several pounds to my midsection – a few too many delicious lasagnas with brownie chasers!)

Right now, no one (thank G-d) is ill.  No one is physically compromised.  We are, however, emotionally spent and mentally exhausted, yet not struggling.  We aren’t struggling thanks to the undying support we have gotten from family, friends and even strangers.  Those who approach me (even those who do so tentatively) are ready to lend their support in any number of different ways:  maybe it is by forwarding an article or sending a gift certificate (go Justice!  go Clairs!), or passing along clothing their daughters have outgrown…it doesn’t really matter.  What does matter is that everyone, to a person, has reminded us that we are loved.  And, any time you know you are loved is always a good contender for “the best year of your life”, no?

I’m not going to lie – this ain’t easy.  At every turn lurk surprises, successes and failures.  I have no idea how this is all going to play out but I do know that everyone in my family, perhaps my life, will be different (read: better) for it.  There are moments, hours, even days that I pray for a rewind to life before (such as it was), but I know, deep down, that I will someday be able to look back at this and be grateful for the lessons learned.

Congratulations! It’s a ….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Thanks, JP

On Thin Ice

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hidden Power You (May) Get From Toothpaste

Control: v. to exercise restraint or direction over; dominate; command.

Who wouldn’t want that?  Who doesn’t dream, fantasize and pray to the right G-ds to have it?  And, who, more importantly, can claim to have it?

I had a discussion today with my therapist during which I cited the many areas in my life over which I felt I had either lost (or, more to the point, never had) control over.  Some are obvious; see: transgender child in the house, while others are less so: what lays ahead for 2013 insofar as said transgender child is concerned (among other things).  As therapists so artfully do, she gently turned things around and suggested that I take note of the many things that I do, in fact, have (at least a semblance of) control over.  In what felt like a moment of desperation, she reminded me that my freedom of choice over what toothpaste I use (Colgate) is an example of one of the many things I (and you, too) take for granted as being within our control.

Her digging so low in the barrel as to be espousing the importance of having a choice in the dental care sector, did, I admit, hit me with a nanosecond of credibility-doubting and a sinking feeling of being utterly pathetic.  But then, with my confidence in her abilities as a therapist firmly implanted, I started to really think about it.  I live in the town that I want to, have (mostly) wonderful people in my life and can choose to go days on end without washing my hair if I so desire.  I have domination over my reading list and television viewing.  In fact, with “On Demand”, I can go so far as to control not only if, but when I watch my beloved Housewives which, in actuality, is another something over which I have control: an inane, escapist choice, but one over which I have complete and total control.  For every silly novel I devour, I exercise the decision to read something that I am not ashamed to be seen carrying around.  (Example: “Fifty Shades of Grey” followed by “May We Be Forgiven” or “Bossy Pants” with an “Is Everybody Hanging Out Without Me” chaser– oh, wait, those are both silly!)  Bingo!  My choice, my control!  This is easier than I thought.

I have control over what I eat.  The fact that I sometimes opt for the ice cream as opposed to the apple is, in reality, something I actually have control over.  So, too is my wearing the slightly snug jeans versus the ones that are one size larger and infinitely more comfortable.  Or sleeping-in instead of hitting the gym.  And don’t forget paying cash or using a credit card.  All in my control. (Note: control does not necessarily equal a good choice, rather, as noted above, it shows a “direction over”…which direction we choose is entirely up to us.  Thus, control!)

I feel a little bit better now but when I first left her office I was quite sure that the only thing I would ever come up with over which I had control was the damned toothpaste and that, I will admit, depressed the shit out of me.  I am happy to report that, while I still have scads of doings in my world over which I feel a complete control-void, there are actually many things over which I do, indeed have control.  Not sure I can claim total domination (as is deemed necessary in the definition), but at least it is not quite as dire as I thought.

Stop and take a look at even the most miniscule tidbits over which you have control and maybe you, too, will feel a little better.

First Birthday, Eleven Years Later

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Swimming Despite the Rain (?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At Least One of Us Can Still Create

Over the past few days I have started and aborted six, yes, six, blog posts.  One was too intense, another made no sense but did make me out to be a blithering, rambling idiot (something I have been accused of by  just slightly more than one Huffington Post reader) and the other four just sucked.  I cut, pasted, rearranged and ultimately deleted each of them with a grand flourish of highlighting.  Occasionally when I do this I then regret having hit the delete button too hastily, but not so with any of these.  Unsure if that is a good thing or a bad thing…

One might surmise, given the honesty of the posts I have published thus far, that I have no boundaries and am willing to share just about anything that transpires in these parts. Not so.  In fact, one of the reasons that I am having such a difficult time writing now is because I have found myself in territory which is personal, intense and not (suitable?) for public consumption.  Oh, I have plenty of stories which would make for great (no, make that outstanding!) reading  but am unable to share.  Some are funny (in the insane way that only the parent of a transgender child can possibly fully appreciate), others are ridiculous (see previous parentheses) and others are just plain outside the scope of that which I am willing to share with the world.  As such, I am stuck in a self-imposed writer’s block (read: I have plenty to write, but just cannot go there right now).

But fear not!  I am not going anywhere, but for today I am  just popping in for a moment to let you know that all is fine (lest you conclude otherwise from my silence) and I will be back just as soon as the right (define as you see fit) words come to mind.

Until then, let me again share some of Jessie’s latest work.

Thanksgiving…Mostly Thankful

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Gratuitous display of Jessie’s autumnal drawing: