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.

I’ll Keep My Stuff, Thank You

I originally wrote and posted this entry two years ago (almost to the day) on my original blog which has long since been retired.  I re-read it on  this snowy (sort of) afternoon and felt as though it deserved a new audience.   I remember the night you are about to read about clearly. More importantly, even with all that has happened in my life since I first posted this,  the sentiment remains the same.  (Note: at the time I knew not of George’s desire to be Jessie.  I have left her in here as George because, at the time, that is who she was.)

My mother has often told me (usually when I am candidly – or perhaps hysterically – discussing an issue belonging to one or another of the members of my household) that if one were to sit around a table and everyone tossed their “stuff” in the middle, you’d still want your own. While I have always appreciated the sentiment, I recently discovered, quite literally, just how true it is.

(Full disclosure: in the interest of not alienating my friends and relations, I am taking some creative liberties and changing names and extraneous information which, should I reveal,  would defeat the purpose of having changed the names in the first place.  That said, all “stuff” is real.)

Recently I broke bread with a group of seven kind, well-adjusted, successful adults.  Among the guests, who ranged in age from mid 40′s to late 50′s, were a lawyer, three/four business owners and a high-ranking business professional.  (And me, but whatever.)  As the evening unfolded, and the wine flowed, it was proposed by one person at the table, I’ll call him Edgar, that we go around the table and each lay one of our “issues” (or “stuff”) out on the table for public consumption.  Okay, with the intimate crowd (some more so than others) and the Pinot on board… let the games begin.

It’s beginnings were fairly benign.  With a fork held so that the tines served as a makeshift microphone, Edgar made a comment about his mother.  (Sidebar: why does it always come back to the mother?!  Can we not catch a break?  Are we not doing the best we can…geez. ) With that, Francois shared a diagnosis one of his children had just received (note: child is doing great) and onto Lillian who shared a different diagnosis for one of her children (again, it’s all under control).  Next came Collin who, being a bit more reserved (and a bit less boozed up) commented that one of his kids can be really difficult. Really, really difficult.  I came next and likely made some comment about Georgie.  Okay, I definitely made a comment about Georgie.  (Clearly I am the only one who cannot be granted anonymity here!)  Moving on, Petulia, just getting into the rhythm went the kid route, too.  (What, it is okay to complain about your mother but not your kid?)  The last two participants, Schlomo and Harriet, having no children got caught off guard and passed…this turn, anyway.

Then things got interesting.  Here are just a few of the issues people dumped, er, tossed onto the table…

1. Anorexic child

2. Autistic child

3. “I communicate with my father through my cousin”

4. “I have a tattoo that no one know about” (which is when the speaker and one other guest at the table (gasp) revealed their tattoos.)

5. “My orgasms aren’t nearly as good as my partner’s”

6. “When my child was in the hospital (with cancer) I couldn’t stop thinking about the hot nurse”

7. “I lost $250k on a bad business deal”

8. “I always feel like the least attractive person in the room.”

9. “I hate my cat”  (okay, that is pretty obviously me, but it took courage to announce that to an animal loving crowd.  Baby steps…)

10. “My father loved me but had no expectations of me” and, in the same vein, “the last thing my father said to me before he died was, “make sure you cover the boat”.”

11. “I wish I hadn’t changed my name when I got married.  Twenty years ago.” (okay, that’s me, too, what…I’m not entitled to a midlife crisis like everyone else?)

This went on for hours.  No one was holding back and no one was judging.  It was cathartic, funny, depressing and uplifting all at once.  Each announcement was more personal than the one prior.  The thirst for more wine was surpassed only by the thirst for sharing/purging one’s stuff.  Out of respect for Edgar, Francois, Lillian, Collin, Petulia, Schlomo and Harriet I will refrain from sharing more details (but trust me, some of them were juicy) but will also say this: my mother was right…if one were to sit around a table and everyone threw their “stuff” in the middle, you’d still want your own.  I know I (kinda) do (most of the time).

Update: If I were to be a part of this exercise today, my admissions, complaints, concerns, successes and failures would go beyond hating my cat.  Of that I am certain.  

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.

Aiden Jay

I received this comment in response to my last blog, “Yo, Jane Doe” and had to share.  I did not approve it in the comment section because it so clearly deserved more legs than that.  It is entirely self-explanatory.  And fabulous.  Be sure to click on the link to see the video!  Meet my newest idol: Aiden Jay

Submitted on 2013/02/17 at 4:43 pm

I am writing because my mother is an active follower of this blog and as a mother of a transsexual teen (ME) herself she has found comfort and understanding in the posts that she has read. This “Jane Doe” as they call themselves is a coward, but much more they are hypocrite. They call you out on the way in which you help others to accept their child, while telling you exactly how you should accept your own? That just doesn’t sit well with me as I am sure it didn’t with you. My mother, has spent the last 6 years supporting me and actively standing by my side to ensure I am safe and turn into a good man. While I choose to live my life without being stealth, I believe it is the parents purgative how they choose to share the information about your transition with others, especially in order to help others. The things you have posted, the stories you have told, and lives you have changed are important. As a transsexual man whom lives his life openly everyday and has the support and love of his family, I commend you and your daughter for your openness and for allowing people to look into your life, in order to help.
Although I understand why you wrestle with these ideas, rest assured that you are doing a very good thing.
I will leave you with one last piece of information: The transgender community often discusses how terrible it is that we are not only judged by those whom watch from the outside, but we judge our own members every day. We make people feel like they need to fit into a mold in order to be completely male or female and that they need to follow certain steps in order to transition and those who choose to not follow the same steps are viewed in a very different light. It is terrible that this kind of judgment is being portrayed in our accepting parents as well. You chose to love your child no matter what and help them to be the best they can be, no one has the right to tell you that you’ve done anything wrong.

http://abclocal.go.com/wabc/story?section=news%2Finvestigators&id=8994691

After watching the link, and before publishing A’s comments here, I emailed him.  Here is our exchange with my notes in italics, his in boldface:

Hi Aiden!

 Thank you for reading my blog and for your incredibly thoughtful comment.  I would love to share it as a blog post along with the link to the wonderful story about you, but wanted to be sure you were okay with it before I did so.

 Curious: How did your mother find me??

 Please keep in touch.  You are my idol.

 

Unfortunately my mother is asleep but ill be sure to ask her and get back to you! 

 I would be honored if you were to share my post, I hope you know that I believe you are doing an incredible thing and no one should ever tell you other wise! 

My Facebook is Facebook.com/ayejaykap I hope you’ll take a look at what I am about! I have so much to be proud of and it looks as though things are about to start going really well for me! It is my duty to help those who are not yet strong enough or old enough to help themselves! Thank you for making my job so much easier! 

Awesome.  I am rushing off to work this morning, but likely post something later on today and will keep you in the loop.  

You, my friend, are a rock star!

 p.s. So is your mom.  I love her “admission” (for lack of a better word) that this is scary to a parent…but we rabid moms will do anything to support our kids, scary or not!

That’s awesome! And yes, my mom is incredible! She has never stopped doing everything possible to make my life better, but she does the same things for my brother and sister, who are societies vision of “normal”. I just got lucky to have an incredible mother! Just like your daughter!

This is the second kid (the first being one Cameron Cole) who has touched my heart with their words, their strength and their awesome moms.  I’ve not had the pleasure to meet either one of them personally but am confident that they are both fine young gentlemen that anyone would be proud to call friend.  So take that, Jane Doe.

p.s. Before Jane (or anyone else, for that matter) considers ripping me a new one for publishing this information about Aiden, rest assured, I ran everything by him prior to publishing.

p.p.s. If you happen to run into Aiden or his mom, give them both a big hug for me, would ya?

Yo, Jane Doe

It took nearly 130 posts and over a year, but I finally got a negative (nasty, actually) comment on this blog.  It is the first one (of the 3,000+ I have received) that I have elected to leave unapproved and, therefore, unseen by the general readership.  Not surprisingly, it came from a Jane Doe.  No, literally, she* took the time to create an email address of janedoe@googlemail.com before letting me know that she believes me to be a misguided and poorly-taught-by-my-parents parent (sorry, Mom) and that what I am experiencing is “nothing special”.  She knows, after all, because she is also parenting a transgender child and, therefore, is the authority on how to do things correctly while I, it seems, have mastered doing them incorrectly.

She further accuses me of writing for “you and your own acceptance” as if that is the worst thing I could ever do.  I own it.  I am a person, not just a parent, and need support and, well, yeah, acceptance.  Clearly Jane is a better person than I since she is able to fly solo on this crazy-ass adventure while I have not.  Props to her?

The only line she scribed which I will admit (briefly) tripped me up was her closing sentence: keep it private and don’t make a spectacle of your child…..it will come back to bite them. Okay, full disclosure: this is something I grapple with every time I hit the “publish post” button.  I have discussed it out loud and in my head, the latter usually in the middle of the night.  I have considered the positives and negatives associated with sharing our story as intimately as I have. (Now might be a good time to make myself feel better, er, let y’all know that there is much to our story that I do not share on these pages.  There are many experiences and events which have not made it to the blog…some of which are doozies.  I do, it is important to note, self edit more than you might think.) Here is an important piece of the puzzle: Jessie is not stealth.  She does not keep the fact that she is a girl who has “boy parts” a secret.  In fact, she is the one who tells new acquaintances with her head held high in the process.  She knows all about the blog and has even been known to offer up suggestions for entries.  I am taking her lead.  Am I finding a degree of support and acceptance in the process?  You bet I am.  Is this experience as a parent (as a person!) “nothing special” as Jane suggests?  Are you kidding me??  It is a huge deal.

I know nothing about Jane Doe.  I do know that she did not have the inclination? courage? wherewithal? courtesy? maturity? balls? to identify herself whilst she stood upon her soap box and chastised me for my choices.  Had she opted to criticize me without hiding out behind the veil of secrecy that is inherent in her very email address, I would have approved the message and thanked her for her opinion.  Had she respected me for being a less private and more open person than she, I also would have approved the message. (That sounded more judgmental than I intended…but can think of no other way to say it.  I am a very open person.  It is just a fact.)  And had she shown the compassion that any other parent of a transgender child owes to their like-experiencing compatriots, I would have approved the message.  But, no.  She did none of those things.  Instead she lumped herself onto the top of the heap of haters that troll the internet and cast aspersions anonymously.  Up to her to do so, up to me to not approve.

The logical question now, then, is to call me out as to why I am giving any credence to her comment by dedicating an entire blog post to it.  Fair question.  It feels somehow disingenuous of me to know that I am being called out and choosing not to publish it on the blog. I am sure that Jane is not the only one who feels that I suck for one reason or another.  There are probably many Jane Does out there horrified by what I share, but I pride myself on being open and honest and will not allow myself to be derailed by a nameless, faceless Jane Doe.  Truth be told, I made the decision for me and for my readers.  I made it so as to not sully what has become a positive and supportive spot for so many people, most of whom I do not know.  It is a place where people have shared their own experiences, struggles and triumphs with the transgender (and gender variant and non gender variant) people in their lives.  There is criticism and judgment aplenty in the big world out there…who the hell needs to find it on a blog?  And, given the fact that I am entirely certain of nothing in this world, it gives me a little bit of a warm and fuzzy feeling that my blog is something I have complete and total control over.  So there, Jane Doe.  Send me a comment with a real name and a non-judgmental angle and I will happily publish it.  I will even discuss it with you. Do not get all high and mighty…I don’t respond well to that.  And neither do my readers.

 

*I am not sure why I am referring to Jane as “her”…”she” may be a “he” or “she” may be somewhere on the gender fluidity spectrum and not care to ascribe to any particular pronoun.  Who knows?  More importantly, who cares?

 

 

 

 

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.

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.

Bump In The Road?

We’ve all had them: those conversations with our children in the car that start out simply enough and invariably result in a far more loaded thought process than anticipated or, frankly, desired.  You know, like when your six-year-old asks you from the booster seat how babies are made.  Or when your eight year old learns the word “asshole” as you spew it at the driver of the car that cut you off.  Stuck in the tight quarters that are one’s car, uncomfortable, unplanned and perhaps undesired follow-through on said queries is a sure bet.

Such was the situation I found myself in earlier this afternoon whilst I was chauffeuring Jessie to her art lesson which, while totally fabulous, is located in the most headache inducing part of town you could possibly imagine.  Add to that the fact that I had worked all morning, rushed to get her at school and had to further hurry to make it to an appointment I had, it is fair to say that I was not quite in the mood for anything heavy. I had dutifully greeted her at school with a snack and a bottle of chocolate milk and hoped that she would chatter about the events of the day or maybe even her excitement for her lesson.  At first, all was going to plan.  She sucked down the milk, turned her nose up at the (yummy, delicious, fresh from the oven) chocolate chip bagel I lovingly brought her and chastised me for not remembering that it was me, not her, who likes them (yeah, I ate it…don’t judge me).  We chatted a bit about the traffic and how insanely cold it was.  All was fine.  Until, as things go in these parts, they weren’t.

“Do I look like a girl?” she asked, very matter-of-factly,  with no bravado or particular intensity.  Really?  Today?  The same day that I happened to  look at you and think to myself that you looked more like a boy than you had just last week?  (I was quite sure I hadn’t said it aloud, but I will admit to wondering if perhaps I had.) I am not sure what it was about her appearance that felt so, well, masculine.  She was in a simple outfit: jeans, sneakers and a white Disney World hoodie (which, admittedly, was purchased for George upon getting caught in a torrential downpour several years ago).  She had put particular care into her hair this morning, rising early to flat-iron it to within an inch of its life resulting in a coiffure reminiscent of the Japanese straightening technique favored by curly tops like myself.  (Note: Jessie’s hair is not curly.) Yeah, one would think that would “feminize” her, but alas, it seems to have yielded the opposite result.  Bump.

As we were side by side in the car, sitting in traffic, there was little to distract from the question.  I was forced into an honest answer: “sometimes you look very much like a girl, other times you look more like a boy” I replied.  No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I wished I could have suctioned them back in.  I wanted to be honest, but not mean.  I wanted to support and protect her.  I wanted to turn the radio to top volume to drown out any further conversation.  Damn, can nothing be easy?

Not content to leave well enough alone (or not quite well enough, as the case may be) she inquired as to a time when she looked particularly “girlish”.  That was easy.  Just a week or so ago she was in an adorable (age appropriate) dress, her hair blown out (by me) with the bangs pulled back in an assemblage of about fifteen bobby pins, her behavior demur.  She was all girl.   But I could just as easily point out a decidedly less feminine presentation when she was in Levi’s, a plain navy zip front sweatshirt, her hair a hot mess of knots, crooked parts (yes, there were more than one) and about two days past the point where it should have been washed.  I am willing to bet that there were some farts thrown in for good measure, too.

It is all okay, though.  It is all part of this ever-increasing foray into gender fluidity.  And, I will admit, it all throws me a little off kilter.  Just when I stop stumbling over the pronouns and calling her Jessie, she oozes into another sphere of gender and leaves me scratching my head.  Just when I think, “I’ve got this” I start to wonder if I really do.  And just when I think we are on a straight trajectory, I am reminded that we definitely are not.

“Do I look like a girl” she asked.  I am beginning to think that there is no correct answer to that question.  Bump.

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