#thingsthatmakemecranky

I am cranky.  Wanna know why?  If you don’t, you had best stop reading now.  You were warned.

1. I’ve “written” (and I use the term loosely) and trashed about seven blog posts this week.  Some were several paragraphs long when I clicked, highlighted and deleted them.  There were actually some halfway decent sentences among them, a couple of interesting trains of thought and even a few clever witticisms, but nothing came together in any meaningful way.* It was irritating, frustrating and even a little bit thought-provoking; the main thought being: what’s my problem?  #thingsthatmakemecranky
2. Sleep (or, more to the point, a lack of sleep) is mocking, torturing and berating me.  Falling asleep is not an issue.  In fact, I can (and do) fall asleep remarkably quickly.  I feel my eyes getting heavy and my brain shutting down and within a nanosecond of assuming the on-my-stomach-leg-bent-out-to-the-side stance I am out cold.  If only I could stay that way for longer than four freakin’ hours.  And those of you who are ready to espouse the virtue of any number of sleep aids (prescription and OTC alike) can save your breath.  I’ve tried them all.  It is, I am convinced, a conspiracy.  #thingsthatmakemecranky
3. Mental overload.  I, like everyone else, always have a lot on my plate.  Most days I handle it with grace or at least have mastered the art of fooling everyone into thinking such.  Others days, like, well, today, however: not so much.   There is a definite correlation between how much is rattling around in my head, how I sleep (see #2) and how well I cope (and write).  Crappy thinking begets crappy sleep begets crappy writing oh, and crappy mood.* #thingsthatmakesmecranky
4. I have cried on four separate occasions today.  None were particularly meaningful bawls, rather quick drops spontaneously erupting from my eyes (and, I might note, smearing my mascara in the process which, if I am being honest, could be a line item all its own).  While I can think of any number of reasons for the tears, none of the episodes rendered much in the way of relief.*  File under: yet another irritant, oh, and #thingsthatmakemecranky
5. I’m not eating much. I am exercising regularly.  Yet, for some obnoxious reason, all my jeans feel snug.  Not tight, just snug.  Enough to make me crankier.  #thingsthatmakemecranky
6. The cat who, admittedly, served his purpose by ridding us of the rodents who had taken up residence in our walls (where they also chose to die), has overstayed his welcome.  #thingsthatmakemecranky
7. I settled into bed last night, inordinately excited to catch up on the “Modern Family” and “Real Housewives” episodes that I so carefully recorded only to discover that someone in the house (naming no names, it was the 18-year-old) watched and, I can only assume, enjoyed MF and then deleted it.  Said 18-year-old did not touch the “RH”, though.  I do take comfort in that.  However, #thingsthatmakemecranky
8. I did a massive load of Jessie’s laundry two days ago.  It is all still in the dryer.  Gonna look like shit.*  #thingsthatmakemecranky

Okay, I feel a little bit better.  Now you, however, are probably all agitated and constructing your own list of that which makes you cranky.  Have at it and feel free to lift the hashtag.

*Much like this blog post.

Got Snarts?

It was about two weeks into my sophomore year in college. I was settling in, feeling (as) happy (as I got during those years) and a little bit cocky in my dorm situation.  Having hit the mother lode and pulled a ridiculously low number in the housing lottery (I mean really low:  as in #18 which is phenomenal given that the sophomores got last dibs on rooms) I was digging my single-on-a-co-ed-floor-in-a-great-dorm-overlooking-the-quad room.  The dorms were suite-style: a single and a double on either side of the bathroom which, incidentally, was cleaned by campus staff weekly.  I was pretty cool in my set up and relishing the comfort that came with being a sophomore and not a freshman.

In the middle of each floor in the dorm was a common area which was nothing more than an open space with some sofas and a few chairs.  (I suspect those common areas have grown up a lot since my day, but at the time it was commons heaven.)  A fairly good-sized group of kids, representing all classes, were hanging out enjoying the first few weeks of school before all those pesky papers and exams started piling up.  I had gotten up to grab something from my room when it happened:  I was walking away and (of course) there was a natural lull in the conversation (having nothing to do with my departure) during which I sneezed.  Oh, and farted at the same time.  Yes, I snarted right there, in front of everybody that I was going to be living with for the next eight months.  I vividly recall praying that the sneeze had been explosive enough to muffle (I dared not wish for a full mute) the accompanying fart, but, alas, it had not been.  Utter humiliation for me.  Peals of laughter for everyone (and I do mean everyone) else.  Yeah, it was pretty much the definition of embarrassment.

I wish I could recall  how I reacted, but I suspect it was not with the grace or aplomb that I would hope to display at my current, far more advanced age should the same situation occur.  At the time, I was horrified, embarrassed, nauseous and quite sure I was the only person in the entire universe who had ever sustained such humiliation.  The joy of my single-on-a-co-ed-floor-in-a-great-dorm-overlooking-the-quad was immediately eviscerated despite resolving to never leave said room ever again.  Sure, I was 18 or 19 at the time, but I might just as well have been ten.  It was brutal.

Fast forward to now.  I am pleased to say that I have never suffered at the hands of the snart since that fateful day, but I have grappled with other awkward, embarrassing and horrifying situations.  You probably think that I am going to lump Jessie’s transition into this category.  If so, you’d be wrong.  It amazes me, actually.  Sure, I have felt anxious and concerned and, well, nauseous over some of the changes that have come down the pike, but never, not once, was I embarrassed.  I never wanted to hole up in my room and not face people.  I never contemplated transferring out, credits be damned.  I worried and fretted and feared each new wave of the transition but I was never embarrassed.

As I was driving Jessie home today she shared with me a story of having snarted at recess today.  Until she told me, I had resolved any residual fallout from my incident in college (or had I?) but it immediately came rushing back, clear as day.  I can almost envision the acid washed jeans I had acquired over the summer along with the heavy black eyeliner that I favored in those days.  I shared the story with her, complete with the degree of devastation I suffered.  She looked at me quizzically, unsure what my problem had been.  She was not even remotely upset about her snarting.  In fact, she was, at the tender age of eleven, able to see the humor in it.  In fact, I believe I even detected a degree of pride at having accomplished a snart.

I cannot help but associate her total lack of discomfort with this potentially humiliating incident with her comfort in her current gender affirmation.  It is all about perspective, is it not?  What is a snart to a kid who, in fourth grade, started the week at school a boy, and closed it out as a girl?

I have often marveled at Jessie’s courage.  I have never, however, really thought about how I would manage should I be in her position.  As we had this conversation in the car (aside: why do these things always happen in the car??) I realized that she is a way cooler cat than I.  Her sense of self and lack of inhibition, while often exasperating, is going to serve her well as she continues through life.  She will snart without inhibition, opine without hesitation and succeed without compunction.   As a mother, that makes me proud.  That said, now that the whole snart incident is fresh in my mind, I am sure to begin fretting over it happening again. Oh, to be more like Jess.

Can’t We All Just Pee in Peace?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ambi-freakin’-guity

Hardly a day goes by that something doesn’t unexpectedly pop-up in this still new world of raising a child who identifies as transgender.  Yeah, you would think I would have learned to stop being surprised, but, alas, I have not.   Sometimes it is something banal like those stupid pink curlers.  Other times it is more profound…like a phone call I received better than ten days ago which I have still not managed to fully get my head around.

It was the Friday before February vacation (aside: didn’t the kids just have a vacation??) when the phone rang, the caller i.d. stating it was Jessie’s school.  Just as an elementary school kid goes ashen when told, even if they have done nothing wrong, that the Principal wants to see them in her office, I, too, had a visceral (not to mention physical) reaction.  I instinctively knew that Jessie was okay (mostly because she wasn’t even there, having left earlier in the day to hit the road with Rich for a few days in the snow) yet knowing as much did little (okay, nothing) to alleviate my stress.  The Principal was calling and it was not just to shoot the shit.

We spent a few moments catching up with one another and learning how things were going in each of our worlds.  (Well, I guess you could say we did shoot a little shit.) But I was still curious as to what the call’s agenda might be so I absent-mindedly opened up “Bejeweled Blitz” on my computer to distract myself, if only a little, from whatever was about to go down.  (I have come to realize that the repetitious nature of the game does wonders for calming me down…hey, whatever it takes!)

Dr. B. has done everything in her power to make Jessie’s transition and school experience as seamless and normal as possible by fully, professionally and artfully embracing the myriad challenges in having a child in your school identify as transgender.  As such, she has taken on all sorts of initiatives and programs to ensure that not only her staff, but the administrators of the entire school district are as educated and accepting as possible in all things transgender.  I’ve greatly appreciated it.  Little did I know, however, that I was about to be asked to put my money where my mouth is…and I’m not sure I’m ready.

She began the conversation by acknowledging that Jessie (and George) has long had an Individual Education Plan (IEP) which addresses her struggles associated with dyslexia.  As such, she is a very well documented child and has a thicker file in the school than the average kid.  Immediately upon her transition the staff was diligent about scribing the narrative portion of all reports, notices and announcements, with her new chosen name of Jessie.  The top of the page (read: the official part) includes her school identification number and remains associated with her legal name: George.  And now, just barely a year later, Dr. B. is offering to change the official name to Jessie and, gulp, change the gender marker to female.  I admit to being caught off-guard.  Of the long list of issues that have shaken me up, the discrepancy in names (in this context, that is) has never bothered me.  In fact, I recall that the first time I saw “George” on the top and “Jessie” in the text, I got a little choked up; I actually took comfort in knowing that this was somehow still the same child. It felt surreal.  It felt bizarre.  It also felt like an appropriate segue into whatever we were diving into.  And now this?

Stop!

As I sat in the chair, getting my ass kicked in “Bejeweled Blitz” (that happens when your eyes fill with tears making it impossible to see the screen – or anything, for that matter – clearly) I was speechless.  A part of me wanted to say, “How wonderful!  You can do that??” while another, slightly (okay, much) louder internal voice screeched, “No!”

And then I felt guilty.

Why wasn’t I embracing this?  Why did I feel nauseated and fearful?  And why have I not told a soul about this until now?

When Jessie first made her announcement and subsequent (not to mention immediate) transition, she asked me daily if we could go change her name legally and, as she planned it, go directly from the Social Security Administrative offices to CVS to get hormones.  Yes, it was that uncomplicated and literal to her.  I would gently suggest to her that it was not quite so simple and that we would work together with (many) professionals and everything would come in due time.  Interestingly, she has mentioned neither changing her name nor the administration of hormones in months.  And I, taking her lead, have not brought either issue up, either.  Perhaps that is part of the reason this offer from Dr. B. sent me reeling: we have a new normal, one devoid of discussion of things the likes of name changes and hormones.  I guess I had almost “forgotten”.  Sort of.

After a pregnant pause, I realized I had to respond somehow.  Here Dr. B. had extended herself, not to mention this epic bestowal, yet I was speechless.  Thankfully, she knows me well enough to have anticipated the, dare I say it?…ambivalence and offered up the next words: “we can always change it back.”  And that made me feel better, but not well enough to give the go ahead.

Early on in our meetings with the psychiatrist who specializes in gender issues, it was pointed out that 80% of children who identify as transgender while prepubescent will change their minds.  (Freak-out worthy statistic, am I right?!) It was further explained that in the literal mind of a then ten-year old, “if I like girl things, I must be a girl” is not just a concept, but a reality.  The shrink’s final words, from the first time we met, implored us to figure out a way to “tolerate the ambiguity”.  I went home  that day and wrote this blog post: http://georgejessielove.wordpress.com/?s=chronically+ambiguous&submit=Search

That was nearly a year ago, and, I am sorry to report, that I still don’t know if I can tolerate it.  I am beginning to notice, however, that a (not insignificant) part of me seems to be at ease with it somehow.  Perhaps having both “George” and “Jessie” on her school documents somehow keeps me, in a crazy-ass kind of way, grounded.  In my (off-kilter) mind it actually illustrates the ambiguity of the entire situation which, for now, is working for me.

When Jessie, who is the captain of this ship, wants to put down anchor, I will be there alongside her to hitch her to a mooring.  Until then…we will stay adrift on this one.  Thanks anyway, Dr. B. (For now.)

Cameron Cole

You know how when you are  pregnant and it suddenly seems that everyone around you is, too?  Well, I have found that to be true about having a transgender child.  Okay, not everyone has or is a transgender kid, but it sure seems that it is far more prevalent than any of us (me, certainly) might have thought.  

Earlier today I received a Facebook message from a kid named Cameron.  He had gotten my name from (see if you can follow)his mother’s boyfriend’s sister who, as it happens, is a dear friend of mine from high school who, you guessed it, I was reunited with via the power of Facebook.  Cameron was reaching out to me having recently (as in today) officially come out to the world as transgender.  Below, following some of his own words,  is the video that he posted to share his story as well as a piece he wrote about his adventure (remember, I hate the word “journey”.)

At the conclusion of our first (there will be many more) chat I told him that I was pretty sure I loved him a little bit.  I think you will, too. 

(Note: I have made no changes, right down  to his note to me at the end.  Seriously, I dare you not to love this kid.)

 I’ve always been the same person. Yes, I admit, there are times where I’m not all there, but I am still me. I have discovered something about myself recently- something so incredibly obvious that I can’t believe I’m just seeing it now. I’m a guy. I always have been a guy. No, not physically, but mentally, no doubt. I was the line backer on the tackle football team as a child, and I played baseball instead of softball. I played ‘house’ and Barbies when I was younger, but I always claimed the role of the son or Ken. I preferred to be called ‘Nick’, and I could always out-throw the boys. I was attracted to girls at an extremely young age, and then fell into the ‘I’m-a-twelve-year-old-girl’ phase and pretended I never looked at girls that way. Now fast forward to Sophomore year. I cut most of my hair off and fashioned a Tegan and Sara look- pretty much a coming out statement in itself. I had my first over-dramatic girlfriend, got dumped, cheered, and moved on. I ended up throwing the label ‘lesbian’ on myself, as it seemed to be the closest fit to what I was experiencing at the time. From tomboy to masked preteen to lesbian, I thought I had found myself. Of course, high school is all about change. Life in general is, and that’s what brings us to the present. It’s so very strange how change and truth go together here. I’m revealing the truth by changing. I’m finally discovering who I am. So far, I’ve gathered that I’m a hopeless romantic trans guy, trying to make his way while helping others on the same path. It took sixteen years to realize that, and approximately six months to come to terms with it.

    After coming out as gay, it’s not exactly a huge deal to come out as transgender. Starting with my friends who all just happen to be flaming homosexuals, the truth was told. I then shared it with my mother, my siblings, other friends, and even the school dean. The amount of support and respect everyone is already displaying is utterly amazing. People are starting to call me Cameron and using male pronouns. Everyone is adapting so quickly, it’s almost unbelievable.

    I feel as though I’ve been transitioning throughout my entire life, and I’m being reborn. It’s as if I unknowingly started transitioning in freshman year. Everything is happening naturally and absolutely nothing feels forced. After a lot of research and deep thought, I’m going to start gender therapy and I’ll soon be taking prescribed testosterone injections. I’m definitely in a good place right now, and I could not be here without my friends and family supporting my every move. My name is Cameron Cole and I’m finally happy.

Julie, thank you so much for letting me share my story. Feel free to edit it- I’m merely a sixteen year old with high school grammar.

                                                                                                -Cameron

And here’s the video: (note: I hope it works…we had some technical issues on my end – likely user error – but hopefully it works…because it is awesome.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YUYqNF66_SA&feature=youtu.be

Snowflakes

In case you do not read the comments I receive, please allow me to share this one, from a Sandy Hook mom who happens to follow my blog!

Again, thank you. We took our SHS second grader to visit his new school today. He was so delighted to walk around, meet Officer Mike–the police officer assigned to their new school (a dad of five, he shared), and leave a note for his teacher on the chalkboard. To return to a snowflake bedecked school in January will elevate his and his classmates’ delight to extraordinary heights!

I am taking advantage of my captive audience and passing this along.  Thanks for allowing me to do so!  jr

When school resumes for Sandy Hook, it will be in a new building. Parent-volunteers are working to ensure that the students are welcomed back by a winter wonderland with the entire school decorated with as many unique snowflakes as possible. They encourage everyone to be as creative as possible, remembering that no two snowflakes are alike. Please make and send snowflakes by January 10, 2013 to the Connecticut PTSA address below.
Connecticut PTSA
60 Connolly Parkway
Building 12, Suite 103
Hamden, CT 06514

Broken Hearted

I would never be so insolent as to even suggest that I have any notion how the parents of the Newtown children left dead by an assassin are feeling.  It is unfathomable to me to even consider the depths of sadness, anger and disbelief which are inherent when a parent is forced to do the unthinkable and bury a child.  The emptiness which can never be sated is truly unimaginable.  It is unnatural and horrifying.

I have not had to purchase a child-sized casket.  Nor have I had to sit with clergy to discuss plans surrounding a funeral service for a person I have been attached to from the second they arrived in the world and have come to know better than the back of my own hand.  I have, however, lost a child in a different way.

I lost a son and, if we are being honest, the pain associated with that loss is greater than I have probably let on.  He was a delicious, gorgeous baby with bright blue eyes and an impish quality which, while frenetic and tiresome, was also rapturous.   People would stop me on the street to comment on his bright blue eyes, his crazy blond curls or his high-pitched squeals.  Wherever we went, upon leaving everyone would call out a “goodbye, Georgie” due partly to the joy of his leaving (he was loud!) and partly out of adoration for his huge personality.  He was known the world over (okay, just the town) for his unique, hysterically funny and captivating personality.  A legend is his own time.  And then, with only slightly more warning than the horrors of Newtown, he was gone.

In the days since the attack on the Sandy Hook community I have been obsessively thinking about loss.  About how quickly the world can (and will) change.  About how lucky I am to still have my child, albeit in a different package.  I’ve been acutely aware of the increased, unexplained slip-ups in my choice of pronouns and my calling her “dude” and not “doll”.  I want to reach out and hold onto the child that I loved and lost last year.  I wonder, given the pain I (along with the rest of the world) am struggling with these past few days, how the parents of the babies (and they were just babies) that they dropped at school on Friday morning then headed off to the gym, or work or home to do laundry or clean up the mess those same babies had left behind are ever going to be able to face another day.  The void is incomprehensible.

I still have my baby.  No, she doesn’t have the name that I gave her.  No, she doesn’t wear the clothes that I lovingly packed away when her older brother outgrew them, knowing that because their birthdays are so close together, they could potentially be the same approximate size during the same approximate season.  The curls are long gone and her bright blues have faded to a green like my father’s.  Her presentation is different, but I still have my baby.  When I am at a low, and mourning George’s having faded away, I remind myself of how fortunate I am to have her under my roof, eating my food, trashing my family room and continually expecting me to get up and make her breakfast before she heads off to school.

Unnervingly, the horrors of the Newtown massacre have forced me (and maybe you, too) to work a little bit harder to treasure every moment and to reassess that which pushes us to the edge.  During those times when I feel that I am at my limit, can no longer take another moment of the ambiguity and struggle, I try to remind myself how lucky I actually am.

Being a parent is hard.  Losing a child is harder.  My heart is broken for these families.  I have not buried a child, but I know the pain of losing one in a different way.  The pain they are facing cannot be compared to my own.  Knowing that, my heart is broken further.

What I Want & What I Cannot

I want to write something profound, thoughtful and meaningful about the horrors of yesterday.  I want to somehow apply the experience I have had raising my transgender child to the events that unfolded in the one place children are always supposed to not only feel, but actually be safe.  I want to understand how it could have happened and, equally, if not more importantly, what we can do as a society to ensure it never happens again.  I cannot do any of those things.  I can only, along with the rest of the world, pray for the families that have been victimized, traumatized and forever changed.

I cannot fathom the agony that the families of both the victims and the assassin are being forced to endure.  I cannot imagine the devastation launched upon a community, a country.  And I cannot reconcile in my mind any rational reason that a living creature would be so distraught as to murder our most vulnerable.

As a blogger with a loyal band of followers, I felt a pull, a compulsion, a need to reach out to everyone.  Life is full of challenges, obstacles and unthinkable acts.  Hold on tight to the people in your life – the ones that bring you joy as well as the one who struggle and need your support.  No one can do this alone.

Picture This

I am a tremendous and loyal fan of Jessie’s school.  To a person, they have handled her (and me, frankly) with a perfect balance of support and  love (some tough, but mostly straight up).  They have made what could have been a disastrous transition as seamless as I could ever have hoped for.  The administrators, teachers and professionals clearly have our backs and for that, I will forever be appreciative.  This week, however, school is killin’ me.

For starters, after two “hurricane days” last week, one professional day (which also happened to be election day) (and also happened to focus on just how seriously our town takes anti-bullying!) and one (unbeknownst to me – my bad) early release this week, I am desperately seeking more than a few hours during the day to accomplish something.   I found out about the early release the hard way when I received a call ten minutes after the bell, smack dab in the middle of a torrential rainstorm (thereby making the, “you can walk home” response just plain mean) while I was at the market.  (Points for me: not only was I getting ingredients for a hearty, delicious and nutritious dinner, I even texted Harrison to see if he would prefer lasagna or chili.  He chose chili.  Please don’t be the one to tell Jessie that while I was forgetting to pick her up, I was simultaneously not seeking her input on dinner choices.  Doesn’t she have enough to talk about in therapy?)  So, yes, I think we can all agree that all those “no school” hours are tiresome when they come one on top of another.

Second, and more troubling, is Jessie’s role as Student of the Week.  Yeah, I didn’t think that they still had that in fifth grade, either, but alas they do.  She arrived home with a poster board sized sheet of paper designed to share more about herself with her classmates.  (I know, what’s left to share?…).  It is all fairly benign with one notable exception: the 4” x 6” blanks calling for photographs.  Aw, crap.

One of the many issues that families of transgender kids (or adults, for that matter) deal with is the past.  Many of them want to pretend the past never happened as it was often a painful, unhappy time for them.  Having transitioned, they have found a freedom and comfort in their own skin which eluded them before…so why would they want to be reminded?  Well, I totally get that.  I also totally get that of the three photographs being requested, one is entitled: Travel Guide.  Because the audience is made up of ten-year olds, the word “travel” can be construed in less rigid terms than we adults might deem; one would think that a “trip” apple picking could be considered appropriate.  However…Jessie’s school is made up of children from all over the world.  As such, it is not unusual for the trips they discuss to include, (with great regularity, actually) places like Israel, Korea, Pakistan or Argentina.  I feel for Jessie, therefore, in her desire to showcase something a little more exciting than splashing in the neighborhood pool last summer.  Well, guess what?  With all that has been going on around here, we haven’t gone anywhere that could pass as travel.  She (desperately?) suggested using a snapshot from a trip to Disney World (when she was six!) but halted when she realized (remembered?) that in all of those shots, she is George.  Let that wash over you for a moment.

Okay, so now you see my point and the quandary we face; either leave the space glaringly blank, or fill it with an outdated (oh, so outdated) shot of Jessie younger, smaller and, yep, a boy.  File under: things you never think you will have to think about, but wind up thinking about all the time.  Now I know full well that it is a fair and (one could argue) fun activity for the average kid.  But, oh, wait…my kid doesn’t fall into that category, so what is meant to be a rah-rah, self-esteem building activity (who doesn’t want to be the Student of the Week?  Or Parent of the Week?  Or Spouse of the Week? Hell, I would take Best Hair of the Week!) is now stressing us out.  Hate that.

I still love our school and perhaps, had we had a full week of full days of classes I would be less traumatized by this little blip, but, alas, we have not had a full week of full days of classes so I am seeing this blip as more monumental than I (intellectually, anyway) know it is.  We will figure something out.  Just not sure what.

p.s. Since this is my blog and you have chosen to read it, I will assume you will allow me a little indulgence in showing off a drawing that Jessie did the other day.  (Many of you have seen it already on Facebook.  Sorry ’bout that!) She is as proud of it as she should be and has decided to include it on her “Student of the Week” poster in the one untitled photograph box.  She may look vaguely familiar (full disclosure: Jess had to tell me who it was), particularly if you are a fan of “Twilight”.  Dear readers, this is Jessie’s interpretation of Kristen Stewart, aka Bella, with whom she is mildly obsessed.  If only she had drawn her travelling somewhere!

The Best Laid Plans?

I am not a planner, but I do know that this was not the plan I would have made had I made a plan.  No, if I were a planner Jessie would still be George.  She would be a he, would have a short, appropriate haircut and be more interested in sports (or some other “male” hobby) than in sewing.  She would be jonesing for the newest Nikes and not the sale at Delia’s.   There would be no holes in her ears sporting shiny, dangling jewelry and I wouldn’t be forced to hunt in her room for my favorite brush.  Oh, if I had planned, things would be different.

It would be dishonest to say that the adventure Jessie has embarked on is an easy one.  Or even one that I fully understand.  I cannot claim to be totally comfortable with her choices of dress and hairstyling.  I am still, close to a year into it, sometimes caught off-guard by her decidedly female presentation.  I won’t tell you that it has been a joy to watch and that there are not times that I wish I had somehow “planned” better – for both Jessie’s path and my own comprehension of her needs.

Oh, if I had concocted a plan for her childhood, I can guarantee you it would not include a change of gender identity.   It would not have a line item for a name change.  And it would certainly not include finding myself writing a blog which is read by thousands of people, most of whom I do not know.

All that said, I am actually glad that I didn’t have a plan.  (I plan for nothing and live by my father’s credo that things have a way of working themselves out. I do not always execute the process with the aplomb that I would like, but I do let things happen organically…for better or worse.)   If I had indeed planned, I would be feeling like a failure (which I do not).  I would be ruing all the woulda, shoulda, couldas (which I do not).  And I would be doubting my parenting (which I do not.)

My lack of planning is not to be confused with a lack of expectations.  I certainly did not expect, even in the throes of the Barbie phase, that my little boy would become my daughter.  Nor did I expect to be not only living, but chronicling her transition.  When I fed a house full of people for my second child’s Bris and naming, I did not expect to be thinking about her Bat Mitzvah some day.  Likewise, I did not expect the outpouring of support from my friends, family and community when Jessie boldly made her announcement.  But sometimes reality exceeds expectations – and sometimes, not always, it is the surprises along the way that provide, in a backhanded sort of way, the joys of life…despite (or in spite of?) the bumps along the way.

When I look at Jessie I know that things are right for her.  For now.  I know that she is comfortable living her life as she has chosen.  For now.  And I know that she, like her mother, has not planned too far ahead.  She is taking this one day at a time and, in a sometimes Xanax necessitating way, I applaud her for her lack of planning.