No Sleep Plenty o’ Shoes

Oh, how I wish I could sleep.  I am quite sure that doing so would work wonders against the crying, short-temper and general bitchiness which seems to define me of late.  I am equally convinced that last night’s shoe shopping experience would have been wayyyy better.

In a few short weeks, my niece Sara is having her Bat Mitzvah (heretofore known as her BM, heehee…that never gets old) and, as such, several outfits for the entire family are in order.  I have begged Harrison to try on the suit I bought him last year for his semi-formal (did I mention that he long ago surpassed the ability to fit into a kid’s suit?  Read: man’s suit, man’s price tag) and he has, not surprisingly, failed to do so.  I am going on the assumption that it will fit.* I do so knowing that there is an excellent chance that it won’t.  That, however, is among the least of my worries.

Jessie needs two dresses; one for the service in the morning and one for the dance extravaganza at night.  I flat-out refused to purchase two new dresses, mostly because of the stress of doing so.  It is not that I bristle at her wearing a dress (that ship sailed a long time ago), rather her taste borders on eighteen year-old, stacked, leggy, curvy young woman as opposed to the eleven year old that she is.  In searching her closet I chose one dress that is more than appropriate for the morning which, for the kid set, at least, is far less important (fashion-wise, that is) than the evening.  In fact, she has worn it to Temple before with a sweater, tights and patent leather boots.  All we need to do to make it work is to lose the earlier accessories and add a cute pair of flats.  And therein lays the problem.

Okay, I admit to having a shoe thing.  I admit to having purchased more than, um, let’s say two pairs of wedges this season.  I even admit to perhaps having a problem with my love of shoes which may have been passed along to my child.  I cannot, however, sanction my eleven year old (transgender) child wearing heels or wedges to a BM party.  Am I wrong?

To her credit, she insisted that in our quest we go the way of Payless Shoes for her footwear.  “They are inexpensive, but not cheaply made” she argued (incorrectly).  So after a “Shabbat” dinner of Chinese food, off we went to begin the battle, er, search.  Now I don’t mean to sound obnoxious, snooty or rude (and if I do, blame it on the lack of sleep) but the shoes at Payless are nothing short of horrible.  And, much to my horror, she spotted several (all inappropriate) that she would have been more than happy to purchase.  In a not so proud moment, I got so skeeved that I insisted, in a perhaps too loud voice, that there was nothing there and we were heading to the far superior (and I used the term loosely) DSW.  Fortunately, the two stores are close together since this expedition began at 8pm on a Friday night and, as everyone knows, I am in a constant state of exhaustion and, um, short-temperedness.

As we entered the store, I reminded her of the parameters of acceptable footwear: black (will work with both outfits), flat or very little heel, under $50 and comfortable.  Next thing I know, she is trying on pink high top Converse stating that they would be cute with the dress at night.  Yeah, they would, but having attended many a BM in my day, I was quite sure that such a choice would result in hysteria upon arrival at party and subsequent discovery that no one else was wearing Converse.  Right?

I somehow managed to convince her to cut the shit, I mean, see things through the eyes of me, her mature, more knowledgeable, loving and sleep deprived mother and try on a few different little black shoes.  At the same moment, I noticed that she shoes that I bought for me the BM just last week were now marked down 30% and, blame it again on the lack of sleep, I got pissed and started rifling through my wallet for the receipt with visions of a price adjustment dancing through my head.  Do you have a visual yet?

In a victory for me (I have to tally them whenever humanly possible) we left with the perfect shoes for Jess and a promise from Brendan, the store manager, to adjust my pricing if I come back with the receipt today.  I assumed, from the double success, that a good night’s rest lay ahead.  I was wrong.  But at least we have good shoes now.

*Probably a mistake.  Oh, and his shoes might not fit, either.

#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.

Scars

I am a fan of scars.  Yes, scars.  War wounds, blemishes, disfigurements.  Sounds crazy, I know, but it is true. It’s a good thing I am a fan, as I happen to have several scars of my own: some physical, some emotional.  In addition to the no longer angry, yet still deep red lines which inhabit the spot that used to be my breasts, I have two on my back –one low down, the other near my shoulder, another on my foot, one spreading across my pelvis from hip to hip and a small, almost indiscernible one under my chin.  Each has a story behind it and plays a role in me being me.  (And make me easy to identify!) I don’t mind them; in fact, they serve as a reminder of what I can do (even when I don’t think I can) , where I have been (even if I didn’t want to be there) and why I am who I am (even if it ain’t always easy to be so).

I know a young lady who will be securing a scar of her own this summer.  I consider it an achievement, a signal to the world that she has faced down an invisible demon and kicked its ass.  Ultimately she was diagnosed with Graves Disease, but not before enduring a tumultuous, difficult and uncertain period in her young life.  Recently she posted the following on her Facebook page.  She didn’t run it by anyone, including her parents, and spoke with an honesty that seems reserved for the less jaded (read: young) among us.  I applaud her for her confidence, bravery and utter lack of compunction.  I reprint with her blessing:

If you don’t like long posts, don’t read this. . I have had anxiety for my whole life, and I finally got diagnosed in first grade. I went to therapy since then but in fourth grade, I started on my medication. The first pill i was on caused me to feel crazy, like actually insane. so I had to get switched onto different pills until I found the right one, the one I’m on now.

After a while, we realized a new problem, I was not gaining any weight and I looked very sick. we all just thought I just had a very fast metabolism. Then, my meds stopped working, so my family decided to get a second opinion from a different doctor. After our second meeting, he decided to diagnose me with ADD/ADHD. He was going to put me on a stimulant, but before he could, he had to make sure my heart was healthy. So he sent me to get an EKG.

He let my therapist know what was going on, and she told my parents to get my thyroid checked. At that moment, my family just knew that it was my thyroid. So, me, being the nervous person I am, weighing at about 69 pounds, sat in the chair waiting to get my blood done. I screamed and cried, so nervous about what was going to happen. Two days later, my labs were in. I was officially diagnosed with a thyroid disease. I met a bunch of doctors and was diagnosed with Graves’ Disease.

Graves’ Disease is an auto-immune disease that affects the thyroid gland. It makes the thyroid produce too many hormones which was why I was so skinny and so hyper. I am now on medication to balance out my thyroid. I will be getting surgery this summer and hopefully be back to normal.

So I would like to thank many special people for being there for me from the beginning till the end.

And I am so sorry to everybody that I have hurt and caused stress to.

Graves Disease, like so much other crap we all deal with, is invisible to the casual observer.  Actually, it is invisible to the naked eye, too, but that does not lessen its fury.  All the insanity that was doing battle in her body caused her to behave in ways that she was unable to either control or explain.  To add insult to injury, there was nothing tangible to the outside world that might elicit a conversation that could, in turn, educate enough to offset the hurts and stresses that ensued.

Not surprisingly, this beautiful young woman balked at the mere thought of the permanent scar across her throat that will result from having her thyroid removed. The same thyroid that has been torturing her (and, frankly, her parents)  for too many years.  She is young (did I mention that she is beautiful?) and her scar will be in a spot that everyone can and will see unless, that is,  she takes to wearing turtlenecks and scarves year round.  But, (and I told her this -although she didn’t ask) in my mind, that scar will forever serve not as a blemish, but as a sign of strength, courage and experience.  Every scar has a story and every story plays a role in making us who we are.  Scars have the power to initiate a conversation which may, in ways one never expects, help to heal, to learn and to grow.  A scar is a badge of honor for a fight that was fought and won, each red, raised line a one-man show of strength and resilience.  Everyone should have at least one.

This is not the first kid I have highlighted in my blog.  The first two were wonderful young men (hey Aiden and Cameron!) who were born female and had the fortitude to put themselves out there, gather up some scars and continue to make their way in the world.  All three of these kids have tremendous chutzpah…and the scars to prove it.  I embrace my scars.  It doesn’t mean I always like them, but I appreciate their value in my life.  I am betting these kids will, too.

One Week Ago Today

One week ago today I was, along with the rest of Boston, on lockdown.  Told to stay indoors by the Governor, we obliged feeling not entirely unsafe.  Close, yet far enough away from the commotion in Watertown, there was a certain “calm excitement”.  It was, however, (and if one chose to think about it) nearly unfathomable that the scene being played over and over (and over) on live, commercial-free television was taking place on the very street that houses “my” Target.  I saw my car dealership repeatedly in camera shots.  Yet here, in the house, it almost felt like a snow day…minus, of course, the snow.  There was some baking, some wine drinking, some cleaning and some (okay, a lot of) television watching.  But for the robo-calls and repeated television announcements imploring (although stopping short of requiring) everyone to stay indoors, it was a fairly regular day.  Until, that is, our collective family rooms were filled with the unforgettable sound of helicopters overhead and rapid gunfire being aired on a repeat loop on every television station.  It was no longer a hang around, chill out kinda snow day.  This shit was getting real.

It wasn’t until the next morning, however, after it was all said and done and the second suspect had been captured, that my anxiety and testiness (my mother’s word) began to rear its head.  I felt physically shaky: as though I could feel every drop of blood in my body swooshing around desperately seeking a reservoir in which to pool and relax.  I was shorter tempered than normal (although not short-tempered per say) and felt betrayed by the (now seemingly false) sense of security that had oozed its way back into our everyday lives after the attacks of September 11.  The World Trade Center was one thing, real but not in my backyard…but the streets of Boston during our most heralded tradition first and then Watertown, the quintessential working class Boston neighborhood next?  Nearly impossible to reconcile.

In the week that has passed since Friday, I have been acutely aware of anxiety and fear showing in many forms: most not immediately obvious as such.  For one, Jessie’s bedtime ritual has been riddled with stalling and leaving lights on the likes of which I had not seen in some time. A (very grounded, centered and psychologically aware) friend called me this morning while weeping outside of the yoga studio where she had just gotten in touch (theoretically, anyway) with her inner Namaste.  Interpersonal exchanges seem to fall squarely into one of two camps: warm, loving and wonderful or aggressive and belligerent with no middle ground.  People are either extending or closing themselves off from life as we knew it BAF (before April 15^th).  Things simply are not the same.

I know all about life changing without warning.  Everyone does, just some more than others.  Living with the knowledge that there is little (if anything) that we can truly rely on in our everyday lives makes us live differently.  For some, the choice is to go bigger and broader, for others, the opposite.  It doesn’t much matter, actually.  What matters is being aware of it and attempting (hopefully not in vain) to manage the anxiety, the fear and muster the strength needed to power through.

There are days that I have that all wrapped up.  I can power with the best of ‘em and embrace whatever lands in my path, no matter how nebulous its ramifications.  There are other days, however, that I can literally feel my blood coursing through my body and the tears erupting without warning.  This time it  was a bomb in Boston, but it could have (and has) been a bad diagnosis, a struggling child, an ailing parent, a falling x-ray machine or a wooden toy falling on top of one’s foot all arriving uninvited and without warning.

None of us knows what lies around the next bend or how we will respond to it, but we are all better served to be aware of our own M.O. and to appreciate the experience and what it teaches us.  If nothing else, I have learned that I am only in trouble when I show signs of having lost my sense of humor.  I have come dangerously close to crossing that threshold (more than once) over the past few years.  Knowing that it would signal the beginning of the end, I have managed (with shit tons of support) to not go there.  If I can do it…so can you.

One week ago today I was, along with the rest of Boston, on lockdown.  The seven days since have not been great.  But the seven days ahead might just be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mom of Boys?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Lady By The Water Bottles

I was doing one final loop of the store, wanting to make the most of the last few minutes of my shift before I left for the day.  There was a woman who looked so vaguely familiar that I did not even quite register a familiarity standing near the water bottles with a quizzical look on her face.  Unsure as to why I recognized her it was equally unclear whether she was trying to find a product or merely deep in thought about something entirely unrelated to the store.  I made eye contact and inquired, with a smile: “are you trying to find something or just deep in thought?”

“I read and love your blog” she nearly gushed.  I shook my head a bit, hoping, perhaps, that it would unearth some clarity, or context, even, to what she had just said.  Who was she?  How did she know about my blog?  And, perhaps more importantly, how did she know I was me?  As each of these queries bounced around in my head, I literally blurted out: “who are you, how do you know my blog and how did you know me?!”  (with, of course, a smile.)

She warmly introduced herself (her name was immediately recognizable, primarily, I think, from having seen her comment on other people’s Facebook threads) and told me of the mutual friends we have, one of which (she could not recall, if I am recalling correctly, which friend it was) had told her about the blog some time ago and she has been a rabid follower ever since.  She praised me for my candor, honesty and humor.  And then she literally (and I am not making this up) welled up.  I then (again, not making this up) welled up, too.  It was a strange, yet ridiculously satisfying, interaction, right there in the middle of the store.

As we continued to speak, I heard pleas in my headset for assistance in another part of the store.  I even heard my name being specifically beckoned, yet I sorta, kinda, in a way ignored the request in favor of listening to my new friend heap praise and admiration upon me as she thanked me for my blog and for sharing my story.

And that got me to thinking.

Often people have thanked me, told me that they appreciate my writing about such a complicated issue or expressed a connection to my writing.  Not gonna lie: it feels good to hear it.  But, the truth is, I need to thank all of you for reading, appreciating, supporting and loving me through this all.  Writing is easy for me.   Being honest and keeping things real is easy for me.  Making people laugh is easy for me.  Asking for help and patting myself on the back: not so easy for me.  Each time someone sends me a kind note or introduces themselves to me as a reader of my blog I feel a little bit safer and, frankly,  a little less alone.

The lady by the water bottles probably doesn’t know that she made my day.  She likely doesn’t realize how important her support is to me (and I don’t even know her!).  We all just want to feel safe and supported, right?  Isn’t that all that Jessie really wants?

My thanks to her for taking a chance at seeming like a stalker (her words, not mine) and letting me know that she knew who I was…it is more appreciated than she knows.

B.S.U.R.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was a good choice, mom.”

Just another reason I love that kid.

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