You know how it feels when you recognize something that was completely obvious much later than you’d think. Like when a friend gets a radical haircut and you notice right before saying goodbye?

This is how it dawned on me that we had done so much to change Hope’s appearance to match her gender identity- buy new girls clothes, get some bows and headbands for her pixie, get new shoes that we got sidetracked in a way. We forgot somehow that the room that she shares with her little brother still reflected the same boys design it always had. Sure, her name and pronoun are different, but the room she goes to bed in every night and wakes every morning still looks the same as it did before she transitioned. It even had a canvas picture with her former name. How did I forget this?

Be gentle with yourself, Jen. I keep telling myself that things don’t change overnight. (Someone tell me how many days it took to build Rome… anyone?) Right now “one foot in front of the other” can keep me sane when I start to think of the things I have yet to do. The many things that I need to do for Hope. But truly, do those things matter as much as love?

This weekend we transitioned the kids room. The canvas picture got a face-lift with some funky gender neutral fabric. After my staple gun got a hold of it- look out! It was adorable. We installed some shelves for their favorite items. Added a funky picture to tie in all the new colors. Split their clothes between two makeshift dressers. Hope got a new bedspread and Will picked out new accessories. Their names went up by their beds and voila! Things were fresh and new. Such small things made a huge difference.

Everyone was delighted including me, until I took a step back and thought about the fact I just took away my first born’s name off the wall. His name is gone. Yes, she is still here and she is the same person, but the name I cooed to him when he was little has vanished. The name my husband and I chose (despite Armenian tradition that defined the other name on his birth certificate) is now covered, packed away like all the pictures painted in preschool with his jagged name scribbled on the bottom and those silver engraved frames that you get when the baby is born.

He’s gone.

I felt the same way when Hope just transitioned and I stood in the hallway looking at her last school picture- as a boy. Such a little man- sassy short haircut, just slightly tousled in a way that many can only dream of achieving. Crisp checkered button-down shirt and those bright, gorgeous eyes. The moment I got the picture from the school I said “He will be such a handsome man” to myself. And now that has all changed. I would be lying if I said it didn’t hurt, this saying goodbye to the way things were.

Shortly after I talked with my sister who sent me about a phenomenal story and here it is.

WELCOME TO HOLLAND

 

 

by
Emily Perl Kingsley.

c1987 by Emily Perl Kingsley. All rights reserved

 

 

I am often asked to describe the experience of raising a child with a disability – to try to help people who have not shared that unique experience to understand it, to imagine how it would feel. It’s like this……

When you’re going to have a baby, it’s like planning a fabulous vacation trip – to Italy. You buy a bunch of guide books and make your wonderful plans. The Coliseum. The Michelangelo David. The gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It’s all very exciting.

After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The stewardess comes in and says, “Welcome to Holland.”

“Holland?!?” you say. “What do you mean Holland?? I signed up for Italy! I’m supposed to be in Italy. All my life I’ve dreamed of going to Italy.”

But there’s been a change in the flight plan. They’ve landed in Holland and there you must stay.

The important thing is that they haven’t taken you to a horrible, disgusting, filthy place, full of pestilence, famine and disease. It’s just a different place.

So you must go out and buy new guide books. And you must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would never have met.

It’s just a different place. It’s slower-paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you’ve been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around…. and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills….and Holland has tulips. Holland even has Rembrandts.

But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy… and they’re all bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life, you will say “Yes, that’s where I was supposed to go. That’s what I had planned.”

And the pain of that will never, ever, ever, ever go away… because the loss of that dream is a very very significant loss.

But… if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn’t get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things … about Holland.

________________________________________________________________________

 

Our life isn’t about grief or mourning. We have so much to be grateful for and thrilled about, but there are these little moments when the reality floods over me like a sudden downpour and I am trapped. I am consumed by the fact I have to let go. I have to say goodbye to what I thought our future looked like. And open my loving arms to embrace what is.