I asked to speak to a manager.

As my neck started to kink on one side, I quickly switched the phone to my less dominant left side and stared ahead in obedience. I know, I know… but the last time I opted for speakerphone I actually ended the call. Tragic. I had to call back and start over. Nope, this time I was holding old-school.

By the time the person who identified themselves as the manager got on the phone I forgot who I was. Gone was the supple yogi who sends bright white energy to irritating people. Au revoir logic and reason. A livid tyrant left the gate on this one fueled by a host of stressful situations over the past few weeks. My voice deep and demanding, words spilling out so fast and with such fury melting commas and periods into one long run-on… I couldn’t stop myself and unleashed the frustration with not only the problem at hand, but the principle that the company marketed a feature as theirs, when in fact it wasn’t throwing in a bunch of “your consumer” this and “your consumer” that. I threw accusations like scouts for the Majors watched my every move and this was my last-ditch effort at a life. In a nutshell, I let go and let my fury flag fly.

And fly, it did. Flashbacks of staring at my father’s red, sweating forehead as he raged against us. I know I was carefully instructed to look in his eyes at all times, but when his disease reached the crescendo I couldn’t endure looking into his pools of madness, seeing my reflection in the darkness. I never wanted to see myself like this, and yet, sometimes I find myself there.

Like when the school told me Hope couldn’t attend Kindergarten if her birth certificate said male, or when a parent at the school threatened to out us. Hell no. In those moments I loosened the reins of my vengeful beasts and let them do their job. Cleaning up the mess and making things right. There’s a reason my mother calls me a junkyard dog.

And you know what? Couple minutes of my manic unpleasantness and magically they fixed the problem right then and right there. Huh? Normally when it comes to everyday life I’m not that person, that squeaky wheel who rants and raves and gets exactly what they want. Sure, I want what’s fair, but I can’t slip into a frenzied rage every time I need to find a solution. I don’t want to.

Once Ms. Hyde took a nap I politely ended the call and exhausted, collapsed back into my chair pondering what it took and what it meant to “get things done” in this day and age. Has my steady, calm demeanor held me back from getting what I paid for, so to speak? Have I been cheated by my breath? Or have I reached a point in my life where I choose to remain blissful in the serene waters knowing that if and when I need it, I can call a storm.

My Brownie uniform

“True, all-girl experience,” those were the words of the teen named Taylor who is part of a group trying to get people to boycott Girl Scout cookies because the Girl Scouts allowed a transgender child to belong to a troop as reported by CNN Living, on January 13, 2012.

There’s so many things that I find bewildering… where to start? First, I think it’s bizarre that we have to segregate boys and girls in groups. I was a Brownie, and even 30 years ago I thought it wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t there just be Scouts so that everyone could join?

The tv show Parks & Recreation did a spoof on this recently where the boys wanted to join the girls group because it was way more fun, and an expected upset followed. Finally, Ron Swanson created a group for all kids who want to learn about survival in the wilderness. And isn’t that the bottom-line? Learning, not gender or segregation.

So where does that leave me? Yes, the group that wants to boycott the GSA and their cookies because the GS allowed a transgender child to belong. Has anyone given this group proper education about gender identity, expression and diversity? They sound like a large majority of the world that don’t understand transgender issues and discriminate against gender diverse adults and children, and isn’t that just a cry for more education?

Maybe that’s where our dollars could be going, toward gender diversity education so that our communities locally and globally have a better understanding of what our kids and their families are all about and the importance of inclusion for all people.

Of course, as these things go, I didn’t notice what I had done. I thought I was leisurely checking out site improvements, sampling the bells and whistles, perusing what was out there to make my site faster, easier… better.

When I found out what I’d done it was as if my cat ran out of the house and under the neighbor’s bent wheel. Like the shout that never really came out of your mouth, but it was right there nonetheless. I felt sick. Where were my words? Where was my heart?

As you sit in your (hopefully) cozy chair reading this you can tell it all worked out, but the exercise walked me through a necessary evil. The Universe presented a challenge to me and with diligent faith I reacted. During the whole endeavor it became painfully clear that this place is so special to me that I’d never want to let it go. Or take it for granted.

This space is me. It soothes me like a backrub. It stirs in me like an episode of American Horror Story, too scary to watch so you listen under the warmth of your sofa blanket. It’s not a blog, a thing to visit now and again… well, it may be for you. Not for me. Not at all.

It’s the light streaming from my crown chakra as if I’m being lifted right off the ground. It’s my darkness, memories of my childhood in the Dungeon with the rusty wet stains near the broken metal door missing the screen and the Devil between two locked doors. It’s my eyes as I watch the world around, as I follow my children running in front of me their laughter muffled in their coats and scarves. It’s every wish I ever hoped for. It’s every dream left unfulfilled. My secrets. My failures. My triumphs. My love.

It’s the reminder of what makes world worth living.

I felt myself go over the edge as I quizzed Hope this morning, yet I couldn’t bring myself to stop. Her life literally depends on this information and yet the more I pound in the who-what-where she peacefully glances out the window daydreaming about fairies and princesses and the next Judy Moody book. My panic is all mine.

Once the field trip form popped into my inbox, the gravity of the situation came into clear focus as though never before; she could potentially be in danger and not have anyone know how to help her. Like many children these days, Hope has a peanut allergy and carries a medicine bag with her 24/7. Allergies, and so much more.

After 7 years of epipens, inhalers and Benadryl I should be a pro, right? But still, some days we forget the bag, drop what we’re doing to turn around and head home. One trip to the ER running with your lifeless child’s body in your arms as you scream for help and you take this seriously. You breathe in the gravity of one simple mistake.

The school was lovely when I grilled them and said and did everything right; I’m not complaining. Yet I can’t help but question what would happen if she needed to go to the ER, and I’m not there. How would they respond a gender diverse child? How would my extremely shy daughter respond to inquiries about her gender? Would the Department of Child and Family Services get involved? Should I carry a copy of the Safe File in my car? What else can I be doing to protect her? What haven’t I thought of?

Tears filled my eyes once the kids stepped through the threshold to the school. I can’t protect Hope all the time. Wiping my face with the back of my hand, the road in front of me morphed into a fast moving river complete with rock obstacles and shattered tree branches. Anything can happen.

Rather than succumb to my natural instincts and attempt to fight my way upstream toward a safe haven that isn’t on the map, I’m letting the river catapult me on the journey. There isn’t any rescue from this, and it’s not over. This is it – my journey.

Many days we’re blessed with beautiful scenery, and playful adventures. Other times we’re tested on how far into the darkness we’ll explore before we cling to the shore. Either way, we’re in it.

I’d like to say I don’t fear this path. I’d like to say I respect it and honor it for the lessons learned, but that’s a lie. I’m like the new kid in school too shy to make friends just yet, so I hang back when I need to and stand in the light when it feels safe. I’m still taking baby steps.

How many times did I hear this when I was little? After a while I didn’t need it whispered into my ear anymore, I embodied it. I knew there were things I was never expected to say, at home or out in public, like they never happened. Off limits for good, like a dangerous abandoned mine.

It made for an interesting supper time as my family sat around chatting. Never characterized as quiet people by any stretch of the imagination, my parent’s hushed tone signaled an off-subject topic that immediately sank into the family vault. Adoptions, affairs, sickness, rage, runaways, sexuality, abuse, alcoholics, you name it. They called them Family Secrets.

Now as a parent with a lot to explain I finally understand what they were trying to accomplish, walk a very fine line between what’s public and what’s private behind and outside closed doors. What do you share with others? What things do you keep to yourself?

Last week Hope came home in a panic. Not thinking of the consequences (and probably just wanting to make conversation) her brother commented to some friends that Hope named herself. Since she’s stealth at school this information is strictly confidential, and Will knows it. Although she profusely denied the claim to her friends, she retained a look of betrayal several hours later as we sat at the dinner table to discuss.

Looking more like a hungover frat boy than a well-intentioned 5-year-old, Will sat with his head in his hands as he kept saying, “I don’t know why I said it.” I believed him, and yet the question of boundaries was sitting before us like the holiday meal scheduled less than 48 hours away.

“What if Hope talked to your friends about the fact that you sleep with your Lovey at night?” he popped upright looking remarkably alert, and shocked, “Would that make you feel good? Would that be something you’d like your family to share with your classmates?” His answer was clear. And so we talked about what privacy means and why it’s important to us. No threats of retribution. No code of silence like when I was young. Just logic infused with love.

That night I lay in bed thinking of how parenting feels like one long essay question. Every so often there’s a pop quiz that tests your skills. What have you mastered? What needs improvement? It challenges me to use my voice as an individual and a parent instead of mindlessly falling back on the way I was raised.

My children are encouraged to speak their mind and stand in their truth. Most of the time it works out for the best, and other days it becomes crystal clear that we are still learning our boundaries and finding our way. I’m grateful for this. Hope learned how to handle feeling outed. Will learned that his words have consequences, and can hurt people. I learned that I am not so afraid of secrets.

Middlesex tells the story of an intersex individual who was, in this case, raised female because they were unaware of internal male sex organs. Years back the book was pushed on the public by a popular talk show host that I despise dislike have little respect for (those of you who read me often know exactly who I’m talking about) so as is my ritual I turned my back on the book until I felt like I could go back to it on my own terms. I’d always been interested; however, intersex is something I didn’t have a clue about.

Now after I’ve been on this gender adventure I’ve still only learned a little here and there. The few things I’ve learned came by way of a lecture or two where doctors discuss the process by which we develop our sex organs in the body. Terms like androgen insensitivity permeated my brain in the context of my child, of her development specifically. Now that I’m digging a little deeper into development, hormones and puberty, I’m fascinated about how the body and brain play a tumultuous tango before and after birth. Not being a biology buff of any kind, it boggles my mind a bit.

As my path unfolds, I want to create more inclusion for all people. It’s the driving force behind my work. It’s simple. If I’m asking for people to take a leap of faith to try to understand what my child is working with in terms of gender diversity, I have to constantly remain open to other’s experiences. I’m a forever student in this lifetime, opening my heart in every moment, and sharing what makes us beautifully unique.

Join Gender Conversations here.

Here’s my difficulty, the article explained that this child is a boy (who was born a boy) who presents as a girl. Then they labeled the child a “transgender boy”. In my world a “transgender boy” means a natal female child who identifies and presents as a male. The child in the Girl Scouts controversy appears to be the opposite, a boy who presents as a girl. How did the transgender term get so mixed up here?

From the way the article depicted the child and the family, this child doesn’t have a problem being described as a boy, using his original name or using the “he” pronoun. Tell me if I’m missing something, but most recently the media has latched on to the label “Princess Boy” in similar situations, not “transgender boy”. Why was the term “transgender” used in this way? Should we go back to The Transgender Child and brush up on our terms?

Trust me, I’m not a fan of labels for this very reason. This kind of ambiguity that confuses the media (and therefore the community) is one of the reasons that I use the term “gender diversity”, so that all identifications and expressions are represented and respected. It’s this type of transgender labeling, especially when it doesn’t accurately reflect the reality of the child, that makes parenting a gender diverse child more difficult.

I wish the best outcome for the child and the family. Unfortunately I know firsthand how hard it is to stand up for what you believe in, and have people misunderstand both the situation, and your motives. I think we all agree that all children should have the right to express themselves genuinely and freely, no matter what label you try to attach to them.

“when i was a child, I was stubborn about many things, and didn’t really know what I want. I thought I was a girl in a boy’s body, and constantly dressed up. I wanted to be a girl, even going into high school, and would dream of it all the time. Nowadays, i’m a man, a 30 year old man, and those feelings have completely left. I’m glad my mother and father, who caught me doing this were ashamed. I’m glad I found out that though I wanted to be a girl, I would always be a boy. I have a penis, and I had to deal with that, and now i’m thankful I was born the way I was. I have a Y chromosome and I will not ignore that. It’s shameful that you don’t remind your child of the same thing I had to face about myself. You let your child live as they want, yet THEY ARE A CHILD, and children are the ones to learn, not the other way around. Your boy is a boy, will be a man, and you cannot, nor can he change that. You’re a parent that, though has faced much through this whole ordeal, have given in to the demands of someone much younger than you, as if they knew better than you. I agree with Lady Gaga about her one hit song, “I was born this way”- fess up to the fact that your boy was born this way-a boy.”

Of course, the reader and I have different belief systems and will have to agree to disagree on this. There doesn’t seem to be any room for change or awareness, but this message that I should be ashamed of myself (much like the reader said his parents were ashamed of him) makes me understand why people go into hiding figuratively and literally as they steep in denial when their feelings don’t match what society traditionally deems as “normal”, whatever “normal” is. And I’m not just talking about trans issues, I’m talking about anything that seemingly goes against the grain.

In my comment back to the reader I admitted I no longer believe in shame. When I grew up I knew what shame was and over the years I started to dismantle that notion that I wasn’t good enough just the way I was bit by bit. The last piece of shame faded when my daughter started living genuinely and I began to understand the power of loving ourselves just the way we are in the present moment.

I don’t believe in the purpose of shame. I do believe in love and truth; however, and I will follow that path without hesitation.

Gender Conversations, a new site dedicated to discussions about gender identity, expression and diversity, was born from the need to have our expanded, global community connect in a more user-friendly way. I love social media and daily digests, but it is all missing a critical search function. I want to type “hormone blockers” into a search engine in one site and hear from parents, clinicians and trans folks and learn from different perspectives. This isn’t possible on most sites I know about right now.

By connecting with GC, members can connect and quickly explore what they’re looking for without sifting through long conversation threads. Similarly they don’t have to get online so often. Put a discussion out there and you can still easily check on it months later to conveniently see what new members have added. Love that. Events are being posted. Groups are being formed. People are talking. It’s all coming together so check it out and let me know what you think.

Click here for an invite and feel free to share with those people who have a story to share. And so the party begins!

So when our discussion last night, centered around transitioning bodies to appropriate genders, started to feel like the way people looked was more important than how they feel I started to feel like I had ants in my pants. Aren’t we trying to move past “passing” or as I like to refer to it “how people are reading us” or are we buying into it? Deep breath Jen.

Here’s my beef with “passing”, it puts the onus on the individual being read to satisfy some mystery requirements to register female or male. really Last night the specialist said that all a female needed to do to “pass” as a male was to cut their hair short, wear pants and a flannel. Really? (Immediately I turned to a friend to divulge that I had a quick 2 out of 3 tonight, but my DVF flannel was in the wash!) “Passing” feels like being thrust into a game against your will and then being told the rules were none of your business. It’s a losing affair.

“Being read” (turned on to this by S. Bear Bergman in The Nearest Exit May Be Behind You) however, puts the responsibility on the reader, not the person being read. Feels better. I know it’s just semantics, but it feels like this is where we get tripped up sometimes, our need to see ourselves through another person’s eyes while forgetting about our truth. And then I think… Wait! Shouldn’t we focus on trying to let go of judging altogether? Shouldn’t we dissolve the need to define and identify male/ female (or boy/ girl) all the time? Is it really that important? Could we even if we tried with concerted effort? I’m not sure. Maybe we are hardwired for judgment of this kind? Maybe not.

Huge alarms went off when the doctor explained that “90-95% of all trans females need breast implants.” Need? Apparently this specialist feels that because many trans females have broad shoulders and big breasts deter the eye away from the shoulders, as the shoulders are male identifiers, and bring the attention to where they should be. As in their chest? Yep! As he confidently shook his head up and down encouraging the rest of us to see the logic, my head cocked in disbelief. Here I am an very tall woman with crazy big shoulders and very small breasts. What does THAT mean? Forget my designer flannel, is he insinuating that women like me are often read as masculine? I guess the other masculine features fit me as well, angular features, lack of curves. I’ve got the whole package. Lots of people do.

As you can imagine my head was spinning by this time. I felt like I was running from side to side like a double agent in the War of Appearance. On one side I don’t want to give in to gender binaries and judgment and I want my child to just feel genuine inside her skin, whatever that means to her. On the other side I’m desperate not to miss the warning signs, the precursor to Tanner 2 where she would develop male secondary sexual characteristics. It’s not because of her being read as a female, it’s because of an oath I took. Years ago I started to own and cultivate this ever-increasing panic when my daughter made me promise that she could take hormone blockers and made me promise once again with tears in her eyes to “not forget”… it’s everything to her not to look like a man. Not to have a deeper voice, facial hair and an Adam’s apple and I’m charged with making sure that doesn’t happen.

Ominous task when no one can give me straight answers on exactly when Tanner 2 starts. “It’s a case by case basis,” the doctor said last night, and I believe him… but throw a Mom a bone! The doctors near us say she’s too young to be seen. Still, I want her to see a doctor who can help us. Sure, you won’t be administering anything, but take a baseline! Examine her Tanner 1 body so we don’t miss any warning signs. She dislikes her body so she’s definitely not monitoring her testicle size, which is exactly the red flag for Tanner 2 beginning. Breast buds are a sign for Tanner 2 starting in girls. “Peek into the shower when she is in there,” a friend suggested last night. “To stare at her genitals?” I quickly replied almost spitting my water. You can’t possibly understand how this would traumatize my daughter.

A professional stood right in front of me so why not ask how I was supposed to catch a miniscule increase in testicle size. Guess the answer? “It’s so individual, she needs a doctor that can notice the changes,” his answer bugged me, like passing the buck to someone else, anyone else. And if she did have a doctor that she trusted enough to allow him to repeatedly examine her testicles how often does that happen to catch Tanner 2 when it starts? “What’s my window of time in catching Tanner 2?” I asked. You know what he said, “Depends on the individual.” Uh-huh.

I’m confident in most every aspect of my life. Truth is my guide. But puberty, specifically the start of Tanner 2 because that is exactly when pediatric endocrinologists will take you seriously and actually see you in the office, feels like a runaway freight train full of newborn babies that’s both gaining speed and barreling off the tracks and my job is to catch it, stop it and redirect it. It’s up to me.

After some research I feel like I have a good plan on stopping it and getting it back on course. Whew! The glitch is that I live a hundred miles away from where the train is likely to show up, but I don’t know when it’s coming exactly or where. In the dark. Usually when I’m in this state of utter confusion I turn to books, and lots of them, but the books out today about puberty give me hives. They don’t say a single word about calculating when the freight train is rolling through town. And I need THAT info.

Walking out into the cool, wet night felt refreshing. I must have been sweating in my seat all evening. Nervous. Nervous still. But that’s how life happens. We sit in an uncomfortable place/s knowing that what we do is the right thing asking questions despite the answer being clearly out of view. That’s okay. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But standing in my truth, knowing I’m searching, I’m drawing the way closer to us every day. And then I trust it will appear.