Yawwwwn

I’d love to share some revelations with you. Some epiphanies are big and need a little explaining. Some are silly. All of them sunk into my psyche in a deep, meaningful way during my vacation and without judging, I had a way of being with this awareness in a completely new way, like being taken to a party where I didn’t know anyone. I had to feel my way around, ask questions, and above all else, I had to listen. So, let’s begin…

Holiday cards aren’t apologies. Years ago I adored rushing home from work and tearing into the holiday card envelopes searching for little treasures. Heartwarming pictures of smiling couples on the beach, children (whose faces you’d recognize but they seem to have sprouted overnight) huddled with their proud parents or sleeping newborns with squished little faces nestled in each envelope. Those were the days. Folks wrote a little something about their year and sent their love, it all felt so personal. So much love.

I was in on the game, too. I loved sending pictures of my beautiful children to all corners of the country and beyond. Like sharing a tiny bit of the joy I felt in my heart with each special person near and far. Then things changed. The year before Hope transitioned we sent our cards with a picture of the kids at their favorite play space; Will clad in a policeman’s costume and my oldest in a princess dress, complete with tiara. You’d think I shot the Pope. The reactions to my son wearing a “girl’s get up” were strong.

One could say it prepared me for what was to come, but it felt like someone had taken a special part of the holiday away from me. I know that sounds silly, but imagine if you had a special holiday feast with your family every single year and looked forward to it with such joy that you started meal planing two months ahead of time, and then someone tells you they’d rather eat at a fast food restaurant than eat at your house. Well, it sobered me right up. I began to see who was really accepting of us, and who wasn’t.

The year after, the kids’ father suggested no cards. And the year after that, and after that. Now my stream of holiday goodness no longer fills my mailbox. The cards just stopped coming. I get some here and there, and don’t get me wrong, I’m truly grateful, but it hasn’t been the same. Just like life, things change, and we shift accordingly.

Imagine my surprise when there on the dining table was a card I’d never expected in a million years given our relationship. My knee jerk reactions was to toss the unopened rectangle in the recycling and start dinner, but I stopped. Maybe she wrote an apology on the back of the card? Something like, “Seasons Greetings! I’m sorry we make gay jokes about your child. Happy 2012!” I ripped open the card with almost the same enthusiasm as I once did, only to find two teens mugging surrounded by a hideous cherry red & kelly green bonanza. Back of card, empty.

I watched myself as I ripped the picture in half, slowly severing those two heads, then turned sideways to keep ripping and ripping until the little chards sprinkled like snow, peacefully falling to the ground. Then I was happy. Little kaleidoscope flecks reflecting from the chandelier like holiday lights. Nope, I didn’t grab the glue gun and repurpose, I scooped it up and dumped it, dusting my hands over the bin, smiling like my Christmas wish came true.

My joy came from one place – truth. This is the first year I embraced my loss, my longing, my fear, my grief, my joy, my rage, my resentment, my inability to change things that will never be changed. They will always talk about us behind our backs. That’s okay. There are people like that everywhere. Doesn’t mean I need to like it, or dislike it. It is what is.

Earlier today someone mentioned that some people are like clouds, when they leave the room the sun begins to shine again. I like that. It’s not the person’s fault. It’s where and who they are, and I can’t change that. The only thing I can control is me, my feelings and my reactions. So my new holiday saying is, “When life gives you shitty holiday cards, make psychedelic snow!”

Every day I begin again. I’m not into New Year’s Eve. Never was. Just like most evenings, I’m in bed around 10, and happy. You don’t need a new year to roll around to have a clean slate each day; each moment offers you that same opportunity. It’s never too late. Buddhists believe that death is like changing your day clothes into pajamas, you simply shed the old and turn toward the new. I like that.

Instead of resolutions that come and go, I savor the intention of being present, and if I can do that, try residing in a place of love. Simple, yet harder than it looks.

Never underestimate the power of Krampus. This was our first year lightheartedly talking about Santas’s less popular sidekick. If you don’t know him, Google. While tucking my kids into bed I had to assure them that he lives in Switzerland, and doesn’t have a work visa.

Each past hurdle & heartache leads us to now, and I don’t want anything else. I’d never trade a moment, even when I’ve fallen to my knees in despair.

So my child is gender diverse. She deals with extra challenges, encounters a world that doesn’t understand her, feels outside the loop on many occasions, and doesn’t understand exactly why this has happened to her. That’s all true, yet somehow you’d never know any of that from knowing her. She is the most brave person I’ve ever known. She stands in truth no matter the result. Her courage inspires the rest of us, like moths to a flame. Still, her greatest quality is her ability to love, and it’s taught me how to finally grow up and be the person I’ve always hoped I could be someday.

Well, today is someday. I’m living my dream. It might not look like it to anyone else. Our lives are messy, and complicated. Most people don’t get us so they stay their distance and judge us on what they think they know. That’s okay, because we are fine. We are loving and strong. We are living in our truth. And that means more than anything else in the world to me. It’s my greatest gift.

My heart swells with enormous gratitude, for the lessons I’ve learned, the people I’ve spent time with, and the for the mere fact that I can wake from a deep, deep sleep and begin again.

A wash of relief spread from the crown of my head and covered me like hot fudge melting down a cold scoop as I recalled the acceptance I felt as I talked about girls who feel like boys and boys who felt like girls. The supportive nods from teachers and the thoughtful questions produced by curious minds. But tell me again how we ended up laying down?

Ding! Ding! My head snapped around while no one seemed to notice. That’s a peculiar (and particularly delicate) school bell in my opinion. Ding! Ding! Maybe if I close my eyes I can determine where it’s coming from?? Ding! Ding!

Darkness registered first, and the crushing silence. Ding! Ding! Without thinking I reached out to find my bedside table only to find my pulsing iPhone indicating someone was texting me. Huh?! I’m in my room. It’s morning. And it was all a dream.

The glowing message told me I was uncharacteristically late so I threw off my fluffy comforter and scrambled to turn on the shower. Shoving the dripping toothbrush into my mouth I glanced at my weary face, sheet marks gracing the edges like I’d been scratched by cats all night. It was a dream. I can’t believe it still.

My first inclination was to tell myself, “It was too good to be true,” meaning the embrace I felt by the group, but that’s not exactly the truth. It is real. That dream signaled what I already know to be true and today I’m going to accept it.

Everything is as it should be. No matter what, we are safe. We are loved. We are accepted. That feeling didn’t come from the nods. It didn’t come from the school or the children. It didn’t come from anyone else. It came from me, and I know it as my own. No one takes it from me, and now I’m sure I’m not giving it away anymore. It’s mine, whenever and wherever I need it.

“Their child.” 

“But say the kid is grown up, not a child anymore?”

“Our children grow up and become adults, and yet our children will always be our children. Forever.” 

“I like that.” 

In our quiet moments I grab my youngest and cuddle him like I did when he was small as he squirms and squeals for me to let him go. While I shower him with loud smacking kisses on the top of his head he half laughs/ half screams for immediate release. Where did the time go? How did my plump little tot become even more willful and remarkably strong? My baby.

Looking back this has been the wildest and most rewarding challenge of my life – parenting. Having never thought I’d have the opportunity to become a parent, I’m beyond honored for each experience, and the fact that I’ve been blessed with these two amazing little people I get to call my children. How did I ever get so lucky?

As I sit here in the cafe exploring my wonderment and gratitude a child yanks at a parent’s hand as they walk by which evokes a jerking response from the parent lifting the child off their feet. Both faces resemble each other, a look of disgust mixed with tardiness, like they want to be somewhere else, and quick.

The small child’s wild eyes meet mine and I knowingly smile. I was that caged animal, led along the path of what was expected of me, what was “right”. Living in a constant state of panic was just what I did consuming adrenaline for all three square meals and politely thanking my parents for each bite.

Long after my father passed away, I started to explore why I was still so nervous. It was as if he was still standing beside me judging every move, every thought, and he did not approve. Apparently old habits die hard when they are engrained in you, especially as a child. I did what I needed to do: explore, rebel, deny, medicate, forget, blame, reason, starve, react and then I began to cope with what I had and who I’d become.

I am my father’s child, forever. But I don’t have to let my old programming set up shop in my brain. Not now. Not when so many good things were happening and I’ve come so far. I had to evict these old tapes telling me what I should do and who I should become. I was doing just fine for myself.

During this slow process of revising my own internal dialogue I was fortunate enough to have children and as they grew their questions begged me to define my true thoughts about the world and dismiss the script of my past, tearing pages out and redacting the parts not meant for young eyes. I could begin again. I could make it different. I could love more than I thought was possible. And I did.

Each day is a second chance. Another opportunity to be who you are and live in your truth. Take it. Love it. Live it.

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.

THIS WAY, TOWARDS BRAVERY
WHERE YOUTH ARE EMPOWERED.
THIS WAY, TOWARDS ACCEPTANCE
WHERE HUMANITY IS EMBRACED.
THIS WAY, TOWARDS LOVE
WHERE INDIVIDUALITY IS ENCOURAGED.

Born This Way Foundation launching in 2012. Join us!

Before I knew it Will was consoling me as I choked back reluctant sobs. Just then Hope walked into the kitchen and stopped abruptly when she saw that I was crying.

“Why are you crying Mom?” she asked standing uncharacteristically still.

“I just saw a clip about Jason McElwain, a young student with autism,” I shared, “and I’m so happy for him.” I rambled a bit about how the student brought the players water and towels emphasizing the boy had never played with the team before this game, but that he was really passionate about the game. Without saying a word, Will kept his hand on my back listening intently to what I was saying like a wise old man.

“Mom, what’s autism?” Hope chimed in. Once she said it I realized although I was friends with a brilliant autism activist, I’d never really discussed autism with the kids, and I wasn’t sure I had the exact terminology straight in my head. Nevertheless, I jumped in leading with my heart.

“Kids with autism have brains that are wired in a unique way,” I wasn’t sure I was on the right track, but I continued, “their brain affects the way they experience the world and the way they express themselves.”

“Why couldn’t he play basketball with autism?” her questions although incredibly simple, cut to the complicated core.

“I’m not sure in this case Sweetheart, but sometimes someone with autism might not respond to an organized sport the way the rules of the game allows. I think some people with autism might not like the noise of the stadium or relate to the sequence of the game the same way as the other players. We could research it and figure it out, but that’s just from what little I know. It could be a lot of things. Not everyone can play sports for lots of reasons.”

“The boy with autism has a different brain,” she stated. And then it dawned on me.

“Yes, he does. Lots of people have different brains,” and this made her first look down at her feet, then catch my stare and smile. My daughter has a different brain, too. Her brain is wired as a girl’s brain and it is in conflict with her body. Maybe not the same way as autism, but it’s still a significant hurdle for a little person to deal with and embrace.

After watching the video I was inspired and conflicted. Obviously I was elated that Jason had the chance to play the sport he adores, and that he let his light shine out there scoring 20 points in the last 4 minutes. I loved the way he confirmed to the reporter that he was “hot as a pistol” out there on the court. My heart soared when everyone ran out on the court and cheered for him. That’s a moment everyone will remember. Everyone should have such a victory!

At the same time I felt this twinge when the reporter ended the segment saying, “he (Jason) was used to feeling different… but never this wonderful.” Jason didn’t have to score those points to be a hero. Let’s face it. He is a devoted member of that team, and that is enough right there. Don’t get me wrong, the fact that Jason had this opportunity was divinely right. Perhaps it was the only way for people to properly celebrate him in such a grand way. I guess what I’m trying to say is that he didn’t have to make the baskets, but that was beautiful icing on the cake.

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.

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!

Will, on the other hand, stood comfortably looking at me stark naked as he was with a face like a question mark. “What??!?” he replied. Apparently he doesn’t channel “nakedness” like Hope and I do. He simply has no issues with it. And really, if we look at it, Will doesn’t have a lot of issues with anything. Quirky as he is, he is the most amiable, adaptable, intuitive, loving and supportive child I’ve every encountered. He is Hope’s biggest fan.

In all my work writing, speaking and advocating for gender diverse kids, I want to underscore the importance of siblings and validate their experiences. All too often siblings willingly step aside and let the occasional (or sometimes continual) drama of their gender diverse sibling’s life take over the family dynamic. Siblings have this beautiful capacity to understand on the most fundamental level and often selflessly act as loving buffers to the outside world. Can a parent get any luckier?

All too often I lay in bed ruminating that I’ve not given Will enough credit. His plate remains full most days. Let’s be honest, for the past three years he’s filled various roles for all of us: bodyguard, professional listener, motivational speaker, enlightened poet, personal assistant, master comedian, loving brother and a dream-come-true son. And he’s six.

Thank you Will. From the bottom of my heart. I may not say it enough but your quiet goodness inspires me every single day.