While motionless at a stop light my eyes fixed on a peculiar sign saying “Is 65% sure good enough? Find out if it’s a boy or a girl!” Peculiar because the sign was attached to a day care facility.

My mind immediately conjured an image of parents in Small Town USA taking their preschoolers in for genetic testing to determine whether, in fact, they are boys or girls. As if birthing/knowing/raising our children only provides 65% assurance and we all want 100%, right?

Confused I started looking at the two adjacent little buildings and saw that one was an ultrasound facility. “Okay! I gotcha now.”, I thought as the light turned green and the semi trucks and I eased back into our crawl.

Somehow I couldn’t stop thinking of that little sign. Even a few months ago a pregnant friend told me she wasn’t going to find out the sex of her unborn child. My reaction? I went into my usual rant about being a planner and wanting to know. All on auto-pilot, all the words and phrases I had used all these years. I might have even said “You are nuts! I had to know.”, like I had so many times before. I wasn’t even thinking. Like the words were simply pre-programmed. I opened my mouth and then fell right out.

Looking back at that conversation I almost cringe. I am still giving people a hard time for not caring about the sex of their baby? In the first place who am I to say/think anyone is crazy for doing anything. Why would I care? Second, haven’t I learned a single thing? Did I really find out if my baby was boy or a girl seven years ago when I laid on that chilly table, goo dripping from my engorged belly? What did I do differently when I found out? A lot.

“We made out like bandits!”, my husband proclaimed when we heard that our baby was a boy. When the technician gave him a strange glance, he explained that girls are so expensive. We just escaped a world of outfits, bows, purses, shoes, accessories… you name it. American Girl, we escaped American Girl! The once simple butter-yellow room was soon accented by navy and denim. Blue wrapping housing blue this, that and the other thing flooded in when everyone found out. It’s a boy!

Evidently the joke is on us.

What do they always say… “if I knew then what I know now” I would do it all differently? Hindsight is 20/20. I wasn’t in the same space. I didn’t know. Rather than beat myself up for making gender specific choices, I’d like to fantasize a bit about sending my message for all new parents. I wish I could go to the ultrasound waiting rooms, maternity wards and the Lamaze classes and give a speech about not caring about if it’s a boy or a girl. About not choosing pink or blue depending on what the “results” were. I’d put it on the line and finally say the words I’ve been holding back for the past few years… I wish I didn’t push all the boy stuff on my children. There! I said it.

Sure, I never thought twice about my kids playing with what I considered “girl stuff” back then, but I never bought it. I remember when a friend gave me an outfit that she said was “too boy looking” for her girls and I donated it because I thought it looked too feminine for my son. Could I have been a little less rigid? Could I have gone toward the middle of the kid’s clothing store rather than taking a sharp right and spending my time knee-deep in skater pants and construction tees? Could I have placed less emphasis on gender in general? I wish I could go back, but today I sit right here knowing what I know for a reason.

Today we talk about the limitless possibilities for all people- boys and girls all around the world. You want to be a nuclear physicist, a nanny or a miner- go for it! You want your toes painted with polish- you got it! You want to play dress up as a princess or a tank engine- no problem! Be both at the same time! There are no rules.

Every step of my past has taken me to where I enjoy today. With both my daughter and my son feeling secure with being emotional and powerful, artistic and analytic, nurturing and athletic. Being everything that they are naturally without judgment, without censorship, knowing that every day we may feel different or the same.

Sure, I still get tripped up on the road to gender freedom and stop myself to explain it to them (or maybe to myself) that even though I was raised differently I can still open my mind to new ways of thinking. It’s never too late to find out that it doesn’t matter.

Today we turned a corner. My sunshine and I grabbed a quick bite from the cafe next door and sat outside on the steps of the boutique before it opened. It was like a scene from a movie – us sitting there laughing and talking. The air was brisk but we didn’t notice. When we got inside we just slowly perused the shelves and the racks together and this time the mood was totally different. Perhaps I was rushed before? Maybe I didn’t listen as well as I could have in the past? Maybe she wasn’t ready yet?

After collecting a dozen things to try on, we headed to the dressing room still giggling. I actually had to take a moment to thank my lucky stars when I watched this beautiful little girl prance before the mirror in a sleeveless tailored dress, something she never felt comfortable in before. I’m not sure it was her voice or seeing my own satisfied reflection in the mirror that shook me back to reality. “Can I get this one Mom? It’s perfect!” she asked with a big, confident smile. “Of course Darling.” I said without looking at a price tag (something unheard of in this economy!) I wanted her to have that moment in her closet forever. Or maybe I wanted it there for me too? Just to remember that the dark times don’t last. The sun will come out…

Although Will is two years younger, he has incredible patience and empathy in this world. Like me, he wears his heart on his sleeve even though it seems an unlikely attribute upon a first meeting. He is this little man, husky voice and playful spirit. What strikes me most about Will is that his type of love is old school- loyal, courageous, selfless and gentle. This tiny person is an emotional giant. Still, he is four. It’s easy to forget that sometimes since he asks for very little and gives so much.

I struggle with finding balance in life, I guess in almost every respect, but with regards to my children I worry about it the most. Hope’s personality lands her in the spotlight on most occasions so what about Will? Does he get what he needs? Does he know how much he is loved? I lay awake some nights wondering if he secretly longs for center stage. As I drift to sleep then I remind myself to show them the love in my heart and everything will be fine.

“I am yours, you are mine. Mommy loves you porcupine.” I whisper the line from one of our favorite books and the corners of his mouth turn upward as he smirks. His smile lights up a room, this child. His laughter lifts your spirit. Despite his good nature, he can be mischevious in a delightful curious-bordering-naughty way and you have to laugh. From the very beginning my mom said, “Will is his own man.” And that he is. He knows what he wants and how he feels. Simple as that.

Ever since he was a small child he’s been content with less. Typical of a second child, he is flexible and adjusts to change with a certain casualness that astounds me. For a time when he was small, I worked out of the home. He took it in stride. We’ve moved several times and he sees the good in what we have, not what we lost. How lucky I am that he goes with the flow, right? When I sit back and think of how understanding he has been with Hope’s transition my tears start to fall effortlessly. My heart aches.

When Hope transitioned Will lost his brother, the person who he counted on to “show him the ropes” about growing up as a boy. It was easy to look to his big brother for all the answers about what to do and how to do it. Within the span of one day that brother vanished and he was left with a sister. Where did that history go? This person looked the same, but almost everything about them was different. New name. New appearance. New sibling. Looking back I realize that I could have done more to prepare Will for the transition. I could have spent more time talking about what it means to have a sister. That it’s not so different from a brother if you think about it. But the names are all changed. Our language changes. It’s hard to know what to expect. There is a whole world of coulda-woulda-shoulda, but it is all hindsight.

I’ll always remember him sitting in therapy, reticent to speak. After a few moments he told us he missed his brother. Hope leaned in close and said “I am the same person Will.” She told him she loved him while she stared straight into his eyes. That gesture was all it took for Will to make his own transition of thought. From that moment on he never made a mistake about Hope’s new name, gender or pronoun. Never. I think if he wasn’t allowed to talk about his feelings back then he would have been stuck in that space of loss, unable to quite put his finger on what to do to make it better.

Some people say it’s easier because Will is so young he won’t remember his brother, but I hope that isn’t true. Rather than wish for something to be lost forever I hope that there is a greater understanding of where we all are on this journey. We aren’t hiding here. Nothing has to be perfect.

I’m sitting here writing while watching them play together beside the Christmas tree and I am inspired by their capacity to love. I am motivated by their generosity and their grace. And I am forever blessed with my two angels who bring the harmony that was always missing in my life.

Two years ago she told us that she felt like a girl inside. When it happened I was taken back. What did that mean? Did someone hurt her? Was someone filling her head with these ideas? I knew she had a close friend in preschool with a powerful personality and an extremely girlie-girl demeanor. Hope even confided that the girl asked her to wear girl’s clothes. (Now that doesn’t happen every day?!) Perhaps Hope is trying out how it feels to be a girl. Maybe she identifies with this little girl and wants to please her. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

From the very first time she confided in me that about feeling like a girl in a boy’s body, I embraced her. “Having a boy’s body doesn’t mean you can’t feel like a girl inside. Be who you are.” I would tell her again and again. Even though my husband and I embraced how she felt, nothing changed from an outsider’s perspective. She He was okay with wearing boys clothes. At home though, he’d knot these thin blankets together to make “hair” and wear long shirts and call them dresses. He was fine with the male pronoun, but often asked to be called by a girl’s name. At first it was Stephanie, then Hermione and then a couple others. His brother mainly called him the alternate names when they played. We never denied playing as a girl but we didn’t make any changes really for more than a year. Throughout that time, we always encouraged him to talk about his feelings and reminded him that we love him no matter what. Mostly it was the same… “I’m a girl inside.”

About a year after his declaration, he was drawing his self portrait as a girl. Living still fully as a boy, but with a girl’s self portrait, the changes drew attention from the private preschool my children attended. Thankfully we explained how we were handling his feelings and they supported us. But our friends and (some) family were very open minded and didn’t give a thought to a boy acting like a girl. (Some family wore blinders and chose to overlook “certain” behaviors.) “Going through a phase” was what I heard a lot. We, too, wondered when exploration turned to something more concrete. My husband and I agreed that we’d let him decide if and when that happened.

Slowly more girls clothes crept into the wardrobe. A shirt with pink trim became a staple. Some unisex (but more feminine looking) pants became instant favorites. She pleaded for pink sandals. All the time we talked about colors being for everyone. That there was no “boy colors” and “girl colors”, but that didn’t stop her from getting a dress when she wanted. Who was I to say that she couldn’t dress up and feel good about herself? At this point there was only “dressing up” at home.

In her heart this was the first opportunity to try on a girl’s clothes and a girl’s life. It was like she was Cinderella when she got home and could finally transform into everything she wished to be. By the time Halloween came around, she was thrilled to trick-or-treat as Harry Potter’s best friend, Hermione. More than acting like her favorite character, I think she did it to get the wig. At that point, things became crystal clear.

Yesterday I had someone ask me if I was going to pierce my daughter’s ears soon. They looked puzzled when I explained that I feel that pierced ears are for older kids, not six year olds. I was quick to explain that since it is permanent, she needed to be older to decide that.

My knee jerk reaction was that this person thought that getting earrings could help my daughter “pass”. Then I considered that perhaps they thought I had fewer parental restrictions, like “she accepts her child is trans but can’t let her have holes in her ears?” type of thing. Or maybe they were just making conversation?

I guess my dander was up because “passing” is not something I worry about day-to-day. If I did, I would go nuts. I allow my daughter to dress herself (appropriate to the situation) and let the chips fall where they may. You’d think with my daughter attending school stealth that I would be more hyper-vigilant or worried, but where would that get me? I would get all wound up about things out of my control and be torturing myself everyday. All over other’s perceptions.

There are times when the “passing” issue becomes more than just fitting in or being accepted. I second guess some dance classes based on what they wear. I wouldn’t want my daughter to feel self conscious in a leotard. Even our swimming classes were a source of a consternation when it wasn’t the bathing suit but the area for changing. From my perspective it is less “passing” aka other’s people judgment that I am concerned about and more about how my child would feel in certain situations.

The flip side of that conversation is that (for me) having a trans child doesn’t mean that parenting flies out of the window. Sure, you have a little more to process day to day, but the same basic principles of parenting (that everyone has, but rarely puts in words) is still in place. My daughter is my daughter. So if I wouldn’t allow a natal female daughter to do something why would I allow my natal male daughter to? It’s like fingernail polish. I’ve had people say that she should wear fingernail polish, but I strongly feel that kids have their whole life for adornment and personalization. Why start so young?

It’s funny. As I cleaned the house today I was still thinking of this conversation. Perhaps what I didn’t share with the person is that their question made me confused. One minute this person tells me I am ruining the rest of my child’s life because I embrace their gender identity and the next minute they are asking why I haven’t made a permanent alteration to their body. And a modification that has been more closely associated by society as female when performed so young. Isn’t that a mixed message?

No matter what their reasoning for asking (hell, lots of people ask lots of really personal questions everyday) it doesn’t make me feel any differently about how I am parenting my children. Sometimes I feel like I am under a microscope because people on the outside are looking for the “reason” my child is trans. Am I too harsh? Am I too lenient? Am I pushing her one way or another? Like it all rests solely upon me. As if I have such power.

At the end of the day I let this all melt and I just see this little human being looking back at me. This adorable little creature with such a capacity for love and hope. It crushes me to think that someone could think my actions would ever be designed to harm her. I love her. I would do anything to make sure she is safe and free to be herself. And so I’ll put that conversation to rest today and go give these beautiful children my love and attention.

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

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.

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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.