As the name of my blog and my book suggest, I’m a Seussian, a devoted follower of Dr. Seuss and I strongly believe than most of life’s biggest mysteries could be solved by simply reading his books. Love. Vanity. War. Conservation. Integrity. Boredom. Courage. Government. Mischief. Freedom. Ethics. Commitment. You name it, I’ve grasped the concept first from Dr. Seuss. First as a child, then as an adult, I’ve gone back to his books when I’ve needed to take that flight of fancy into what really means anything to me in this world.

There is nothing more soothing than Oh! The Places You’ll Go! when you crave enlightenment. Yes, we WILL move mountains. 100% guaranteed.

His hand rests on her flat stomach. His face glowing as he whispers words only she will ever hear. Words of joy that only two people who have a child together ever know. I can’t take my eyes off of them, their light shining into the waiting room where I sit waiting for my test, and my mind relaxes back in time.

“It’s a boy!” The words sounded like a symphony. Even though my money was on a girl, Ava or perhaps Bella, my heart leapt with the excitement of knowing. This first introduction.

“What is it?” was the first thing people said when we called after the appointment and I happily supplied the information. It’s true. I was one of those people who needed to know, and even gently berating friends who didn’t find out the sex of their baby. “I’m a planner!” I’d explain, so confidently. So quick. I was so young in so many ways. What did I know?

These days gender plays a much less relevant role in our lives, but because we opt to see both sides of the coin or so I thought until my son came home from a birthday party hell-bent that the pink horse birthday cake could only be a girl.

“How would we know that Sweetie?” I already saw the answer clear as day from the way he looked at me, so sly. Still, the exercise is so worth the time.

“She was pink Mom!” he replied without hesitation. Really??!!? My child still adhering to traditional gender stereotyping? All the discussions, education, summer camps and conferences? Really??!!? His sister is gender diverse for heaven’s sake! And he still believes that pink makes a girl? Tells us how strong our culture reinforces these “norms” or the fact that Will found a way to mess with me, really get my goat.

“Pink is just a color Darling,” I suggest calmly to my son’s definitive statement, “Anyone could wear pink or be pink for that matter. It doesn’t make you a boy or a girl.” By this time Hope strolls in and nods in agreement just like an older sister would. Will looks at both of us for a moment, shrugs his shoulders, a classic “Okay” move on his part, and moves on to the next fun thing.

I guess it took me this long to release the trap of the strict binary code on my brain, I could at last give him a bit more time. Still, I wonder if that couple will find out at twenty weeks or remain blissfully unaware.

For years Hope coveted other friend’s princess shoes, but when present time came around she opted for a doll each time. Even when we asked if she wanted the shoes, she would trade up for something that was bigger. Still, I would see her prance at play dates, absolutely entranced in the shoes. Each time she’d run to me, clicking away, as she modeled the “high heels”, excitement flying around the room.

Each time my mind slipped backwards, years ago, when she pleaded for pink sandals. I can still picture my son, then a sweet four year old, who was hell bent on buying pink sandals when we picked out our spring shoes at a local boutique. It came as a surprise. The shoes were awful actually, the kind that has awkward straps and glued on flowers and to my disgust, glitter in all the wrong places. It wasn’t the color I protested, it was that they were so ugly. She, then he, begged for them. The two sales people and I showed my child at least twelve other pink sandals that ranged from fancy to sporty, but nothing worked. Only those hideously garish sandals filled some void that I couldn’t comprehend. It was such a little thing to be so upset about. Yes, I bought the shoes, but as we settled in the car afterward I turned backwards in my seat to ask why the pink sandals were so important. After a considerable amount of time my child told me that he knew something he couldn’t tell me. Fear raced through my entire body – abuse? What happened? I calmly told him that he could tell me anything, that he could trust me to understand and to love him, no matter what. I hung on waiting for his answer.

“I’m a girl inside Mommy,” were the words that I didn’t expect. Those few little words began our journey and ultimately brought us where we are today, all these years and conversations later.

So Christmas morning as she scanned the presents left for her, Hope’s eyes fixated on the one little thing she’s never quite asked for, but has wanted her whole life. She got the princess shoes that day and she never took them off.

Just moments before I plopped down at my desk I was cleaning the coat closet, a favorite activity, while listening to my newly downloaded Beatles picks on iTunes. Retrieving little jackets shoved into the few empty spaces, I discovered wooly hats stuffed in random boots and the mitten I was searching the house for yesterday. As I tended to the less complicated part of my day, I found myself singing along with so much passion that I did something I hadn’t done since my freshman year in college. I simply stopped and sat in the closet to think. Weird as it might look, I felt like something huge was coming, like a storm or an epiphany.

“When I find myself in times of trouble mother Mary comes to me… speaking words of wisdom.. Let it be… And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me… speaking words of wisdom.. Let it be…”

I believe everyone has a beacon of light, whether it’s traveling with you right now or not. Whether you see it in the distance or not. Whatever that looks like, something brings you, and me, peace. It’s that person, place or thing that kidnaps us from fear’s grasp and returns us safely to ourselves.

During lunch today the kids were asking about my childhood, specifically about the dungeon I was sent to play in when I was a small child. My early years must sound like Dickens next to what they experience every day.

“The dungeon… was it scary?” Will asked, his eyes wide and bright. Hope leaned in a little as if the answer would have significant meaning.

“Yes. Back then I thought the devil lived there,” to which I quickly added, “but I don’t believe in the devil anymore and nothing was in that dungeon except me and my imagination… and some big spiders.” Both pairs of eyes squinted at me like there was something more that I wasn’t giving up.

“Who is this devil Mom?” Hope inquired, so serious that I could see her as an investigative reporter one day. Well, needless to say we talked about my Catholic upbringing, ghosts, angels, spirit guides and even kirtan music for a long time until Hope gave me a shock.

“I believe there is a spirit that goes everywhere with us,” she said matter-of-factly and I think I actually cocked my head. We’d never explored anything like that before. She added the spirit could be any color you wanted. Cool.

“I believe in the Universe… and everything in it,” Will added, his arms spread out wide like he was giving the air before him a bear hug. Nice.

Me? I believe in light. I believe we are all connected. We live for a brief moment and whatever joy we find along the way is a gift. Today I tuned into the little things that set my heart on fire – talking with my kids, disconnecting from my mind and turning up the volume on my heart.

“And when the night is cloudy… there is still a light that shines on me… Shine on until tomorrow… Let it be”

“I wake up to the sound of music… mother Mary comes to me… Speaking words of wisdom… Let it be”

Years ago she chose a big, brown, straggly wig for her Hermione Grainger costume and adored it. (She wore it constantly afterwards. I’ve never seen a child with such a sweaty head or a bigger smile!) Back then Halloween was her ticket out. A way, not to hide, but to be 100% real among her friends and neighbors. Although she was presenting as a girl at home, she hadn’t made her social transition outside the house yet. Halloween became the first testing ground and she blossomed each time she put on the outfit.

Hindsight is 20/20, right? Read my blog excerpt from 2009 and you’ll see a different mom, a different writer. If you told me then that my child would socially transition to living as herself, a girl, months later I guess I would be pretty confused. I just wasn’t there yet and neither was she.

I’ll be honest, as I read the 2009 post I cringed a little, particularly because of the pronoun “he” now that we don’t refer to my daughter that way. I don’t even use “he” when I speak about my daughter in the past because she doesn’t. A couple of months ago I tried to use “he” for the pre-transition period and “she” for the post-transition for a public speaking gig and it didn’t work out. I flip-flopped and no one knew who the hell I was speaking about. Neither did I. By her definition, my daughter is who she is and I am inclined to take that lead. Until she asks for her history or pronoun be to be described otherwise, I am sticking with what she says.

It’s difficult to explain, these moments when the past collides with the present.I try to be gentle with myself when good intentions somehow resemble betrayal. How was I to know what the future would bring unless it all unfolded the way it did? I often remind myself that I can’t mind-read. My crystal ball seems to be on perpetual back order and I’m happy with that.

Thankfully, this Halloween was calm and peaceful. Hope chose a simple Princess costume and she didn’t give any thought to a wig. Her own ever-growing long locks looked more authentic to the costume than any wig ever could. This year felt like the first time she wasn’t preoccupied about putting on a disguise and was happy just being 100% real with everyone she knows.

Some days I feel like I spoil them and then there are days like these where I feel like I am my father all over again, his broad, imposing figure waking me from a peacefully sleep to tell me what is wrong with me. In my mind I can’t so much make out the exact words, but I gather their meaning from the image of his infuriated beet-red face. Eyes wild with lids pulled tight into his skull. Lips spread far apart to show teeth grinding on an obsession. His jaw protruding as his rugged face contorts frantically. Adrenaline still pumps wildly through me as if I was still standing in the kitchen feeling his breath race past my face as he bellows his latest complaint. When he got a hold of something, he wouldn’t let go. Like a rabid stray left to gnaw on my tiny bones.

Is that how my children see me? Insistent and enraged? Even though I assign feelings and reasons, the “why” if you will, to my anger or disappointment, does it really matter? Does it soften the emotional blow when I share with my kids that I am just a person who strives to be a good mom, a job that’s harder than it looks? Do they recall those simple words when it’s me who looks disgusted?

If I flip the situation around (a little tactic Pema Chodron encourages me to do), could I be overreacting when the kids get upset?  Could my own unstable reaction to being reprimanded for any little thing as a child cloud the moments of today? Somewhere down deep do I still expect some type of twisted perfection where things go along as planned and everyone is happy go-lucky if I am the one “in charge”? Because if life has taught me anything, I know for certain life is not that way.

Deep in my heart, I know my father wanted to raise his children to be good people, and now as a parent I share that desire. Our methods don’t have to be the same. I believe that he leaned into my sister and I because he knew no other way. Military style worked for him and so it should for us. No matter how difficult it is to come to terms with, I am grateful for being raised by such a complicated, dynamic and loving human being despite the terror. He did his best and so do I.

As I stare up the winding stairs before me, I think about sitting down on the carpet with those two little munchkins in my arms. Maybe we’ll play a game or sing a song or talk about the day. Somewhere between here and there I will let them know that I love them regardless. I love them when I am happy. I love them when I am not. I love them when they are behaving. I love them when they are not. These little bumps are lessons for us all.

After taking the first flight, I start on the next step then stop and go back to my journal in my bedroom to write down a quick thought. It’s not the single moments that make up life, but the journey. That’s perfect enough.

Just saw the CNN clip with Kimberly Reed, director of the movie, telling their story of two brothers whose lives have changed in immeasurable ways. Kimberly, a transgender person, goes back to her high school for a reunion and to reunite with her brother who has suffered a brain injury that challenges their relationship.

I’ve summarized it in my own words, but there is so much more to the story. It’s a unique perspective about unexpected changes in life and how we cope with them. I think we could all relate to that concept in life.

That’s just it- its an outsider’s perspective. We never know what is happening in someone’s brain, in their heart. Nor can we grasp the immense pressure that we sometimes inflict on ourselves, unbeknownst to others.

As a parent I react by questioning how I can help my child to keep talking, keep relating what she needs and what she feels. As she gets older I know that the lines of communication naturally get strained, but how do you keep a child feeling safe enough to share intimate feelings and realities? Love? Stability? Security? Leading by example?

It’s funny… before I logged on I emailed my sister. Earlier this morning I had a little surgery that brought about a revelation. As the flurry of preparation buzzed around me in the cold operating room I slipped into a trance like state (meditating has proven a success in the face of uncertainty here, and the kirtan music didn’t hurt) and went to my happy place. In my email I reassured that I was fine and then I went on a tiny tangent saying that I felt like I must have been a prisoner of war or a hostage or something in another life because I have an uncanny ability to transport myself to another place when I need to endure pain. I did it giving birth. I did it for my marathons. I do it when my back pain ceases to be manageable.

I guess I did it for my emotional pain as well. When my father died I had just survived a near fatal injury months earlier and was, for all purposes, emotionally tapped. I’d been isolated in the hospital and near silent for hours and then days on end. I went inside myself for comfort and reassurance and it worked. I guess.

After his death I was left without words. It wasn’t that I kept my feelings hidden, it was that I could not sort out the shock from the pain from the grief from the fear. “Jenny doesn’t talk,” was what I heard in my bubble, but I felt too overwhelmed to try and piece apart my confusion and despair. Was this what Mike/ Christine experienced in some way? The inability to translate the tornado of emotions inside. The guilt for not being able to bring something to the table, so to speak. The hatred building because I couldn’t make anything better. The fear that if I said a single word I would lose myself completely.

Now thirty years later I have found my voice and my courage. By writing I’ve found a way to unzip my armor, let every emotion spill out into words, expose the most vulnerable parts of me and witness the reality of where I am at with love. It’s not perfect. It’s not logical at times. But it’s real. And it’s out there. I am grateful that this journey leads me to this result. Standing in my truth.

Sat Nam. Truth is my name. It rang through my ears as I laid on the table today and I was peaceful despite pain. It’s all I could hope for. Maybe tonight I will sit with my kids and talk about my experience honestly. I’ll tell them that I didn’t know what to expect, but I took a deep breath with the knowledge that I could face whatever comes my way.

How do we live each day? How do we love?

A few days ago my father-in-law passed away after a painful and heroic battle with lung cancer. He never complained once. He never felt sorry for himself. He never gave up his fight to live even when his body didn’t agree. His life, and death, is a pure example of determination and optimism.

Despite so many life altering and tragic obstacles that would have debilitated most of us, he chose to consistently see the bright side of life and the people around him. I think of that so often.

My kids were lucky to have him in their lives. When Hope transitioned he stayed the same grandfather he’d always been- loving, playful, fun. Even though he was a pretty conservative guy with a traditional history he kept showing his love for my daughter and my son equally. Kept showing everyone how proud he was of them. I was always so touched by him. I loved him dearly.

Unknowingly he filled an aching void in my heart created when my father passed away when I was a child. He comforted me in a way that I could never quite say thank you enough. I am a better person for knowing and loving my father-in-law and having the chance to call him Dad, if only for a short time.

Before performing in front of everyone as a kid I was always tense, nervous to the point of exhaustion as I racked my brain to remember all the steps. I was that kind of kid that had to hit every count perfectly. Be exactly where I was supposed to be. I wonder if I ever enjoyed it. Dancing that is, if you want to call it that. More like going through the motions if you ask me. I didn’t want to do it wrong.

My daughter, however, was calm and playful before the recital. She and the other dancers ran around laughing and giggling before the teacher arrived like there wasn’t a room full of parents (and some grandparents) staring at them. I studied Hope as she twirled, little pink ballet skirt flying in the air. Tiny ponytails just visible as she turned toward me beaming with pride. I loved it. Savored every moment as if they were given to me as a gift. These little ones, serious about performing their routine, but having a ball along the way.

Being on the other side of the stage taught me something extremely special. No two children danced the same way. Some were more stiff and precise. Some fluid and light. All of them moved through each piece without embarrassment or hesitation. They just danced.

I stopped clapping to dab the corner of my eye. Joy. I was filled with the most blissful joy than I had felt in a very long time. Happiness for the moment that was so beautiful. Admiration for my daughter’s persistence in learning something new. Gratitude that a child who was born into the wrong body could still follow their dreams and live fully, achieving every goal in their heart.