Priorities

We visited family out of state this past weekend.

There was a party at my sister’s house, and I arrived early to drop off a flying squirrel. (That’s another blog post.) But when we arrived, my sister’s mother was sitting in the kitchen.

My sister’s mom is my ex-step-mother. She was married to my dad for about 5 years between 1983-1988. I never lived with her, but I spent long weekends and summers with her and my dad during that time. We never had a hostile relationship, but we were never close. After she and my dad divorced, I had no reason to see her. I’ve bumped into her maybe 3 times in the three decades since they split.

I give you that background to give you a sense of our relationship, which is basically nonexistent.

So, anyway. I was the first to walk in to my sister’s kitchen, as my family trudged through the snow behind me. I said hello, gave her a friendly hug, and (re) introduced her to my youngest son who was right beside me. She commented on how much he had grown, and then asked, “Don’t you have a daughter, too?”

Time stood still. My other son was coming up the stairs. I could see him kicking the snow off his shoes, about to open the door and walk into the middle of this conversation. I felt two simultaneous urges. First and foremost was the urge to protect my son. But creeping in quickly, in a close second place, was the impulse to defend my ‘choice.’

I wanted time to explain it to her. I wanted to tell her the story of his transition. I wanted to describe the sullen, sad, suicidal daughter that I had at 5 and 6 and 7 years old. I wanted to emphasize that this transition has changed our lives for the better. I wanted to tell the stories that clearly illustrate that this isn’t a ‘phase.’ I wanted her to understand our story.

The fact that my sister hadn’t shared Lee’s transition with her may or may not have been relevant. My sister has been one of Lee’s staunchest supporters. These two have a special relationship (hence the flying squirrel. I promise I’ll explain that later. It’s a good story). They share a love of animals and a spunky sense of humor and total disregard for my overly anxious parenting. Maybe she didn’t share because she knew it wasn’t her story to tell. Maybe she didn’t share because it wasn’t relevant information for her mom to have. Maybe it just never occurred to her. But in that split second, I wondered if she didn’t share because she knew it wouldn’t be well received.

All of this passed through my mind in the nanosecond before Lee walked through the door. I was unsure of how this woman would react. I didn’t have time to be tactful or feel her out or provide a thorough explanation. I had a second. So I turned to her and smiled as my child turned the doorknob. “Not anymore!” I quipped, just before I cheerily turned and put my arm around my son. “This is Lee.”

I couldn’t really read her reaction; surprised, for sure. Appalled? Supportive? Confused? I don’t really know. And I’m just beginning to realize that I don’t really care. Because Lee bounded through the door and hugged his Aunt and said hello and ran off to play with his cousins, knowing that he is surrounded by love and support from the people who really matter.

And I learned a lesson. I got my priorities straight. Because my initial impulse was so much more important than that second urge.

I’m slowly learning that it’s not my job to make others comfortable with our family. It’s my job to love and support and protect my kids. It’s my job to teach them and help them to grow into the best possible versions of themselves. If we can open some hearts and minds as we travel this journey, then we’ve accomplished something beautiful.

But we’re bound to encounter others. We’re going to run into people who don’t understand or people who don’t agree. We won’t always be able to explain things thoroughly and kindly and get people to understand.

Sometimes, we will have to smile, and hug each other and walk away, knowing that our family is strong and faithful and beautiful and supportive…  and we don’t need strangers or acquaintances or ex-step-mothers to validate our love.