His shoulders are spreading apart. There’s a square-ness to his jaw and a deepening in his voice. It’s all so typical, 14-year old boy. And it’s all medically-induced. The hormones that I inject into his thigh every week are turning him into a young man.
I know, deeply, that this is the right choice. He’s been all boy for the last five years.
But there were eight years before that. Eight years where I tried to squeeze him into this mold of who I thought he was. Of who I thought he was supposed to be. Of the little girl who would grow in to my best friend. A silly dream? Probably.
Last night, I sat on the edge of his bed, while he scrolled through his TicToc videos for me. He’s quite the artist. These videos aren’t just fun to him. They’re an artistic expression. There’s lighting and costumes and effects. Some are silly. Some are dark. All exude talent. He explained the characters in the videos; who he was representing and why. He talked about their backstories and which ones he could relate to and he explained the connections I never would have understood. Watching him light up, talking about something that excites him… I’ll never get tired of that.
Even as my eyes drooped and I stifled a yawn, I settled in to hear more. I settled my head on his pillow, while he sat cross-legged in the center of the bed, pointing to posters for my reference. Eventually, he curled up under his blanket, resting his head on the pillow next to mine. He let me play with his hair (so unusual that he’ll allow it, now) and we continued to talk about significant and insignificant things. I breathed it in.
As they grow older, there are fewer and fewer chances to connect in a really authentic way. They’re embarrassed by us. They’d rather be with their friends. They’re just too old to cuddle anymore.
But for me, there’s another layer. I think there’s part of me that worried I wouldn’t have those moments with my son. When this child was a baby, I imagined lots of sweet, mother-daughter moments; dress shopping and late-night gab-fests among them. I eventually let go of those imaginings, but not without my share of secret tears in the shower. Perhaps I was a bit premature.
He’s a fourteen-year old boy now. And there are still these beautiful moments. Binge-watching Queer Eye together. Walking the dogs and listening to his laugh. Chatting about his art late into the night. None of that is gendered. Why did I ever think it was? Why did I ever assume that I lost something when he transitioned?
The thing is, as parents, we’re always losing them. We’re losing bits and pieces of their childhoods every day. They grow and they change. And before we know it, they’ve become such full, amazing, complicated people that we can no longer hold them under the umbrella of who WE are, as parents. They don’t belong there anymore.
And it doesn’t matter if their development is early or late or induced by injections. It doesn’t matter if they’re boys or girls or who they fall in love with or what parts are in their pants. It doesn’t matter because they all grow up. They become so much more than just our children. They become so much more than anything we could have made them.
14 years ago, my imaginings were so small. I had no idea. I imagined a future that doesn’t make sense in hindsight. But isn’t that the beauty of life? Every moment has the potential for surprise. For learning. For change. If we’ve learned nothing from these past few months, we’ve learned that life is unpredictable. And hard. And beautiful. To really live this life we’ve been given, we need to allow ourselves to listen. To grow. To not get so committed to our imaginings that we can’t see the beauty that’s right in front of us.