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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.

 

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Friendship

I’m at a point in my life where my friendships fall into categories. I have high school friends and college friends. I have book club friends and church friends. I have teacher friends and mom friends and almost-friends.

I recently had the chance to get together with some college friends. Three families, including ours, gathered in our small cape, set up some air mattresses, and reconnected. Sixteen people- six adults and our combined ten children- shared one bathroom and a dozen old memories and hundreds of laughs. We bravely conquered the commuter train and the New England Aquarium with our brood and a backpack full of juice boxes. It was chaotic and crazy and absolutely fantastic. We played board games and watched movies and made meals together. We reminisced and we disagreed and we herded children, and having this crew in my house made my home feel more home-y.

The aftermath of this visit had me thinking a lot about friendships. Who ARE my closest friends? Why? How are my friendships impacted by time and distance and life’s circumstances? How can I still feel such connection to people I haven’t seen in years? Why can’t I be more connected with the teacher down the hall, who I see almost daily? Why do those friendships from my childhood (and I’m old enough to think of college as part of my childhood) hold so much more strength than the ones I formed as an adult?

As an adult, I think friendships are harder to find; primarily because we’re looking.

Finding adult friendships seems to me a little like internet dating; it’s too easy to dismiss someone for the wrong reasons. Poor grammar? No way. She homeschools her kids? Nope. She eats all organic? Forget it. You see what I’m saying? We all do it. We make ridiculous snap judgements about whom we should befriend based on stupid, superficial things. At least, I know I do.

But when I get together with these college friends, I am reminded of how little these things matter. We disagree about things. We have different parenting styles. We have different likes and dislikes. But the thing is, we’re friends first, so none of that means anything. What’s true is that we love each other in spite of our flaws and our differences; maybe even because of them.

I met these friends twenty years ago, and I’ve known them more than half my life. I cherish these friendships tremendously. So if one of us eats vegetarian, it’s not a deal breaker. If somebody makes an off-color joke, it’s not a crisis. If somebody screws up the bacon, the only one who rides her about it is her husband. The foundation is so much stronger than anything we set upon it.

The same is true for my book club. We meet once a month; these friendships are also lengthy and cherished.  I met these women my first year teaching. But if you had asked me 17 years ago (when I began my career), who I thought would be part of my life when I was pushing 40, I’m not sure these are the women I would have named. We taught together for fewer than 5 years, but we’ve remained in touch for more than a decade. We get together once a month, and while we do actually read the book (contrary to popular belief), these monthly gatherings are more importantly about showing up. We show up to celebrate and grieve and support each other. We show up to share and laugh and debate. And by showing up, month after month and year after year, we’ve built something beautiful and honest and strong. These women anchor me, and I am so grateful for them.

My newest group of friends is a group of women from my church. It’s been a long time since I’ve formed a group of friends so quickly, and it feels really good. We’re similar but also incredibly different. We push each other out of our comfort zones and then provide comfort during the tough times. When someone is mourning a loss, we pray and we cook and we offer condolences. When someone is questioning a choice or facing a challenge, we listen and we support and we show up with wine. When someone has a flat tire, we pitch in to pick up the kids and put on a spare. We don’t have a long history (yet), but we all seem to know what the foundation is. We don’t need to agree on all things. We don’t need to pretend to be something we’re not. We just need to keep showing up.

I haven’t stayed connected to all of the people I’ve ‘clicked with’ in my adulthood. I’ve stayed connected with the people who made it a priority to show up through the ups and the downs, the good and the bad. So as I look to build better adult friendships, I feel like I’ve figured out where to start. The good news is, I don’t have to try harder or be better or change who I am. All I have to do is show up.

 

 

 

 

 

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Politics

This post has been brewing for a while. It’s going to be a tough one to write, because I have a tendency to censor myself so as not to offend anyone.

But when you have difficult conversations, somebody’s bound to get offended… that doesn’t mean we should avoid difficult conversations. Just because there will be disagreements and discomfort doesn’t grant us permission to isolate ourselves in little enclaves of support and assume that the rest of the world is evil and malevolent.

I’ve read a few books that have helped me to hone my opinions on this subject… one was Difficult Conversations (Stone, Patton, and Heen), another was We; a Manifesto for Women Everywhere, by Anderson and Nadel, and the most recent was We Need to Talk, by Celeste Headlee.

Reading these books has helped me to shift my awareness of my own conversations, and there is nowhere that impacts me more than within my own marriage.

This political environment has shaken the foundation of my marriage. Does that sound extreme? Good. Because it feels extreme. For 13 years, my husband and I have driven to the polls together, stood in line, provided our shared address, entered our separate booths, and effectively cancelled out each other’s votes. Then we were able to walk out holding hands.

We consistently and respectfully argued and listened and sometimes shouted and often agreed to disagree. But when it came down to it, we agreed on the things that mattered most. We were always able to keep that in perspective.

I’m trying to figure out what changed that. Is it Trump? Is it Facebook? Is it click-bait and media sensationalism? Is it simply because the stakes feel so Goddamned high right now? Is it the environment that changed? Or is it us?

For a while, our fights got bad. Like ‘do we even have anything in common anymore?’ bad. Like ‘why did we even get married in the first place?’ bad.   It felt like I didn’t know this guy all of a sudden, and it was terrifying.

But here’s the thing. He’s the same guy. He’s the same guy I married. He’s the most loyal man I’ve ever met. He’s the guy who ripped down the anti-trans joke posted in the bathroom at work and when his boss asked him about it, he’s the guy who staunchly defended our son to the man who signs his paycheck. He’s the guy who didn’t hesitate when I asked if we could take in a child he barely knew and love her like one of our own. He’s the guy who gives up his Saturday to create a guinea pig habitat in the basement with his kids. He’s the guy who lets a 120 lb dog climb up into his lap because he can’t resist her charms. He’s the guy who is not afraid to rip apart the bathroom because he knows he’ll figure out how to put it back together. He’s the man who freezes his butt off in a hockey rink cheering on his kid, and the one who freezes his butt off in the driveway, fixing that same kid’s truck. He’s the man who makes a mean chicken marsala and serves it up just because he knows it’s my favorite. He’s the man who does the laundry and patiently pairs all the socks because he knows it’s the job I hate the most. He’s the man who holds my hand in church as we pray for the healing of someone we love.

And all of this political angst in our world didn’t change who he is.

There’s all kinds of research about human behavior and communication that fascinates me. There are studies that prove we’re MORE likely to dig in our heels about our beliefs when we learn information that contradicts our original thoughts. We seek out information that confirms what we already believe, while we profess to be educated and open-minded. Overall, as a species, we’re terrible at listening because our brains are always planning what we’re going to say next. Our brains are also hardwired to make snap judgements about our environment, including the people in it. We quickly put people into categories, whether we know it or not. A few key words in a conversation or a post will automatically relegate someone into the category of ‘other’ without our conscious awareness.

Think about the impact of that. It’s insane.

If I only knew my husband peripherally; if I only saw his Facebook posts, for example, I would assume that this guy is an asshole. He’s going to read this… and I’m not writing something he doesn’t know. I worry about how he looks to my friends who don’t know him well. I don’t agree with a lot of what he shares or writes, and I probably have online ‘friends’ who wonder why we’re even together.

But the friends who know us in real life? They see it. They see how we make each other better. They see how we influence each other’s perspective. They see how we learn from each other and force each other to grow instead of shrinking into what we think we already know.

Guys, I’m going to start saying some uncomfortable things, but please stick with me here. My husband often starts his rants with a phrase like, “Freaking liberals…” and I lose my ever-loving mind. Every time I hear him say that, I know something awful is coming and that he has automatically lumped together a whole group of people as being idiots and that I IDENTIFY MYSELF as part of this group. And I get pissed.

It’s a terrible way to start a conversation. I’m already defensive, he’s already irritated, and there’s no way anybody is listening to anybody else because we’ve already moved to our corners and gotten ready to battle.

But you know what, guys? He’s pointed out the other side of this. He’s shown me a million examples of ‘us liberals’ making broad, sweeping generalizations about him, too.

I know I’m entering into difficult territory here, and I know we all need to check our privilege. I know we all have inherent biases and we all have something to learn. But if I really pay attention, I am able to see all of the ways that conversation in our liberal, left-leaning state makes assumptions about my working class, white, male, conservative husband and his beliefs. And none of those assumptions is favorable.

We could argue about the fact that people of color have dealt with this same sort of bias for centuries. We could point out the fact that he’s got a lot of advantages. We could argue that he’s only experiencing what women and minorities have experienced forever.

But isn’t the goal to move to a place where we are all able to listen and respect each others’ views? Aren’t we trying to make a move toward inclusivity? I know this particular white man, and in the same breath, I am learning more and more about the impact of white privilege and toxic masculinity and institutional racism and sexism. But the way to reach him and share what I know and what I’m learning is to start from a place of mutual respect.

Remember, our human tendency is to dig in our heels, especially when confronted with information that contradicts what we think we already know. So if you want to share your viewpoint with an (uneducated) working-class, (unfeeling) conservative, (toxically) masculine, (racist) white, (oppressive) man, you have to take away the words in parenthesis. You have to check your liberal bias, too.

One of the things I find myself saying most in the heat of an argument is, “You’re not LISTENING.” This is the thing that frustrates me the most. When I feel I’m not being heard, I feel that I’m not being respected. But in the heat of an argument, I’m not listening either. I’m too busy strategizing and trying to recall facts and trying to prove how right I am.

How do we move away from that? In our relationships, in our churches, in our communities, and in our country? I can’t profess to know the answer, but I do know what helps us.

First, be clear about what you support. Don’t hone in on what you’re against. When my husband and I find ourselves arguing about some policy or article or statement, it’s too easy to be anti-whatever the other person is saying. Find what you passionately believe we need, and fight for THAT.

Second, LISTEN. Don’t formulate your argument or tally up all the reasons why the other person is wrong. Actually try to understand their point of view. Assume that people have legitimate reasons for their beliefs, whether you agree with them or not.

Third, ASK QUESTIONS. Stop pretending you know things you don’t. You don’t know another person’s experience. You don’t know what they’ve lived or read or been taught. If you sincerely want to connect with people, you have to accept that they know things that you don’t. And everybody knows something you don’t.

The fourth point is intimately connected to the third, and it’s become a bit of a mantra in my house. Just because you haven’t experienced something, doesn’t mean it’s not real. I’m going to write that twice. Just because you haven’t experienced something, doesn’t mean it’s not real.

My husband has never experienced crippling anxiety. He doesn’t understand why I can’t just let things go. He wants me to stop worrying. He wants me to feel better and he can’t wrap his mind around the fact that it’s not that easy for me. But he believes me. He has to accept that, while this feeling is something he’s never experienced, it exists in a very real way for me.

The same is true for me with his ADD. I don’t understand how he can get sucked into a word game for hours but can’t finish sorting the laundry without being distracted. I don’t understand why it’s hard to stay present in a conversation while the TV news plays in the background. I want him to just be able to focus and I don’t understand how it could possibly be that hard. But I believe him. I accept that his ADD is real for him, even though I don’t understand it.

We both had to come to terms with this when our son confided that he is a transgender boy. We didn’t understand it. We couldn’t imagine the feelings our child was experiencing, and it was hard for us to wrap our minds around his unique experience. But just because we hadn’t experienced it, didn’t mean it wasn’t real.

When the going gets tough, that’s what we fall back on. We’re a pretty strong crew. We’re going to fight for what we believe in. And sometimes we’re going to disagree. But I’m pretty sure nobody’s ever read a vitriolic Facebook comment that made them think, “Oh, my. It looks like I was wrong after all.” Ultimately, you’re only going to change hearts and minds by living a life that honors your own truth, and by trying to truly understand the people who touch your life.

So we keep listening and asking questions and making mistakes and disagreeing. And I pray that we never stop learning from each other.

 

 

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Surgery

Lee had his surgery today. A few times, I’ve mentioned the name ‘Lee’ and the word ‘surgery’ in the same sentence, and received horrified looks that took me by surprise. I registered that incredulous look, and was quick to correct the assumption. Not THAT surgery. For God’s sake, he’s ELEVEN.

Today’s surgery was to insert a tiny implant into his upper arm. This implant will administer the puberty-blocking medication that he previously received through painful injections every three months. Those injections were awful. They were anxiety producing and painful and three out of four times resulted in vomiting and/or fainting.

This implant was hard-earned. We live in a state where transgender rights are supposed to be guaranteed and where full-coverage insurance plans are required to cover the cost of transgender care… so I naively assumed that we wouldn’t have any problems. I was wrong.

The first injection, in terms of procedure and billing, was relatively uneventful. The problems didn’t start for us until after the second injection. This one was billed incorrectly. If you’re in the field of medicine or medical insurance, you may notice problems with my wording. That’s because I don’t really understand the different terminology and how it affects coverage and billing. I’m learning quickly, but please forgive any errors. It is my understanding that this second injection was billed through the pharmacy, and fell under the category of a ‘prescription drug’ benefit. Billed this way, I was required to pay substantial co-pay. But the first injection (unbeknownst to me at the time) had been billed as a ‘medical procedure’ and was fully covered.

When I called to find out why the second injection cost so much, and the first one had been covered, the runaround began. The endocrinologist transferred me to billing. Billing transferred me to the specialty pharmacy. The pharmacy transferred me back to the endocrinologist. Ultimately, they decided it wasn’t their problem, and told me to contact my insurance company.

My insurance company sent me to benefits, where the representative insisted my plan did not provide coverage for this drug. When I pointed out that they already had (three months ago, for the first injection), they transferred me again. The next rep couldn’t explain the discrepancy, and I finally asked to speak to their transgender care specialist. The specialist told me that it had to be billed as a medical procedure, and then suggested that I call the hospital to explain that.

This series of endless phone transfers and arguments lasted nearly six months before it got entirely fixed. My past-due medical bills were sent off to a collections agency, which further added to the mess that needed to be resolved.

In the meantime, we were slowly finding out that these injections just weren’t a good fit for Lee. There was crying and nausea and vomiting and fainting. We tried numbing creams and different needle gauges and different injection sites, to no avail.

As we tried to navigate the next steps, advocating for an implant instead, we encountered more challenges. While the endocrinologist (who is trying to establish a transgender clientele), was reasonably consistent about using the correct name and pronouns, every time we found ourselves in another department (for necessary blood work or bone scans, for example), the staff would use the wrong name and pronouns.

Now, I understand that this is a complicated issue. There is a name and gender listed on the medical record, and it makes sense that staff would assume the accuracy of this information. However, a practice seeking to establish a specialty in the area of transgender care SHOULD, at the very least, have a note in the file indicating ‘name used’ or something similar. Our pediatrician gets it right. Our counselor, the pharmacist, the dentist… even standardized test scores at the state level… they all get it RIGHT. So when we’re at the hospital in order to receive specialized TRANSGENDER care and treatment, you’d think they could figure out a system whereas a timid, eleven year old boy doesn’t have to stand up and answer when a nurse shouts, “Leah? LEAH? LEAH?” in the waiting room.

Sorry. I digress.

So we begin the process of advocating for an implant. But the endocrinologist tells us that our insurance won’t cover the procedure. I call the insurance company, who tells me that we should appeal the decision. But wait. I can’t appeal yet, because there has been no official request and no official denial. So the insurance tells me to contact the endocrinologist again. I have an appointment coming up, so I decide to talk to them after the next injection.

You might already see that this was a poor decision. Lee had the injection. Afterward, as I’m talking to the hospital staff and trying to resolve this issue and figure out the next steps, my poor, strong, brave little man faintly whispers, “I don’t feel very good” right before he drops to the floor in the lobby and begins to dry heave. He vomits into a trash can and I sit on the floor holding him in my lap and stroking his sweaty head and telling him it’s going to be okay; all the while thinking that I need to just focus on my child and not let him see my frustration with all of this bureaucratic nonsense.

A few more weeks and a few more phone calls finally result in a long-awaited approval from the insurance company. They’re going to cover the implant! We get excited. We book the surgery. We meet the surgeon and ask all of our questions. We come in again a week before the surgery for a last minute check of height, weight, and vitals. We ask more questions. We take the day off from work and school. We plan where we’ll go out to lunch after the procedure. We celebrate.

The day before the surgery, we finalize details. I write my sub plans. Lee fasts. My husband reminds his boss that he won’t be working the next day.

And then… surgery day. Finally! Lee is grinning from ear to ear. He good-naturedly complains about not being able to eat. He jokes and smiles and carefully chooses what he’s going to wear to the hospital. He brings his drawing pad to keep him occupied and to give him something to show to the nurses. He is the star of the show. He asks good questions and patiently plays card games and board games and iPad games while we wait for the surgeon.

When the moment arrives and the surgeon walks in, we can tell right away that something is wrong. You can see the sadness and embarrassment on his face when he explains that we can’t do the procedure today because “the implant isn’t here.” He apologizes profusely and explains that it didn’t arrive in the pharmacy and that they’ve tried to locate another one and that there isn’t one “anywhere in the city” and that he knows people have taken the day off of work and school and that this shouldn’t have happened and that he’s very, very sorry.

I cry.

My son is incredibly composed, albeit visibly sad, but I’m no longer capable of hiding my disappointment. This was a big day. We’ve been working and waiting and praying for so long. Through clenched teeth, I ask the surgeon to call the endocrinologist to determine the next steps. Should we do another injection? How long can we wait? How soon can we reschedule?

The surgeon leaves the three of us in the pre-op room, and I apologize to my son. I vent a little to my husband, and we brainstorm possibilities for the next steps. And a few minutes later, the surgeon returns.

He’s contacted the endocrinologist. She says it’s here. Two days ago, she was contacted to confirm that it had been received. She was going to make some phone calls.

Ultimately, what I learned is that there’s a difference between the Specialty pharmacy and the Operating Room pharmacy and that drugs aren’t always stored where you think they would be stored and that doctors make mistakes.

But this story has a happy ending. They found the implant. They wheeled my son into surgery and I suited up in one of those white paper suits and blue shoe covers and a really sexy hairnet. I wore a surgical mask and held his hand and made him smile while he breathed in the gas that would put him to sleep.

The surgeon did his job. He inserted a tiny piece of plastic containing some amazing medication in my son’s upper arm. He assured us that everything went smoothly and gave my son permission to skip showering for the next two days (God help us all). My groggy son said everything that crossed his mind when he woke up, much to my chagrin and the nurse’s apparent entertainment.

We stopped for saltines and chicken soup and said grateful prayers on the way home.

And for now, we’re taking a break from fighting the hospital and the insurance company and trying to understand medical billing. For now, we’re going to cuddle on the couch and eat crackers and watch movies until the stress of this long, emotional day evaporates into a fog of contentedness… for we are abundantly blessed.

 

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Home Again

Driving West on I-84 in New York state, somewhere near mile marker 52, I catch my first glimpse of the mountains, and my heart tells me that I’m home. When I pass the ‘text stop’ on this section of road, I mourn the old terminology. There’s something about a ‘scenic overlook’ that acknowledges that the view in front of you is, indeed, spectacular. Worth putting down your phone, at the very least.

If you’re a local, you know that Shawangunk is pronounced ‘Shon-gum,’ but the correct pronunciation is irrelevant when referring to the mountains, which are affectionately called ‘the Gunks.’ I grew up in a place where names overlap, and it behooves one to know the difference between a town, a village, and a hamlet. I once tried to explain to my husband that the Town of Wallkill and the Hamlet of Wallkill are not, in fact, the same thing. When I tried to point out that the Hamlet of Wallkill is actually in the Town of Shawangunk, I’m quite sure he stopped listening.

I moved away from my hometown in 1997, and I’ve reached a point where that was more than half a lifetime ago. I’ve become accustomed to the quirks and foibles of a new place. I can easily navigate a rotary or direct a student to the nearest bubbler. I know how to pronounce Worcester and bang a uey and, much to my dad’s chagrin, I am a passionate Patriots fan.

I don’t go home very often. The reasons are myriad and valid but still a bit lacking. Truth be told, going home is so, so very complicated. Every time I attempt it, I encounter a barrage of unexpected emotions. And every time I leave, I am exhausted from the effort it takes to feel so many feelings.

My anxiety has helped me to pay attention to the cues I get from my body. I know what anxiety feels like. Anxiety is in my gut and my shoulder blade and at the base of my skull. When I go home, the feeling is different. It’s in my chest. And it’s not a tightening; it’s an expansion. My breaths are deep and my lungs fill completely and it’s like my body is trying to make room for all of the emotions that come flooding into my heart. Time slows down. In the moment, I can’t separate the feelings. They tangle into a knot, expanding and contracting as the positive emotions tug against the negative ones and my slow, struggling brain tries to keep up with the barrage.

The physical environment itself evokes emotion. There is the unsettling knowledge that I’m driving down a road that I could navigate with my eyes closed, and yet, off to the left, there’s an entire neighborhood that sprouted in my absence. I imagine the irritation of the driver behind me as I speed up around the familiar curves, only to slow to quickly at an unfamiliar traffic light that’s likely been there for a decade or more. The homes and the stores and the views have changed, but the earth and the hills and the roads still feel like a part of me. Maybe it’s a primal sort of response, but those mountains make me feel protected.

Tangled up with noticing the space around me, I’m also flooded with memories that bring their own emotions along. There’s a pang of regret when I realize that I don’t know if my fourth grade best friend’s parents still live in that house. There’s palpable relief as I recall the time I wrapped my car around that telephone pole and lived to tell the tale. I recall childhood bike rides with fondness and grieve a bit that my kids probably won’t ever know what it feels like to pack a backpack and pedal for hours to meet up with a friend on the other side of ‘town.’ Every turn, every scent, every change in scenery prompts a long-forgotten recollection and I wonder if this happens to everyone.

I think about my friends who still live here. There’s no way they deal with this deluge of memory on a daily basis; they wouldn’t be able to function. Does constant exposure create a sort of numbness? Or perhaps the act itself, the leaving, has created a response in me that simply doesn’t exist for them. Regardless, I look at these strong, beautiful, resilient women. I see their families and their careers and their homes and I can’t reconcile their growth against this background that my brain has relegated to childhood in perpetuity.

As I drive through this place, I feel surprise, regret, peace, and guilt in rapid succession. I wonder, for a brief moment, if all of these feelings are rushing back with an adolescent intensity because I have never been an adult in this place.

My visit is all I hoped it would be. I reconnect with old friends and it is truly joyful. These women help me to remember who I once was and to find her deep within who I am.

If I peel back the layers, I find a shy first grader waiting for the bus. I find an awkward seventh grader with her nose in a book. I see a clueless teenager who thinks she knows it all. I uncover a tentative twenty something writing lesson plans for her first classroom. I see a beautiful bride, optimistic about the future. A new mother, overwhelmed and exhausted. A tearful woman, making hard choices for her family.

This visit to my hometown was good for my soul. But as I drive back East on that same stretch of I-84, it occurs to me that ‘home’ means something different now.

Home is a small white cape with a stream running by. Home is a bunch of kids and too many pets and the comfort of my husband’s arm around my shoulder. It’s a community of family and friends and neighbors. It’s backyard barbecues and baskets of laundry to fold and boating on the lake in the summertime. Home is bathroom renovations and sick tummies and cuddling in front of the fireplace on a snow day in January.

This new home is the culmination of the experience of all of my iterations. And it is beautiful and messy and complicated and perfectly, purely, joyfully mine.

 

 

 

 

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Parenting

There is a family that recently left our church. I knew them well enough to feel sad when they went. But then I heard a rumor. I heard that something was said about “the transgender kid” when they decided to leave. I don’t pretend to know the details, and I know how the church rumor mill can churn out dramatic misinformation, so I took all this with a grain of salt… until I recently ran into the mom at the dentist. When I said hello, she barely made eye contact and mumbled her reply, and that was all the confirmation I needed.

I wasn’t friends with these people, per se. Our kids got along. We chatted at coffee hour. She works at the school that my trans son attends, so we had some conversational common ground. She knew about my son’s transition. She had a lot of questions about it, and she wasn’t shy about asking. Maybe that should’ve been a sign, but I didn’t see it.

I’ve said before, when people ask questions and I feel like they’re sincerely trying to understand, I answer. I answer honestly and a little vulnerably and I pray that I’m speaking to someone who truly wants to understand. Today, that makes me feel naïve.

We’ve lived in this amazing bubble of support and encouragement. I’m not ignorant enough to believe that everyone supports our family. I’ve read the ‘comments’ sections on enough advocacy articles to know that there is indescribable vitriol (even, perhaps especially, toward children) around this issue.

So when I hear your comments about a ‘man in a dress’ or see your fear-mongering ‘bathroom bill’ memes with no basis in fact, I know what I’m up against. I can choose whether to educate or disengage. I know what I’m dealing with.

But in the context of friendly, curious conversation at an open and affirming church, I’m not ready. I’m not prepared with my ‘mama bear’ costume and my fierce advocacy. Sadly, I’m learning that I should be.

I’m going to admit something here. As with ALL parenting, none of us is equipped with an answer book. We don’t have the instruction manual for children, and we couldn’t ever develop one because all children are different. Those of us raising transgender children? We’re the same as you.

We have questions and fears and worries. We see our children through their joy and their sorrow. We recognize their beauty and individuality. We worry about them. We celebrate with them. We love them with a love that is fierce and unwavering. We call ourselves ‘mama bears’ and ‘papa bears.’ Those of us who are Christian believe that our children are fearfully and wonderfully made in the image of God.

But there is something different about parenting children such as ours. In the general parenting community, there is room for questioning and doubt. There is room for exploration and uncertainty. Differences in opinion are abundant, but each person’s parenting experience is inherently validated by the conversation.

When you find yourself parenting a gender-variant (gender non-conforming, transgender, agender, non-binary, or any variation on the theme) child, you quickly realize that the validity of your experience as a parent is not assumed. You’re not given the benefit of the doubt, because….

– Maybe they really wanted a girl/boy.

– They must be hippie freaks.

– Someone just needs to lay down the law.

– Kids can’t make these kinds of decisions.

– Who is running things over there, anyway?

– Why can’t they just be gay?

– Biology is biology.

– They’re just trying to push their liberal agenda.

 

I could go on, but you get the point. Those of us parenting these ‘gender diverse’ children aren’t assumed to be competent or sane. Before we can engage in any conversation, we have to prove that we are rational, intelligent people. Then we can move on to explain that no one knows our children like we do. Once we’ve established these two things, we typically have to justify our decision to ‘allow’ our children to transition. Reasons such as, ‘she twice attempted suicide’ or ‘he’s been asking when he’ll get his penis since he could talk’ are generally accepted as valid. ‘She’s always loved dresses’ might convince some. ‘They’ve never identified as a boy or a girl. They prefer neutral pronouns’ will likely be scoffed at.

When parents of transgender children have doubts, we know better than to bring them out with us in public. We know what happens when WE seem uncertain. Our credibility is challenged. Our decisions get discredited. Our fear is exploited, and sometimes, our children are attacked. So we don our bear suits. We fight for our children to be treated with respect. We fiercely and passionately share the reality of loving someone so beautifully vulnerable. We fight and we beg and we demand. We stand by our decisions because NOBODY knows what is best for our children better than we do.

We are lucky enough to live in the age of the internet, and we’ve connected with each other. We know we are not alone. So we bring our fears and doubts, our ‘inappropriate’ questions, our grief, and our uncertainty to support groups- both online and in real life. In those spaces, we ask our hard questions and share our vulnerability. We share the science and question the research and pass along resources. We console the grieving and advise the questioning and generally help each other through this unique parenting experience. In those spaces, we’re assumed be sane, loving parents who just want the best for our children. Just like everyone else.

Our children are not a threat. Not in school, not in church, and not in a public restroom. Our children are beautiful, vulnerable, and unique. Just like yours.

 

 

 

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Organized

I have no fewer than seven ‘junk drawers’ in my house. That’s not counting the 4 cabinets and six baskets where I shove things when I’m frantically trying to make my house presentable. I can’t be the only one. I USED to be a neat freak; it was the defining characteristic of my childhood. I say this as if it might redeem me in some way. Maybe you’ll judge a little less harshly if you know that I was once an expert at organizing.  But things have changed.

I can never find a freaking pair of scissors. They belong in a cup of writing utensils in the game room of my house. But I’ll be damned if I can ever locate them when they’re needed. They’re in my kids’ room. They’re in the dining room. They’re with the wrapping paper. They’re in any one of my seven junk drawers. So, this Christmas, I bought three pairs of scissors at the dollar store. I was NOT going to be searching my house for scissors on top of everything else.

When you go out and buy something you KNOW you already have in your home, just so you don’t have to look for it, that’s a sign that there might be a problem. This chaos in my home is a source of embarrassment. I might even call it shame, which seems likely to be an overstatement, but it’s not.  The feeling is intense.

Rationally, I know that a drawer full of crap doesn’t make me any less valuable as a human, but people judge.  People judge appearances; the appearance of my home is (unfairly) a reflection upon me (not my husband- don’t get me started on that).

Then it makes sense that I want it to LOOK organized, even if ‘organized’ isn’t something I’m capable of at the moment. So I shove things in drawers.

I can’t even blame the kids for this. It’s their junk, yes. But I’m the one who shoves it into drawers and baskets and cabinets. I’m the one who takes all of these innocuous items and crams them into unseeable spaces to be forgotten.

The point of this story is that I finally went through all of these catch-all spaces in my house. Yesterday, I emptied the three baskets of random crap in my bedroom. I picked through all of the tchotchkes in the coffee table drawers. I cleaned out the junk drawer(s). I cleaned out the desk. I rearranged furniture and cleared out a bookshelf. The evidence of my hard work can mostly be found in three huge trash bags in the garage.

Today, my son was able to locate an envelope, stamp, and scissors without blinking and said, “I like this new ‘organized’ thing you’re doing mom.” For now, it feels pretty good. But I’ve been at this long enough to know that it won’t last forever. So when the drawers get full and the scissors are missing AGAIN, I will remind myself that the cleanliness of my house is not a measure of my worth.

But for now, I’m going to enjoy the fact that all 13 pairs of scissors reside in one drawer.

 

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Writing

I can’t write. I’ve been trying for weeks. I’ve started approximately eleven different blog posts, and they all fizzle in the second paragraph and I can’t quite remember where they were supposed to go. My emotions ping-pong from my heart to my head and then ricochet to the base of my neck before they settle into my gut. And the feelings move so fast that I can’t identify them. What’s that twitch in my left eye? Fear? I can breathe in peace and beauty for a second before a pause converts it to worry. I laugh joyously for a moment. Then two. Then ten. I am on a roller coaster of my own making. I seek peace and then I am bored. I crave activity but battle exhaustion.

Some of this is the holiday season. Some of it is my natural state. Some of it is my body’s response to my missing routine. Summer vacation feels this way, too. The ying-yang balance between accomplishment and relaxation has eluded me for my whole life. I want to be able to relax and enjoy things and I crave a feeling of achievement and productivity.

I resentfully clean the house while my husband relaxes on the couch, chiding, “Will you just SIT DOWN for a minute?”   He’s right. I hate it when he’s right.

So what next? I don’t really know. I don’t have a happy ending or a neat little bow to wrap this one up. I have this niggling sense that I need to do something differently, but I’m not quite sure what that is.

So here’s what I’ve done. Tell me what you think.

#1. I’ve hired someone to clean my house twice a month. This is supremely uncomfortable for me, but I have many friends who claim this small action has saved their sanity.

#2. I’ve visited the library. I can’t always write, but I can ALWAYS read. I’ve checked out 8 books in the past two weeks, and I’ve only got 3 to go. Reading centers me in a way that nothing else really does.

#3. I accepted the invitations for Christmas brunch and dinner with friends. I hesitated at first, but 20/20 hindsight tells me it was an excellent decision.

#4. I went sledding with the kids, even though it was 8 degrees outside and I really didn’t want to. Turns out, we had a blast.

#5. I am currently binge-watching “Stranger Things” with my eleven year old. This is totally NOT my genre, but there’s some serious bonding happening over conversation about a fantasy realm that nobody else in the family understands.

And here’s what I think I still need to do:

#1. Buy a lottery ticket. Because, hey, you never know.

#2. Get a therapist. Seriously; I’d love your recommendations.

#3. Meditate more.

#4. Laugh. Play stupid games. Cuddle these kids.

#5. Give it to God.

You know what’s crazy? I ALREADY KNOW how this works. I know that stressing about money doesn’t fix money problems. And inexplicably, faith and a perception of abundance have always been more effective at helping to relieve that burden. The same goes for my relationships. When I try to impact how others perceive me, I become less appealing. Believing in my own worth fills me with a spark of joy and purpose that is so much more attractive. When I worry about being productive, I become frozen with anxiety, but when I have faith in my own purpose, I can accomplish so much!

The title of this blog came from the quote, “Inhale grace. Exhale your gift.” For me, this is always the solution, even when I lose sight of it. Sometimes it feels overly simplistic; maybe it even sounds trite. But when I breathe in purpose and strength and grace, I can use that to find and feel and focus on my gift. I can remember how to be exclusively and beautifully ME, and how to share that gift with the world.

I sat down to write today, not sure it would go anywhere. I stopped worrying about being funny or insightful or sharing a story. I sat down to write because I needed to express something. The proof is in the pudding, I guess. Inhale grace. Exhale your gift. Thanks for reading.

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Christmas Shopping

It is December 21st, and I keep hearing about ‘last minute shopping’ on the radio and TV commercials. For the record, my idea of ‘last minute shopping’ is driving around on Christmas morning trying to find an open gas station that sells gift cards. Until I reach that point, I am not conceding to the ‘last minute’ message. I am not succumbing to panic. I have DAYS. To be exact, I have 4 days. 96 hours. 5,760 minutes. I have PLENTY of time.

On my way home from work, I will get to CVS for stocking stuffers. Later tonight, I will email gift cards to out-of-state relatives while I sip a glass of wine. Sometime tomorrow, I will stop at Walmart for underwear and socks. OF COURSE it’s a busy time of year. OF COURSE the budget is stretched thin. OF COURSE I feel pressured to get a million things done.

In the past weeks, I have missed the fundraiser deadline, skipped the football banquet, forgotten the electric bill, and lost important meeting notes. I have been too lax about screen time and too angry about dirty laundry. I skipped Christmas cards entirely, and I still haven’t made the goddamned cheesecake.

But last night I taught my boys to play blackjack. It was fun and silly and totally enjoyable. My husband and Bea went to church to rehearse a song that they’re singing together at the Christmas Pageant.  I heard it was beautiful, and great for the two of them to have some time to connect.  Once everyone was in bed, my husband and I met some friends for a few drinks and an impromptu double date. There were both tears and laughter, and for a little while, I forgot about the endless tasks and the lengthy shopping list and the jam-packed calendar.   I let go of the pressures of the holiday season.

And I realized that, ultimately, I get to decide whether these things are the center of my holidays or just the frame.   I can choose whether I am frantic or focused. I can decide what my priorities are. I can choose whether I contribute napkins or elaborate reindeer-faced cupcakes to the class party. I can decide whether dinner is home made or takeout. I get to determine if my gifts will be elaborately wrapped or stuffed into gift bags. I can choose whether to perceive scarcity or abundance. I can choose to focus on my failures or celebrate my successes.

Today, I’m choosing to celebrate. Most likely with takeout and wine, and who knows…. Maybe even with cheesecake.  🙂

 

 

 

 

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Cheesecake

When I was a young, single woman just out of college, my roommate received a springform pan as a gift, and she asked me, “Haven’t you always wanted one of these?” The answer was a definite NO, because I didn’t even know what this thing was. For those of you who share my ignorance, a springform pan is a type of cake pan with removable sides. Mostly, these are used to make cheesecakes, but they’re useful in other types of baking scenarios as well.

The thing is, I’ve always been a really crappy baker. I don’t like directions and recipes and measuring things. The terminology always seemed confusing and pretentious. What’s the difference between ‘fold’ and ‘gently stir?’ When you’re told to mix, do you need a mixer, or might a spoon be sufficient? Why do things need to be ‘sifted together?’ Would the whole thing be ruined if I sifted them apart, out of spite?

So back when I was a youthful, tequila-shooting, pool playing, waitressing 24 year old, I decided that I would never need a springform pan. And for the most part, I haven’t.

Granted, I’ve changed a bit since then. Now I’m more of a middle-aged, coffee chugging, story reading, boo-boo kisser. The thing is, I am still decidedly NOT a baker. It’s a joke in my house. If it requires measurement or a recipe or any sort of ‘leavening agent,’ I’m out. I can mess up a cake mix from a box, and if a recipe requires me to sift anything, I will inevitably ruin it.

But, I need to make a confession. My husband will attest to this. At least twice a year, I come across an online recipe that I get excited about. Most often it’s a form of cheesecake topped with some sort of decadent chocolate. I swoon and salivate, and click on the recipe… only to find that it requires (you guessed it) a springform pan. Which (of course) I DO NOT OWN.   I mourn the loss of possibility. I consider buying a turtle cheesecake from the local supermarket. I keep scrolling, with the goal of finding a cheesecake recipe more suited to my own limited abilities. These recipes are often sad substitutions, mixed into pre-made graham cracker crusts and lacking the luscious appeal of a treat created in a spring form pan.

“But,” I remind myself, “You are NOT a baker. You do not NEED a springform pan. You KNOW YOURSELF. Why would you spend money on a kitchen tool that is so obviously out of your league?” I’ve been having variations of this conversation in my head and also with my husband for approximately ten years. You do not need to point out how pathetic this is. I’m aware.

So the last time I encountered such a recipe (apple cheesecake with a pumpkin crust), it was the night before Thanksgiving. And I shushed that little voice in my head. I told her that I was going to check Home Goods for a springform pan while I was shopping that night. I wasn’t sure I’d find one, and I had no idea how much it would cost, but I committed to checking it out. So I did.

My inner monologue sounded like this: “They probably don’t even have one. They’re probably like 50 bucks. Oh, shush. Just look. It can’t hurt to look. Yep. Just as I thought, they don’t have…. Oh, wait. There’s one. No, there’s like ten. Wait, there’s a whole SHELF of these damned things?”

Ladies and Gentlemen, do you know how much a springform pan costs? I’ll spare you the suspense- $5.99. LESS than SIX DOLLARS.

I bought me a springform pan. I almost bought two. After ten years of agonizing over this purchase, I practically skipped out of the store. I called the hubs. “Guess what I bought?” I didn’t even wait for him to guess. “A spring form pan!”

“It’s about damned time,” he replied. Because I know him so well, I could hear the enthusiasm straining behind his exasperation. He wanted cheesecake, too.

I brought home my brand new pan. I set it in the cabinet, excited to put it to use the very next day. I stocked the pantry with the necessary ingredients and dreamt of cheesecake.

That was twenty-three days ago. The pan is still in the cabinet, and the ingredients are still in the pantry.

It turns out, I do know myself. I haven’t yet used my new purchase. I like cheesecake in the abstract, and I love the idea of making my own. It just hasn’t reached the top of my to-do list just yet.

But something beautiful has happened. I learned to shush that Negative Nelly whispering in my ear about all that I cannot do. I have now become the kind of person who believes in my own potential. Watch out world. I’m going to turn all that doubt into something delicious.

And I could make a cheesecake AT ANY MOMENT.