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Admiration

My father never passes a stranded motorist on the road. He stops to help. EVERY. TIME. The man has a heart of gold, and automotive skills to match.

I have a friend who consistently mails out her Christmas cards on the day after Thanksgiving. They contain beautiful, professional photos of her kids, and are mailed using festive holiday stamps. I am baffled and inspired by this.

One close friend is a single mom to two kids, one with Autism. She is gentle, full of love, and also a fierce advocate. She is one of the strongest people I know.

I have a sibling who manages to coordinate a ‘family gift’ from eight siblings to our parents every year. Her organization is admirable and her patience is endless.

A friend from church consistently makes meals with ingredients I can’t name. She tries not to use the same recipe twice, and her entire approach to food leaves me awestruck. She is equally savvy about wine, and I am so grateful to be able to learn from her. And drink with her.

Several close family members live life with depression and anxiety. I’ve watched them develop strength and grace and self-awareness that astounds me.

My mother in-law has an incomparable sense of style. With random yard sale knick knacks and a little spray paint, she can turn any room into a showpiece. Her home is magazine worthy and once all of these small-ish people move out of my home, I hope she’ll teach me all she knows.

My husband has a voice that literally brings people to tears. Last week, he sang the communion hymn at church, and even our pastor got weepy.

I had an aunt who never forgot a birthday. Like, ever. And she sent a card, snail mail, every single year. I still have them in a box, and I can hear her voice from heaven when I re-read them.

I have several sisters who don’t take any crap from anybody. They learned this from my mom. They are all strong, independent women, and they stand their ground even when it gets uncomfortable. I call them when I need a pep talk. Or someone to call the cable company for me.

Other friends make beautiful handmade gifts. Some consistently and gently have difficult conversations with their kids.   Some home-school. Some run marathons. Some play instruments. Some volunteer with the homeless.

This list could go on for days. I look at the people I love and I see so many gifts. I could tell you something admirable about everyone I know.

But admiration has its down side. Noticing what’s amazing about others sometimes compels me to judge myself. I take the gifts and achievements of my loved ones and hold them up as a standard to be met. I look at what I lack and I analyze myself in comparison to all of these incredible, talented, gifted people. And I forget that each of them, too, is innately flawed and fallible. The thing is… every single one of these people doubts themselves. EVERY. SINGLE. ONE.

As we move into this holiday season, as we each attempt to do our best to move through Advent with an open heart and a joyful waiting and a sense of perspective, let’s be gentle with ourselves and celebrate the gifts of those around us.

When you get that beautiful card from your friend, just enjoy it. Let her know how much you admire her. And mail your card cobbled together with individual shots because the kids won’t all look at the camera at the same time. Or send New Year’s cards. Or skip it all together. The world won’t end.

When Facebook shows you another creative “Elf on the Shelf” shenanigan (and your elf hasn’t moved in three days), congratulate your friend. Laugh at the silliness.  And keep the ‘elf crutches’ on hand for the next time you forget about the little guy.

When you forget to send the holiday napkins to school or wind up stopping for another last-minute gift card at a gas station, take a moment to remember what YOU do well. Somebody out there admires YOU. Pause for a moment to remember why.

And if you’re searching for a special holiday gift this year, find a way to let YOUR people know what you admire about them. It’s perhaps the most meaningful gift of all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Hostess

I’m totally in my element when I’m hosting a party. Whether it’s cocktails and crudité, football and chili, or pizza and piñatas, I get geared up to be the hostess.

When I was in college, my friends would come to visit me in my little rented cottage on the lake. I’d host dinner parties with lasagna and chicken parmesan and red wine, which was a huge step up from the ramen and cheap vodka we were so used to, and my friends exclaimed, “Girl, you’re so… domestic!” I still get together with those girls and our gaggle of kids and I’m reminded of how far we’ve come.

After college, I rented an apartment on my own, just outside of Boston. It was a beautiful apartment, but I was living on my own in a new city and I didn’t know a soul. I was five weeks into my first year of teaching (and my first year of adulting), and I didn’t really have any friends yet. It was time for parent-teacher conferences, and my new apartment was less than a mile from the school where I worked. So I decided to host a dinner party for my colleagues, between 3:00 when school got out, and 5:00 when conferences started. I set up a buffet table, complete with foil pans and sterno burners. Over ziti and meatballs, I made lifelong friends.

At that same apartment, I began the short-lived tradition of the “End of the Year Luau.” The luau was definitely NOT a dinner party. It was a full-on boozy bash replete with cheap inflatable decorations and plastic ‘coconut’ bras from the Oriental Trading Company. There were cheesy party games that nobody wanted to do but everybody enjoyed; in the morning there were people passed out on every soft surface and my potato chip bowl was halfway down the block in the middle of the street. The second year I hosted this, my landlord stopped by. I was terrified. He laughed at the look of panic on my face and asked for a margarita. The third year, I was pregnant, and my friends repurposed all of my cheap decorations. The Luau took the form of a baby shower. Times they were a-changin’.

There have been so many parties since; first birthdays, housewarming parties, New Year’s bashes, Superbowl parties. Some guests appear in each and every memory; old friends who have moved with me from tequila shots to chicken nuggets. Some of the faces were cherished for a season; friends who were close for a time and then lost touch. Some have been tragically lost, through accidents or illness. Some of the faces have evolved from children to adults; the time passes so quickly.

But these memories help me to hold each of these people in my heart. I can hear their laughter and remember their stories and revel in the fact that we experienced joy together.

That’s what hosting a party is for me. Sure, there’s the frantic cleaning and cooking. There might be some shouting at the kids to clean up the dog doo in the yard and get their laundry out of the bathroom. I’m lucky to be married to a rockstar host who busts his butt to make sure that the house looks great and there’s plenty of food and our guests feel at home.

But there comes a point when people arrive and there’s no time left to clean or cook. Friends offer a hand and the drinks get poured and the food gets served and the party begins. The laughter reverberates. The kids begin to run and shout and spill and crash and the adults dish up pasta and referee arguments and sip on wine and tell stories. And those moments are reserved for enjoyment. There are no bills to be paid or calls to be made or papers to be graded. There will be no vacuuming or folding or dusting. There is a simple objective in that moment- to enjoy each other. We appreciate the talents and quirks and passing stages of our friends and family. We remember that we are loved and we have people to love.

In my mind, that’s the purpose of a party. It reminds us to stop taking ourselves so seriously and to be grateful for our abundant gifts. It reminds us to pause and be joyful.

 

 

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Grateful

My heart is bursting today. It’s full of gratitude and love but also an achiness. As always, there’s a niggling feeling. It rests in the base of my right shoulder blade and emanates from my gut. I know this feeling all too well. It’s fear. Anxiety. Worry. It’s my lizard brain, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Even as I try to relax into the contentment of this day, it doesn’t go away.

I love Thanksgiving. It’s my favorite holiday, by far. There’s the obvious; the family, the food, the pie…  But I also love this day for its focus; a whole day centered around gratitude. And gratitude is the only thing that ever makes the worry go away. A warm shower, a long walk, a good book, a cup of tea, a glass of wine, even the Ativan; those things help me to soothe myself, but they don’t get at the source of the fear.

The most repeated phrase in the bible is, “Be not afraid.” The good book addresses our human tendency toward fear and worry over and over and over again. I know that I’m not alone in my anxiety… all of humankind knows the feeling. Love and fear wage battle in our hearts and minds, in our relationships, in our politics. No one is immune.

But maybe not all of us know the same degree of worry and fear. I can only assume some of us are naturally more anxious than others, in the same way that some of us are naturally taller or more eloquent or artistic or handy. And as I’ve gotten older, something amazing has happened. I’ve actually become grateful for the anxiety. It is one of my many God-given gifts. The anxiety is part of my core, and when it’s not consuming me, it fuels me. This fear has taught me gratitude. It has taught me patience and compassion. It has taught me the skill of self-care and frequently reminds me of its importance. It has opened my eyes to the vast range of human experience and has helped me to adjust my perception of others’ pain.

So this year, instead of fighting the anxiety, I’m embracing it. I’m surrounding it with gratitude and love. I’m bringing it to our celebration, along with my husband’s amazing voice, my son’s sense of humor, my other son’s gentle heart… I’m offering it to be shared with those who love me. On this Thanksgiving day, I am grateful to have loved ones with whom to share my blessings and my burdens. I am thankful to be able to bring my whole self to the table, and I wish the same for all of you.

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All the feelings….

Yesterday, I felt ALL the feelings. Do you ever have those days? Maybe my emotions were just particularly close to the surface; maybe the day’s events were just more intense than usual. Regardless of the reason, the journey through all of these emotions left me feeling reflective. And tired.

Here’s my day, in emotions:

Joy, pride, excitement. My youngest was eager to participate in our town’s “Turkey Trot.” He ran in the kid’s fun run; we had never participated before and weren’t sure what to expect. Even with a few unexpected twists, he was positive and enthusiastic and persistent. I loved having the chance to spend this one on one time with him. My baby is growing up so fast.

Gratitude, admiration, love. After a bit of guinea pig drama this week, it was decided that Lee would work with his dad to build a new and improved pen for them. There were power tools and male bonding and an awesome finished product. Watching my husband and son work together on this project made my heart swell. I’m grateful to be married to such a wonderful man and father, and I love watching my son look up to him as he grows into the young man he is meant to be.

Faith, peace, joy. Sometimes it’s hard to get our daughter to emerge from her room for long enough to spend a little quality time with us. Today, Bea requested that I pick up chocolate chips at the grocery store. I did her one better and got M&Ms, which she turned into homemade cookies, which she then turned into ice cream sandwiches. This kid rocks. Working alongside her, I had a moment to admire her persistence, her ingenuity (we left the mixer at church), and her grace. Every day she becomes more and more a part of our family, and every day I thank God for bringing her to us.

I spent the afternoon cooking, cleaning, and enjoying my family, with an overwhelming feeling of peace and contentment. And then there was a shift. About halfway through our cookie-making, I got a call from my Aunt.

Anger, grief, loss. A little history: My Grandpa passed about 7 years ago, and after that, we weren’t often in touch with his wife. It was a strained relationship. Well, sadly, his wife just passed, and our family didn’t know. The contents of my mother’s childhood home were being emptied into a large dumpster in front of the house. My Grandpa’s fireman’s jacket was in there; my Aunt pulled it out. Likely, his dogtags and my Grandma’s antique clock, and their old 45s were also in that dumpster. It was a sad moment. All those memories had been tossed like so much trash, and we were grieving the loss of my grandfather all over again.

Fear, panic, shock. My sister called me, on my husband’s phone. This was a bad sign. I got on the line, and she was obviously upset. “It’s Dad,” she said, and my heart stopped. I couldn’t breathe. I mentally replayed our last conversation. I had a brief, terrifying moment of imagining the rest of my life without my Dad in it. And then, about ten years after those first two words, she finished her sentence. “He’s okay, but…” I started to breathe again. He was in the hospital, but it wasn’t his heart. He was conscious and strong and getting IV fluids and he was going to be fine. But that infinitesimal moment was enough to shake my world and leave me feeling unsteady.

Helplessness, heartache, love.   I was still reeling from that call when I got another call, this time from an old friend. This woman has dried my tears, held my hair back after too much tequila, laughed with me until we cried, and seen me through some of my hardest times. She was my college roommate and is still one of my dearest friends. And now she’s in pain. She’s struggling to get through something immeasurably hard and I want to hug her and fix it for her and say all the right things. But all I can really do is listen and love her. So I send her all of my strength and love through the phone lines and I remind her how cherished she is and I pray with all my might that this paralyzing grief will end for her because she desperately needs to feel joy again.

As I sat with my friend and my family heavy on my heart, my son approached me. “Hey, mom. Can we make those pilgrim hats now?” And now it was my moment to find joy again. As we cut and glued and traced and adjusted paper hats for his classmates, I settled back into that same peaceful feeling from this morning, and I started to reflect.

We feel all of these emotions, one at a time. Sometimes we’re enveloped in bliss; others we’re drowning in despair. Each single feeling ripples out to touch another. Sometimes they come at us in rapid succession, and some days we wallow in a single emotion until we forget about the existence of others. And while the joy and the bliss and the contentment may sometimes feel out of reach, there’s comfort in knowing that they never disappear. While your grief is ebbing, the tide of joy is still out there, engulfing someone you love. In time, it will be your turn to feel it again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Coyote Food

Today got off to a less-than-stellar start. The Hubs wakes up before me, and one of my least favorite things (besides waking up to blaring ACDC while he’s in the shower because he hit snooze instead of turning off the alarm) is when he wakes me up with a morning rant. You see; he has had time to get his day going. He thinks in the shower (…for like 30 minutes. The man doesn’t even have hair. What do you do in the shower for 30 minutes?) Then he’s off and running. Sometimes he’s ranting about work. Other times it’s politics. Sometimes it’s the kids and the mess and the chaos. And so he walks into the bedroom, flicks on the light (kindly shouting “Lights!” first, so I don’t accidentally burn my retinas), and begins to rant…

We’ve been having this conversation for years. I have begged him to please just say “Good morning” and maybe give me a little peck on the cheek, so my day starts with some small pleasantry instead of an angry rant. This may have backfired, because now, when he kisses me and says “Good morning,” I know he’s given a lot of thought to this particular issue; enough to realize he needs to butter me up because shit is about to get real.

This morning, he was justified in his rant. The whole thing involves a poorly planned pet experiment and guinea pig pee on the rug. The man has a definite point. I just need a cup of coffee before I’m capable of formulating a coherent response. Because he wants to feed the guinea pigs to the coyotes in our backyard. I try to support him in all parenting decisions, but this one ain’t gonna fly. Deep down, I know he won’t follow through with this threat, so I’m left with a choice. Do I let him make his empty threats and scare the bejesus out of our kids? Or do I try to talk him down before they wake up? Again, I need coffee for this shit.

When you’ve been married for a little bit, you start to predict your spouse’s behavior. Maybe this is good. Maybe it isn’t. But it’s true. You make an educated guess based on your past experience, and once you’ve been together long enough, your odds of predicting correctly increase exponentially. This morning, I calculated the odds.

The odds of him actually feeding the guinea pigs to coyotes: approximately 0.3%

The odds of him disposing of the guinea pigs in some other inhumane fashion: 0.8%

The odds of him insisting on finding a new home for guinea pigs: 40%

The odds of him following up and actually locating said home: 7%

The odds of him continuing to yell and bitch about the guinea pigs until they die of natural causes: somewhere between 80 and 99%.

So I whisper-yelled at our oldest and told him that he needed to take care of the problem. I may have made him cry a little. I am unashamed of this. I might even be a little proud. Don’t tell anyone. I get him to vacuum and cry at the same time, and it seems like the morning might be looking up. Hubs leaves for work and all the pets (and kids) are still breathing.

On my way to work, he calls me. “I’m sorry about this morning,” he says. I play dumb, “What are you sorry about?” He explains that he’s sorry for waking me up like that (again), and I (of course) reiterate that I HATE waking up like that and then (of course) forgive him. And then we talk about “THE PLAN.” This is where we become parenting rock stars. “So what’s THE PLAN?”

We’re going to make him vacuum every day. Hubs is going to help him redesign the guinea pig play space. It’ll be father-son bonding over Gorilla Glue and 2 x 4s. We’re going to work together to help our son feel successful and valued and learn some responsibility. We’re probably going to make some empty threats about selling the guinea pigs. But I promise, there will be no coyotes involved.

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Our Journey

Sound bytes and Facebook memes have served to divide us rather than unite us.  The only real way to change the world is to share our stories. The most powerful way to change hearts and minds is to connect with other humans; to extend grace and love and really LISTEN to one another.

With that in mind, I am putting my very tender heart out into the world. With his permission, I am sharing our son’s story. I have read the ‘comments’ sections of similar stories, and the vitriol is heartbreaking. Knowing that risk, I am still choosing to share this. I choose to believe that painful awareness is greater than ignorant bliss.

Not long ago, our family was invited to a seminar, to speak about Our Journey through Lee’s transition.  This is the talk I shared.

Our journey with Lee began on a February day in a labor and delivery room at Mount Grace Hospital.  At this point in my life, I’ve changed my stance about the whole ‘gender reveal’ thing, but at the time, we already “knew” we were having a girl. We had a bit of a rough start, but after a few days, we went home with a healthy little bundle of joy swaddled in a pink blanket.

This baby was born into a family that consisted of the two of us and two older stepbrothers. A few years later, we added a fourth little boy to the mix. All of our kids are what teachers dub as ‘active’ and ‘conversational.’ I’m a special education teacher, so I know that really means, “your kid won’t ever just sit down and zip it.” ADHD runs in the family, but given my profession, I felt pretty well-equipped to handle these particular kids.

Now, I have to pause here and explain my pronoun usage. Looking at this smiling little kid in bathing suits and dresses, it might seem like it doesn’t fit when I refer to this child as ‘he.’ For a while, it was really hard for us, too. We messed up a lot in those first few months. But I’m over the confusion. It took a little bit of time, but Lee is my son. To refer to him as anything other than that disrespects his journey and minimizes his courage.

So… back to the photos. Lee was a pretty typical kid, with a bit of extra energy. In hindsight, there were some signs that I didn’t pick up on.

Potty training was awful.

Dresses were a battle, and tights were impossible.

Also, Lee was never involved in any ‘girl drama.’ This starts super early, and when other mothers would try to intervene on their daughters’ behalf or clarify some perceived slight, I would always be the mom who was out of the loop. I came to realize that it wasn’t that my kid didn’t talk to me… it was simply that he wasn’t bothered by all of this ‘friend drama.’ He’d say things like, “Yeah. We used to be friends. But we’re not anymore. It’s not a big deal.” I thought my kid was amazingly resilient and perceptive. Turns out he’s just a guy.

I love this first day of school photo. I was so excited to pick out that outfit. Lee was not. He insisted… No Pink. No dresses. No ponytails or braids. I compromised in the best way I knew how. Purple frilly shirt and leggings with a headband. I loved it. He tolerated it. Unbeknownst to me, Lee was already raiding his brother’s dresser for more suitable clothing.

As a young child, Lee presented with some emotional concerns. Without getting into too much detail, we had some concerns about self-harm and possible depression. We worked closely with a psychologist, started ADHD medication, and continued therapy to try to help our child develop effective coping mechanisms for stress and anxiety. We had no idea what was really happening.

And then we got to third grade. In third grade, Lee developed a Minecraft obsession, which we totally supported. All of his friends were boys, which was fine with us.

His clothing began to be almost exclusively from the boy’s section, and he wanted to quit girl scouts.

When I probed more about that, he couldn’t tell me why. “But you love animals and art and all the things you do in girl scouts. Why would you want to quit?”

His only reply was… “Mom, it’s GIRL scouts.” I should’ve known then… but I didn’t.

The next big sign was the bathing suit. The summer after third grade, Lee absolutely REFUSED to wear a bathing suit from the girls’ section. He is an animal nut, and he wanted swim shorts with dogs on them. I tried to find dog themed suits in the girl’s section, but nothing was acceptable to him. We finally bought the dog-on-a-surfboard swim trunks and a swim shirt to match.

At this point, I was connecting the dots, but I hadn’t gotten all the way to the end of the picture yet. You’d think I would have finally understood the first time my child said, “Maybe we should just start calling me Lee” but I shrugged that off, too. Ha ha… funny kid.

So then we got to fourth grade.

You can see how he went to school- it was a very androgynous look.  In our town, fourth grade was a new school, with some of the same kids and a whole bunch of new ones. So we sent him off to a new school, totally unaware of what was about to happen.

That evening, when I asked him about his first day of school, he was all smiles. “It was great!” He didn’t tell me much more, and I later realized that he left out one tiny little detail. He had transitioned without us.

When asked about nicknames by his new teacher, he had explained, “My real name is Leah, but I prefer to be called Lee.” It was as easy as that. This androgynous-looking kid had removed a syllable from his name and began living as a boy.

A few days later, he shyly asked if he could talk to me about something. He had a problem in school that day, lining up to come in from recess. He explained to me that the teachers had them line up in a boy’s line and a girl’s line. He went to the boys’ line (I wasn’t yet sure why he’d do that), and got called out by some of the girls from his previous school. He explained that he didn’t like that, and the light bulb finally went off for me.

I asked if he wanted us to call him Lee. I asked if he wanted us to use male pronouns. I asked if he wanted to cut his hair. He asked if we could get rid of all the ‘girly stuff’ in his bedroom. That night, we purged. Everything pink, purple, frilly… he gleefully shoved most of it into a trash bag. He kept a few cherished items to stick in a closet or hand down to his cousin, but there wasn’t any sadness about it.

The next day I met with the school guidance counselor. I was still processing all this myself, and I wasn’t quite sure what to say… but the school was wonderful. The very next day, they got rid of the boy/girl lines coming in from recess. They followed our lead on all of it- the name change, the bathrooms. They worked with us through every step of the transition. Our guidance counselor reached out to our local Safe Schools program and worked closely with their representative to ensure that they were following proper procedures and protecting Lee’s rights. We are so lucky.

And the transition began… First, the haircut. I think we were both a bit nervous. We went to a new place, where he was easily taken for a boy. There were no explanations necessary. When we left, I was amazed at how much that simple thing changed who he appeared to be.

In the next months, he had his first ‘boy’ birthday party. I realized what amazing friends this kid has. He’s been so supported by kids who stick up for him, stand by him, and genuinely enjoy him.

We made an announcement on Facebook, as people do these days. This is actually my all-time most ‘liked’ Facebook post:

“I count my blessings every day. Every day, in subtle or not-so-subtle ways, I am reminded of how incredibly lucky I am. And the thing I am most grateful for is my family. I am blessed to have my husband, who is strength personified. I am blessed to have a home and extended family and friends and four beautiful children. One of those beautiful children came to me, not so long ago, and shared something delicate and heartfelt and beautiful. Leah asked me to start calling her ‘Lee’ and using male pronouns, because ‘she’ wanted to be ‘he.’

And while I can’t say I was surprised, I had to work a little to hold it together. In my head, I cried for the loss of my ‘little girl,’ while my arms held my child and assured him that HE gets to decide who he wants to be. Each of us has that right. I trust that God has made my child exactly as he is supposed to be; perfect in his complexity, in his joy, his intelligence, and his perceptiveness. I am blessed to be able to learn from these amazing kids every day. I am learning the importance of being who you are, of loving with your whole heart, and of being tender and trustworthy. I’m trusting my facebook friends and family to learn these lessons with me (or kindly and quietly ‘unfriend’). If you have any questions, feel free to message me or call. Love to you all.”

Our family and friends responded with love and support and some respectful questions.  We were blessed to have so many people willing to embark on this journey with us.

There was a lot of pronoun confusion in those first few months. We were constantly correcting ourselves and each other. It got to the point that every time I was about to use a pronoun (in reference to anyone), I paused just the slightest, to make sure I was correct.

Photos were hard for Lee. He wanted me to take down all his little girl pictures, and I fought it at first. “But you’re still the same person! Those are our memories!” I didn’t understand until one day, we had a new babysitter. Of course those photos had to come down.

He helped me choose more recent androgynous or boy pictures to replace the old pictures on the wall. It was a hard moment, but a good one.

The changes since transition have been drastic. He’s happier, he’s more outgoing, he’s willing to take risks. He has great friends, and he’s so much more confident.

Especially during the early phases of all this, we all needed a certain level of support. As parents, we were navigating totally unfamiliar territory. When I first found out, I reached out to a friend. She just happened to know another mom who had recently been through it. She asked if she could connect us, and I felt a wave of relief that I wasn’t alone. Our local PFLAG also has a parent support group that was invaluable to me in those first few months. I connected with parent groups on facebook, and we attended conferences, and Lee began to make friends with kids who were just like him. We weren’t alone. We found a great therapist, and learned about Camp Aranutiq. Lee’s time there has had a profound impact on him, and I can’t overstate how meaningful those weeks at camp have been.

Some things remain the same- Our kid is still our kid…

He’s still ‘active’ and ‘conversational.’ His teachers tell me all the time.

He’s still not an athlete, and he still loves theater and drama.

He’s always loved animals….

and our house has become a small zoo. We have two dogs, two turtles, a hedgehog, a guinea pig, and various fish… and on top of that, he spends his afternoons catching turtles and frogs and crayfish in the stream next to our house. He turns over rocks in the woods, looking for snakes and salamanders. He is full of curiosity and he’s the most observant, perceptive kid I’ve ever met.

I’m going to leave you with two photos that (I think) sum up the changes in Lee.

In the spring of 2014, we went Easter shopping at Target. No big deal. I just wanted to grab something decent to wear to church. My husband was there, too, and we were sincerely trying to get him what he wanted. No dresses. Nothing frilly. We just wanted him to grab decent pants and a sweater. Lee was distraught. Everything we showed him was met with disdain. “I’m not wearing that.” It was so frustrating! We wound up grabbing pants and a blue sweater.

I tried about a hundred times that Easter to get a good picture of the boys. This was the best of the bunch. My youngest is trying to get Lee to smile, but he wouldn’t. He was so obviously miserable the whole time he was wearing that outfit. He must’ve asked a hundred times when he could change. I just didn’t understand how clothing could make a person so unhappy. We all have to dress up sometimes. We don’t necessarily like it, but we DO it.

A year later, I finally understood. Easter 2015 was a whole different experience. Lee still doesn’t like to get ‘dressed up,’ but at least now, he’s not trying to be someone he’s not.

 

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Badass

Nothing makes me feel sexier than shooting pool. The hubs and I went out last weekend. We went to a nice restaurant for appetizers, and then we found our way to our favorite dive bar for hot wings and billiards. We shot some pool and listened to a lot of country music and a little bit of really bad karaoke. This is my favorite kind of date.

I started playing pool when I was about 16. The local pool hall was the closest thing to a bar that we could legally frequent, and it made us feel all grown up. We didn’t really know what we were doing, but we were enthusiastic.

Later, in college, I dated a guy who played for money. He taught me how to shoot a decent long shot and put a little English on the cue. I thought I was hot shit. I never really got good, but I played well enough to surprise people. And, God, how I love that feeling. You know; when somebody underestimates you and then you prove them wrong and you get to gloat a little while they rearrange their preconceived notions of who you are? That’s a freaking awesome feeling.

Throughout college, I had a few other little tricks that made me feel kinda badass. I could tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue. I could throw back tequila shots with the best of them. And after college, I acquired my favorite bad-ass accouterment, in the form of a Suzuki Marauder 800. I was officially a biker.

My motorcycle is still my favorite claim to badassery. Just last week, someone saw it in the garage and started asking my husband about “his bike.” To be fair, my husband is the super sexy, muscular, tattooed, shaved head stereotype of a biker. And I LOVED it when he looked at this guy and said, “Actually, that’s HER bike.” Don’t get me wrong. My husband rides. But first he has to ask to borrow my bike.

But I digress. I don’t get a lot of opportunities to feel like a badass anymore. I make a pretty mean chicken pot pie and I’ve been known to kick ass on a Principal’s observation, but it’s not quite the same. I’m a mom and a wife and a teacher. I crochet and go to book club once a month. Granted, I’d probably still be voted, “Most likely to drop an F-bomb at bible study,” but I love my comfortable suburban life, and I think I’m doing things that contribute to my community in a positive way. I’m officially a grown-up. Nowadays, I mostly rock my Honda Odyssey around town. When I’m feeling really risqué, I’ll blast a little Eminem or Pink from the stereo… with the windows down.

And when I really want to feel like hot shit, I challenge my husband to a game of pool.

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Redefined

Who am I? Each of us works our whole lives to cultivate the answer to this question. We want to define ourselves in the context of the world in which we live. We want to separate from some and unify with others. We yearn to be unique, yet are comforted by similarity.

We read books, we travel, we study, we experience, we try new and unfamiliar things; all in an attempt to “find ourselves.” This process of discovery, this becoming, compels us toward a definition of self.

Some of these identities are tried on and discarded. In my younger years, I was a flutist, a hackey-sack player, a choir member. These were dismissed readily and with cause.

Some definitions are worn for a season. Disney fan. Soccer player. College student. Newlywed. We anticipate their passing, even as we reluctantly let them go.

As we grow into ourselves, we develop our personal style; a sense of self that begins to become inseparable with how we present ourselves to the world. I am an intellectual. I am a Christian. I am a mother. I am a teacher.

What about those definitions that we’re not proud of? I am an addict. A victim. A failure. Can we integrate these into our definitions? Or do we bury them and deny them until they become a festering wound?

Regardless of our process, we are defined by our own perceptions of self.   We invest countless hours and days and years into becoming a person, and we cling desperately to our own perceptions. We spend our lives cultivating a persona.

So it’s no wonder that our psyche starts to crumble when faced with cognitive dissonance about our very being. What happens when the very thing we used to define ourselves ceases to be true? What of the executive who loses his job? What of the child who finds himself without parents? What of the parent faced with an empty nest? The devoted wife in the throes of divorce? We all go through a period of cognitive dissonance when we’re forced to redefine ourselves. If you haven’t, don’t worry. You will.

Perhaps equally difficult is the task of revising our perceptions of those closest to us.

How do we resolve the cognitive dissonance of an unfaithful spouse? A Priest accused of the unthinkable? A transgender child?

Do you know what research tells us about people’s responses when confronted with evidence contrary to what they believe? We dig in our heels. We become more adamantly entrenched in our beliefs! We consider ourselves to be rational beings; however, our personal beliefs and opinions are so emotionally powerful that they have the ability to hijack all rational thought. We only begin to shift our perceptions when we can no longer bend the truth to fit our own patterns of thought.

When it finally happens, the shift is seismic.   These types of thought revisions can create immeasurable spiritual pain. How do we move on when we discover a flaw in what we believed to be fundamental truth?

I have to believe that, as we change and evolve, we never go backward. We can’t lose pieces of who we are… those lost definitions and past phases all get rolled into this great big jumbled ball of humanity that is each unique individual. We don’t ever become less… we become more, for better or for worse. We become greater.

So even those traits we’d like to deny; even those mistakes we hate to admit; even those trials we wish we hadn’t faced; each of those becomes a thread in our fabric. The weave becomes stronger and more beautiful. The snags and the pulls and the missed stitches still hold strong together.

And perhaps the most beautiful thing is that each day presents a chance to redefine our selves. Each morning is an opportunity for evolution; for one’s own REvolution. That’s what keeps us growing. That’s what keeps us going. That’s what gives us hope.

 

 

 

 

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Abundance

It’s been one of THOSE weeks over here. You know, the kind of week when you feel like you’re going a million miles an hour and not doing anything WELL? I hope I’m not the only one who has those weeks.

This week, there was a TON of work to be done at work. On top of the usual shaping of young minds and curriculum development and trying to be more interesting than a cell phone video, there was also a ton of meetings and evaluations and paperwork. These things suck the life out of me.

This week, I talked with ALL of the kids’ teachers via email, because my children are amazing, complicated humans with challenges that we should definitely talk about, but please-can-we-have-the-conference-next-week because I do not have the energy.

This week, I spent hours on the phone with doctors and insurance companies. And then I took my amazing, strong, funny, brave kid to a hospital where we spent half our time correcting the staff who can’t get his name right, and then the other half wiping his tears or his vomit or rubbing his back because this damned injection is so painful.

This week, my husband’s truck became unsafe to drive and not worth fixing and I postponed some payments and sold some stuff so we could make a down payment on a new one, and he’s relieved and safe but I wish it didn’t require so much juggling.

This week, I was mean to my husband. The man isn’t a saint, but oh-dear-Lord-he-deserves-a-medal-for-tolerating-me-this-week. Every time he tried to talk to me, I was so anxious/crabby/distracted that I barely responded. Or if I did, it was in single syllables or grunts or tears.

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Today, I got up early and lay in bed, chatting with my husband. I felt the weight of his arm across my waist and his breath on my neck and I thought to myself, “Breathe this in. Notice this feeling of safety and peace. You have this blessing in abundance.”

Today, my son and I spent the morning at the hospital. Then we went out to lunch, just the two of us. We laughed and talked and I thought to myself, “Remember this moment. Remember the laughter, the connection, and the pride you feel. You are abundantly blessed.”

Today, the gorgeous weather called me outside and my hammock called my name. As I lay there, I looked up at the view of the leafless trees and breathed in the fresh air on this oddly warm November day, and I thought to myself, “Save this picture in your mind. This is the soothing beauty and calm of nature. This is available to you in abundance.”

Today, I picked up a package from the post office. My mother sent me a box full of beautiful things that made me smile, and I thought, “You have family who cares for you and loves you unconditionally. You are abundantly loved.”

Today, I got a card in the mail. It was unexpected, from someone I respect and admire, whom I haven’t seen in decades. She reads my writing, and she sent me a gift. I cried as I read her card, and I thought to myself, “You have been supported by amazing people throughout every age and stage in your life. You are abundantly blessed.”

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My biggest anxieties arise from perceived scarcity. There’s always a fear that there won’t be enough; there won’t be enough time, or enough patience, or enough money.

But we live in a world of abundant blessings. Even as I write that, I realize that I sound like a Pollyanna who doesn’t live in reality, but hear me out. When we reach out to others, when we love abundantly and we give generously and we exude gratitude, it impacts the people around us. When we notice each and every simple blessing, it helps us to put things in perspective.

Feeling stressed about getting dinner on the table? Notice the leftovers in the fridge. Or the cereal in the pantry. Be grateful for the abundance.

Feeling impatient with the kids? Notice their lengthening limbs and admire their artwork and listen to them read. Remind yourself that they are blessings. Smelly, loud blessings, but blessings nonetheless.

Worried about the car payment or the cable bill? Pay attention to the clothes on your back and the roof over your head and be grateful for this moment instead of fearing a future that may or may not come to be. And what will happen if they turn off the cable? You’ll have to play board games with your kids and read books and build a fire in the fireplace. It will be okay. They will survive without wifi. Or you can all go to the library. Imagine that!

This shift affects the people around you. When you notice blessings, you become a blessing to others. When you focus on fears and anxieties and worries, you radiate fear and anxiety and worry. It is contagious.

It is also a cycle. I received a lot of blessings today. I will put them to use. I will enjoy them and appreciate them. When the time comes, when it’s my turn, I will pass them on to others, with peace and joy and gratitude.

 

 

 

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Transgender

I had a dream last night. When I woke up, I had some thoughts brewing in my brain, but as I always do, I asked my son if he would allow me to write about his story.

I’m hyper aware that Lee’s story is not mine to tell. The topic is sensitive and personal, and while my son isn’t ‘stealth,’ there are times when he’d rather ‘just be a boy.’ As this is a luxury that eludes many trans people, I like to enable him to access it whenever he feels it’s necessary.

Anyway. It’s been over two years since I started parenting another son instead of the daughter I thought I knew. It’s been two years of seeking resources, finding support groups, researching legalities, and delving in to this community that I never knew existed.

Throughout our journey, we’ve encountered an amazing amount of support and love. Lee has shared his story with other kids, with teens, and with professionals who wanted to learn more about his transition. He has been welcomed and supported in school, in church, at camp, and in the wider community. We’ve been in this little bubble of support and love; for that, I am incredibly grateful.

We made our announcement to family just about two years ago, and I was raised very much in a, “If you don’t have anything nice to say… “ kind of environment. When I shared our experience on Facebook, I asked that our friends and family commit to learning on this journey with us or “quickly and quietly unfriend.” The urge to check was intense, but I never did look to see if anyone ‘unfriended’ me. I guess I didn’t really want to know.

But if I say I didn’t notice a change, I’d be lying. While many of our loved ones expressed support and concern, there were a number of others who responded with radio silence. I choose to interpret this silence as, “We love you. We don’t understand, but we’ll hang around to see how this plays out.” And I respect that. I certainly didn’t ‘get it’ at first. I had to do a lot of reading and a lot of research and a lot of reaching out to learn about the lived experience of others like my child.

Like so many others, I had other pressing issues. I had causes and concerns and fears and they didn’t include the fate or lived experience of transgender people. In all honesty, I don’t think I would’ve sought to educate myself until it became necessary. I don’t know that I would’ve been that concerned or interested in this unique life experience that didn’t seem to connect to my life. I’m ashamed to admit this, and I’m sorry to those who were inherently impacted by my indifference.

Last night, I dreamt I was sitting at a large oak dining table with the family members who have been silent about the topic. They were asking questions and I was so relieved. When people ask questions, they share a vulnerability. I have friends who acknowledge that, “I might say this wrong…” or family members who start an inquiry with, “I hope this question doesn’t offend you…” and I LOVE IT.

There is such a beautiful power to awkward conversations. Sometimes, we’re so afraid of offending people that we bite our tongues, or we hold our thoughts, and consequently, we miss the opportunity to connect with and understand each other. These connections are a blessing, and these awkward conversations are the conduit for them.

So back to my dream. I sat at the table, and I answered questions. I answered them honestly and vulnerably and, at times, I got angry. In this dream, these family members often referred to my child with the wrong pronouns, and I want to explain my reaction.

In the trans* community, there’s a lot of concern and conversation about ‘misgendering.’ When someone refers to another person using the wrong pronouns, parents filter our response through a hierarchy of intent. A supportive person who is legitimately trying and made a mistake is easily forgiven. A loved one who doesn’t quite understand and feels that the pronouns are ‘no big deal’ will likely get a talking to in private. Someone who is openly hostile and dismissive will most likely get the ‘we will not allow you to treat our child with such disrespect’ talk just before the ‘we don’t need that kind of negativity in our lives’ talk. Hell hath no fury like a parent protecting their child.

So, in my dream, I corrected their pronouns. I hoped that my passion and my love for my child would help them to understand the importance of getting this right. And then, in my dream, I endured a series of overtly personal questions. Questions about my child’s genitals. Questions about his sexuality. Questions about his hormones and his pubertal development and our medical decisions. Please, hear me out. I’m an over-sharer by nature. I understand and appreciate curiosity. So if you’re asking me private, personal, deeply emotionally-laden questions about my child’s adolescent development, I will do one of two things. If I trust your sincerity, if I’m convinced of your support; if I have no doubt about your intentions toward my child, I will answer honestly and openly.

If I question your sincerity, your support, or your intentions, and you ask a question about my child’s genitalia, please expect the answer to be, “Would you be comfortable talking with me about your child’s genitals? Would you ask about any other child’s sexual preferences?” If you are about to ask a question that would be inappropriate in the context of talking about any other child of the same age, then please assume it is doubly inappropriate to ask in regards to my transgender child.

This child is amazing. He is brave and strong and funny and smart. He is observant and loving and enthusiastic and positive. He is kind and loving. I have no doubt that this kid will change the world.

A unique life experience means that my child will always have to defend himself in ways that should be unnecessary. It is my hope that each one of these intensely personal, often inappropriate conversations will make him stronger and more self-aware. It is my hope that each of these conversations will provide him with an opportunity to define himself more clearly, to point out hypocrisy, and to demonstrate patience and kindness and love to those who may be hesitant to do the same for him.