Dangling Possibilities

Building happy, healthy families

2012-01-24T18:46:00.000-08:00

TransYouth Family envisions a society free of suicide and violence in which all children are respected and celebrated.

Our family couldn't have done it without TYFA. If you haven't reached out to them yet, then do so. They provide services free of charge for every single family.

They are reaching out to us now to ask for support so they can reach the families and educators that need them, and educate the public and media. Click here. Or here: http://imatyfa.org/permanent_files/contribute.html

Thank you!

Kudos to the New York Times!

2012-01-20T21:01:00.000-08:00

The Meaning of Scouting

Transgender Girl Scouts, Oh My!

2012-01-12T08:11:00.000-08:00

If you're trans and you see a skinny Girl Scout, run!

Last fall a girl scout troop, after controversy, welcomed a seven year old transgender girl to their troop. Now, Taylor, a teen girl scout has launched a campaign to protest by refusing to buy Girl Scout Cookies.

To be honest I haven't listened to much of her video. I know, I'd make a stupid reporter. Guess that's why I'm a blogger. As a mom of a transgender girl who faces discrimination every day, I can't listen. How can people advocate isolating these brave children who assert their identities despite often tremendous opposition, even revulsion? Just the other day Ruthie told me that often in her classes teachers ask their students to choose a partner and that she never gets picked. Poor thing, she wasn't even sobbing like she might have done a year ago; such treatment has become old hat.

It boils down to this: people are inclined to have opinions about things they know nothing about. Think about it, you are, too. One day I'll tell you I'm sure we should get out of Afghanistan, and the next I hear an Afghan man being interviewed begging us to stay. Sure, I'm an advocate for peace on earth, but what do I really know about the situation in Afghanistan? (I don't even know how to define a person from Afghanistan. Afghani? Spell check didn't like that one.)

Let's make a New Year's Resolution to step back from strong opinions based on no knowledge, to ask some questions without judging, to be open to learning. You can bet Taylor has never read anything explaining transgender identity in children. I'd send her first to TransYouth Family Allies.

Meanwhile, try on Plato for size:

As for me, all I know is that I know nothing. Republic, 354c,
(conclusion of book I)

And, if we live by one tenet, it should be:

Be compassionate.

And if we live by two, let's follow the Girl Scout Law:

The Girl Scout Law

I will do my best to be honest and fair,
friendly and helpful,
considerate and caring,
courageous and strong, and
responsible for what I say and do,

and to respect authority,
use resources wisely,
make the world a better place, and
be a sister to every Girl Scout.

Oh, and third,

Buy lots of Girl Scout Cookies!!!

Who cares?

2011-09-07T13:31:00.000-07:00

A lot of people apparently.

We're standing in line at Toys 'R Us. My affirmed daughter is buying a big pink meanie--a Lots-o-Huggin' Bear. Why the bear is popular I do not know as his character is a grumpy traitor on Toy Story 3. In front of us in the check-out line is a man with two little girls sitting in a shopping cart full of toy trucks. "My daughters both love trucks, can you believe it?" I answer simply, "Yes."

A few days later I am at an arboretum. It's full of tree houses and one has a chest with dress-ups inside. A woman is there with two young children, an older girl and a maybe four-year-old boy. He is wearing a knight's chest armor and a pink ballet tutu. "He doesn't usually dress like this," she hurries to say apologetically. "Why would that matter?" I ask.

At my boss's house her visiting cousin jeered at his 6 year-old son who was doing cartwheels, "What? Do you wanna be a cheerleader when you grow up?" He repeated similar comments for a few minutes in vein, clearly angry that his son might enjoy doing whatever he felt was fun. (Presumably he should enjoy whatever his dad thought was fun?)

It's people around us and it's the media, too. Many were in an uproar when J. Crew's President and Creative Director Jenna Lyons sent out an email ad of her painting her son's toenails hot pink. "Lucky for me I ended up with a son whose favorite color is pink." The ad was trying to be inclusive but people across the country were upset about what they labeled her aberrant behavior. Clearly many people across the country think pink is contagious and will make our sons gay.

On the other hand, the characters on Seinfeld hurry to qualify when they deny to a reporter they're gay, "Not that there's anything wrong with that!" Yet when Jerry's father reads the article about his son and believes it, he yells at his wife, "It's those damn culottes you made him wear when he was five....looked like he was wearing a skirt for crying out loud!"

The latest bizarre ad for laundry detergent shows a fifties' style mother in a skirt in a pink room lamenting that her daughter wears dirty camouflage and plays with trucks. She's upset that Tide keeps her daughter's clothing clean.

I still for the life of me can't understand how our society developed such strict ideas of gender roles and why many use violence against those who step outside those roles. More tough a nut to crack is how to work towards a greater acceptance of the gender spectrum. I heard Kevin Sessums, author of Mississippi Sissy, in an NPR interview. He said that because there are actually more gays being comfortably out in society and on TV, they are seen more, and so the haters are nastier. (Update: Janet got hit on the head with an umbrella today at school.) Now we're seeing more trans people too, such as Chaz Bono, son of Sonny Bono and Cher, who is in the new ABC reality show Dancing With the Stars. We talk about our families to let people know we're out there and hope we are keeping them safe by educating rather than putting them in danger.

Who cares? We all should.

How'd she know?

2011-06-09T06:27:00.000-07:00

Three years ago, soon after Janet had transitioned, our then 11 year-old son Connor came with us to the Philadelphia Trans-Health Conference. Leaving the building in his Eagles McNabb shirt he was stopped by a 50 something transwoman who, despite her elegant dress, given her build and facial features, she had clearly transitioned past her youth. She hailed him, "Hey, can you believe McNabb's on the Red Skins now?" Connor wondered, "She's a woman, how could she know so much about football?!"

Gender fears

2011-05-24T09:26:00.000-07:00

My blog was recently found by the search terms "transgender child ruin my life." Ouch. Yet I can relate to the sentiment, at least as far as a first response to what feels like an overwhelming situation. But why? Our fears and stress in this case are primarily based on our worries about "what people will think." Let's consider this. People's reactions aren't proscribed, they are shaped by the cultural norms of society at any given location and period of time.
Imagine, if you will, a society less concerned about a binary gender, one more comfortable with a spectrum of gender behaviors. In fact perception of gender difference varies by regions around the world, and there are some communities that are more accepting than others. For example, on the website, GenderSpectrum.org (which is an amazing resource, check it out!) the Understanding Gender page lists three such societies:

The calabai and calalai of Indonesia, two-spirit Native Americans, and the hijra of India all represent more complex understandings of gender than the simplistic model seen in the west.

Even Iran sanctions gender reassignment surgery (if not homosexuality.) If we step back and think of children expressing any aspect of their identity, without taking into account societal norms, there is only joy in it. (Since I first posted I have found a link to a fascinating map linked to a film project called Two Spirits/A Map of Gender-Diversity.)

While our life has been thrown in turmoil, with the adoption, handling an ADHD child, and gender identity, ultimately we are responsible for how we respond to any given stress. A child can't ruin your life, but you can choose to be in misery by responding only with distress to their situations, by not endeavoring to move on from your initial anxieties. When thoughts of self-pity wiggle into my conscience I remember a parent of a 7 year old I saw at the beach when my children were only 10 months old. Her child was ready to have a tantrum and the mother said, "This is one of those times when you can choose your mood." The child, surprisingly, moved on. It was way more fun to be happy then to be upset by sand stuck to her legs.

Final thoughts:

On Children

Lyrics by Khalil Gibran, Music by Ysaye M. Barnwell

Your children are not your children
They are the sons and daughters of life's longing for itself
They come through you but they are not from you and though they are with you
They belong not to you
You can give them your love but not your thoughts
They have their own thoughts
You can house their bodies but not their souls
For their souls dwell in a place of tomorrow
Which you cannot visit not even in your dreams
You can strive to be like them
But you cannot make them just like you
Strive to be like them
But you cannot make them just like you

Also, here's a great article about how one school taught children gender diversity in animals and humans:

Redwood Heights gender lesson engenders dissent

Questions or subject requests

2011-05-20T05:47:00.001-07:00

Hi everybody. I've had some new viewers recently, so, does anybody have any topics, or life stories regarding Janet, that you'd like me to cover? Does anybody have any questions you'd like me to answer?
All can be answered anonymously. Click "comment" but I filter first, and will not post them.

How the pool spoiled the spa

2011-05-16T12:47:00.000-07:00

It's not every day I get to go to a spa. Few things can be better than a spa weekend in the Catskills with a childhood friend. From yoga and cardio, facials and massages, then steam room and sauna we had it all, not to mention delicious, healthful food. I should have returned home glowing, and I did, for about three minutes. Then I picked up the mail.

Maybe the registered letter was a paycheck--I've recently started two part time jobs. No such luck. I opened it and started shaking. I had instead received a reprimand from the director of the private pool we belong to. He had scheduled an appointment to which I responded, asking for the proposed agenda. Not hearing back, I never showed. As it turns out the agenda was the locker rooms.

Two years ago he demanded that each time Janet visit the toilet/locker room we would have to approach the manager on duty who would escort us, empty the room, then stand guard while our business was done. I flatly refused. When we attempted to use the bathroom for the first time after his requirements, entering was no big deal. When we exited, sure enough a sheepish young manager stood guarding the room. I was furious. Clearly somebody had been appointed to watch our every movement and follow us if we ventured into the bathroom. But my anger soon abated since it turned out nobody bothered us again. Until yesterday.

The registered letter asked that we honor the 2009 agreement to inform a manager to use the bathroom in order to offer us "safety and privacy" as well as assure the "safety and privacy" of other club members. I don't even know where to start. One might suggest we use a family-style changing room, but in this case there is none, not even a staff bathroom. Furthermore, this avoids the question of why it would be necessary in the first place. Here's why his proposal stinks:

Janet is more at risk if she has to be escorted to the bathroom virtually ensuring that she receive unwanted attention. Being singled out is never a safe proposal for a transgender individual.
Privacy is not an issue with the bathroom as each toilet has a door. Any of you women out there ever accidentally see someone's genitals in the bathroom? Ever?
Privacy is not an issue as far as Janet's body. She is more than anxious to keep her body private and would always use a stall.
Privacy is not an issue for those who change in stalls.
Privacy is not really an issue for someone who chooses to undress without a stall. Clearly that person already doesn't care about privacy. (Although I have never seen anybody undress publicly at the pool, reportedly some older patrons are more carefree.)
What about Janet? Isn't she tricking the imaginary carefree undresser by masquerading as a female? Well, no, since she identifies as a girl, although this may be misunderstood by the uneducated.
Does her penis present a threat to others? How so? If so, it is only fair that a genital check be administered at the door to make sure that everybody's genitals--including those of intersex individuals--match their locker room choice. Intersex individuals are not uncommon comprising a similar proportion of the population as redheads.
What is the risk of Janet seeing the carefree dresser? I can only surmise that the pool director imagines that Janet, having a male body, might be sexually attracted to the elderly carefree dresser. (Huh?) This idea assumes that gender identity has anything to do with gender preference. It then leads to the question: should pool members be screened for gender preference and then be directed to the opposite locker room? How would this be implemented? We have to assume that lesbians use the womens' room and gays use the men's room on a regular basis. Is this against pool rules and would these rules be tolerated by the public?
Is Janet a danger as a sexual deviant? Well, no, because she's a 12 year old girl. Besides which, gender identity has nothing to do with sexual deviancy.

I hope all this speculation will be moot. I wrote a brief letter to the director enclosing a copy of Janet's birth certificate which identifies her as a female. It said, among other thins, "As for my daughter there seems to be a misunderstanding. Per the attached copy, she is a girl. I trust there will be no further inquiries into this matter."

Another day in my life as a mom of a transgender child. But, hey, I might have a title to my next book, "The Carefree Dresser." I like it.

I'm no expert...

2011-05-10T11:45:00.000-07:00

I may know more than the Average Joe about transgender issues, but being a part of an LGBTQ family doesn't make me the perfect role model on sensitivity.

Long ago I'd written a post about wearing a dress. I started with the quote:

Just around the corner in every woman's mind - is a lovely dress, a wonderful suit, or entire costume which will make an enchanting new creature of her.
~Wilhela Cushman

I received a comment from a woman chastising me for placing women into such a constricting gender role. Was she not a woman just because she didn't like dresses? Of course she was. Then again, had she read more closely the quote continues to say "a wonderful suit...or...costume." Still, her point was that I of all people, being a mom of a trans girl, should have known better.

I don't. To this day I don't entirely get cross-dressing as a sport, yet cross-dressing falls into the category of "gender variant." It's not that I think it's wrong, I just personally don't want to go to a party, for the sole purpose of seeing drag queens strut around.

One of the first indications that I was off course in understanding gender roles was my new expectations of Janet right after she transitioned socially. I became more scared of letting her walk around town on her own. I cared more about how others thought she appeared, whether her clothes matched or were "in." She would wear her knee socks with shorts or skirts which none of the other girls did. Being a recent arrival to America, she wasn't really asserting a style as much as she just wasn't aware of the local trends. My mom advised that I should let peer pressure do its work: Janet could either listen to them and conform or not care and continue to wear long socks because she liked them. Meanwhile, the boys? I'd let them head out the door with their shirts on backwards.

Janet had her own distorted expectations too. Soon after she transitioned full-time as a girl her younger brother asked her to arm wrestle. She protested saying she wasn't strong enough. Never mind that she has wiry, defined muscles--more so than any of her brothers at the time--and that she'd arm-wrestled when living as a boy, she now was a girl and in her head girls weren't strong. Even after she'd won I had to show her a picture of Michelle Obama's arms to get across my point. On more than one occasion Janet would chide her brother for liking something outside the gender norm. She'd protest something like, "Boys aren't supposed to like Lady Gaga!" I'd begin my tirade, "You, of all people...!" Then again, why couldn't she just be a normal girl and not a LGBTQ feminist?

I cannot cure my boys of the habit of saying, "That's so gay!" when they mean "lame," let alone when they really mean "gender atypical." I cannot cure any of my children from being startled when somebody acts outside the gender norm. While two of my uncles and many of our friends out in San Francisco were gay, we have no (out) gay friends or relatives who enter our homes and our current lives. The older two are still really bothered by the idea of gay people. Knowing this, when during the Grammy's my boys said how boss one of the presenters--Neil Patrick Harris--was, I said, "You know, he's gay."

"No, mom, he's not! You've got him confused!"

I searched Harris on Google and sure enough there was a recent article about how he and his husband had just became fathers of twins. This was very upsetting for them. He was too cool to be gay. Despite our intention of raising our children to be open-minded individuals, the kids seemed to side with their peers.

Then there were the relatives. On a nice day Janet and her friends or siblings used to spend over half their time sparring with sticks. More than one relative asked me how she would ever pass, and was she really a girl based on her manic energy and proclivity for waving long spear-like weapons. Another time, after looking at early photos my mom pointed out that Janet was always delicately raising a pinky or bending her wrist. We took this as more proof she was "really a girl" until Janet told me that when she was five a friend had taught her to do that to look more girlish.

When I dropped Janet off at camp we had a brief meeting among fellow parents and camp counselors. In that touchy-feely way we went around the circle introducing ourselves and explaining our situations. The woman next to me glowed about how her whole family, her transdaughter in particular, had broadened their attitudes and were more aware and sympathetic towards gender variance and anyone considered "different." On my turn I immediately said that in our case this wasn't true.

So sue me.

I walked the labyrinth

2011-03-25T19:25:00.000-07:00

There are those who tell us that our adoption was meant to be, that already having three sons we needed a daughter to complete our family, we just didn't know it; that we were destined to adopt Janet because she turned out to be transgender, and it would have been hard to find another family who would support her; that we can offer her the opportunities she would never experience in China, and so we ended up with her. I am not a believer. In my book fate does not exist, stuff happens. Okay I don't write books, but if I did they wouldn't endorse the concept of fate.

Call me a curmudgeon, a skeptic, or Scully (from the TV series The X Files), but that is who I am.

And yet, one day I walked the labyrinth. I was taking a course based on a popular book that tries to help people overcome creative blocks. While I was inspired by the class, I was not thrilled by the superstitious concepts proposed in the book. Say I'm looking for a couch and I find a perfect one somebody left on the curb. I don't thank the gods. Serendipity is just a happy coincidence, not a message from above, nor from the universe for that matter.

Still, I took my teacher up on her challenge: walk a labyrinth and find answers or enlightenment or something like that. I forget which. The labyrinth I visited is located in one of my favorite places, an arboretum which opens up into a wide expanse of meadow. Despite my skepticism, the walk became a journey of peaceful meditation.

Being designed for all ages, the labyrinth is full of short cuts so the kiddies don't get frustrated. This made staying on the right path more complicated. I started out on a path which quickly appeared as if it might be wrong. Although I was temporarily agitated, I soon realized that going the "wrong" way isn't always a bad thing. It turned I had indeed ended up on a path that was not even connected to the labyrinth, but made it back without any scratches.

The second time I was surely on the right path, yet predictably it wasn't long before I began fretting. With so many short cuts, might I stray from the path I'd finally found? The idea popped into my head that veering onto a tangent path could offer a new perspective. I stopped to look around. Remembering to breathe I took in the blue sky, green conifers, reeling raptors and yellow-beige meadow, stubby from it's spring mow.

The Chinese tell a tale. A farmer's horse runs away and all his neighbors tell him what bad luck he has. "Maybe," he replies. Later his horse comes back with a mate and a foal. This time they congratulate him on his luck. "Maybe," he repeats. Within a few months his son breaks his leg falling off the new horse and again the neighbors curse his bad luck. The farmer is still skeptical. When the military scouts come to town rounding up all the young men, they leave his son behind. And the story goes on.

In the sunny meadow I was getting too warm and thought grumpily, "I knew I'd get hot in this extra jacket, I should have left it in the car." A moment later it dawned on me that discomfort early on--cold arms, would end in later comfort--perfect temperature, while early comfort--a warm jacket, would make me too warm farther down the walk as I got moving. My only real choices were to stay at home and be bored or to endure a little discomfort with either choice. It made me realize that I often quit when the going gets tough, or even just uncomfortable. Maybe discomfort could be taken as a given, trying to avoid it would backfire, and accepting it's inevitability would help me take it in stride.

It's hard for me to walk alone for any length of time before my inner critic berates me, "Remember when you were so dumb? You made that stupid choice and everything ended up a big mess!" This time I tried to let the words enter, scroll through my mind, then leave. A zen story came to mind. Two monks walk through a town, an elder man and a youth. A wealthy lady calls to the old monk from her palanquin. Won't he carry her across the mud so she doesn't dirty her pretty slippers? As he carries her she yells at him for walking too slowly. Next she complains he has let her down too abruptly. Without saying thank you she scurries away in a huff. The two monks leave the village, walking silently through the woods. The younger monk is fuming until he can no longer hold it in. "You helped that lady and she yelled at you and didn't even thank you! Aren't you furious?" Says the older monk, "I only carried her for a minute, you have carried her these past few hours."

Maybe I was introspective through a conscious awareness that I was supposed to be. Maybe the weaving movement of walking back and forth through the winding path shifted my mind into a different state of awareness. Maybe life is just a story we tell ourselves.

New theme song?

2011-02-22T11:39:00.001-08:00

Er, surprise!

2011-02-22T10:58:00.000-08:00

To my regular readers this is post out of chronological order. I'm just trying to fill in a few gaps in the saga.

Suddenly we have a girl, she's Janet now, she's on top of the world. She frolics in a skirt at home. Hand-me downs arrive from neighbors, from those who get it--from as far away as Maine. She cuts up t-shirts to make jackets, mini-skirts, you name it. This lovely girl is blossoming, except she's still L in school, ashamed to say her name. In her class we abbreviate to a gender neutral name, but it's not enough.

How do we make the public transition?

"Surprise!"

Logic says we do so over the summer, start the new school year as a girl. How about another school in the township, even a new town? Janet only arrived from China less than a year ago; she's had so many changes and she wants to keep her new school and her new friends (whether that will actually pan out we will wait and see.) We personally would like to see her switch schools, yet really that would only postpone things. More likely than not she would bump into classmates from sports anyway, and by middle school everyone will know.

She has made her decision though, she's staying put. The question remains--when to transition publicly? We've met with the school staff, they've been trained by TransYouth Family Allies. The teachers are amazingly supportive, although a few are still trying to wrap their minds around it. The administration is one hundred percent behind us. They think it would be better to transition in the spring; come fall and a new school year the gossip will have died down. I'm still not convinced but these things snowball. Many a parent of a transchild figures out that you give them an inch they take a mile. "Ready or not, here I come!" the kids shout.

Whether we like it or not it's a hand-out from her music teacher that sets it all in motion: for the concert boys must wear a button down shirt and khakis, girls must wear a skirt or dress. The principal calls me, he thinks Janet should transition so she doesn't have to go through the pain of appearing in the boys section of the chorus. I'm back-pedaling, "Pain shmain, we can wait, right? I'm not sure I'm ready." Janet is though.

On a Tuesday--a school holiday--a note comes home from the school saying their children will be educated about transgender children. Wednesday is the talk with the third grade from the guidance counselor (see I read the news today, oh boy.) Thursday, on concert day, I steel myself, preparing to handle comments, challenges, questions.

Normally when the principal walks on stage there is a continuing murmur in the audience as parents catch up with each other. He usually has to admonish them to quiet down two or three times, as well as between pieces when parents are leaning in to brag during solos, "That's my kid." The difference this night is that the murmur continues during the entire performance. After the concert I stand awkwardly in the hall surrounded by throngs of people. Nobody--nobody--challenges me, admonishes me, or even asks me questions. I guess they're too proper--they'll do it behind my back.

Apologies

2011-02-22T08:16:00.001-08:00

New post coming soon...

Why guys love to hate Justin Bieber

2011-02-08T10:41:00.000-08:00

Kudos to Justin Bieber for appearing in a Best Buy Super Bowl commercial making fun of himself. When Ozzy Ozbourne looks at the Justin Bieber in his real guise he asks, “What’s a Bieber?” Bieber, in cognito looking scruffy with a beard answers,“I don’t know, kinda looks like a girl.”

Why do guys love to hate Justin Bieber? Why do they care if he “kinda looks like a girl." I'm not just saying they don't like him, or don't like the whole teen pop thing. I mean they love to hate him.

I call it the Barney syndrome. One day your preschoolers are singing along with Barney. In a blink of an eye they are coming home singing, “Joy to the world, Barney's dead. We bar-be-cued his head!” It’s a declaration of independence: “I’m not four, some itty-bitty little baby! I’m five and ‘So. Over. Barney.’ ” Now my eighth graders turn to their third grade brother and say, “I can’t believe you like Legos.” In fact, they’re pretty sure they were never in third grade.

So what does this have to do with Justin Bieber? Guys hate that he’s popular when he doesn’t fit into the gender norm of male and macho. His songs aren’t peppered with “fuck” and “bitch”, for one. Then, he has a high voice and is thin and maybe cares too much about his hair. Face it, he is pretty. He isn’t swishy, though, he clearly represents a guy who hasn’t finished puberty, and even when he does, he still will probably have a high pitched voice. Heck, so does Aaron Neville.

What it boils down to is, by saying they hate Justin Bieber, when they say he is a girl, they’re proclaiming: “I am not thin and pretty with a high voice,” which in their mind means, “I’m macho and I’m not gay. I fit in.” In our culture it is extremely important for young people, especially guys, to not appear to be gay. In a New York Times magazine article “Coming Out in Middle School” Benoit Denizit-Lewis reports that more and more gay and lesbian students are being accepted in middle school as long as they are “perceived as conforming to adolescent gender norms.” You can be gay as long as you don’t look it. Why that’s true, why our predominant culture so angrily rejects anything other than binary gender roles is another whole research project.

So when my eighth grade boys sneer at their sixth grade sister and ask, “How can you like Justin Bieber?” I tell them, “I’m glad you made that clear to me that you are macho and male and don’t at all appear to be gay because if you hadn’t told me you hated Justin Bieber, I wouldn’t have been clear on that.” That just roll their eyes. They are ‘So. Not. Their mom.’

To those who thinks it's a choice...

2011-01-30T20:00:00.000-08:00

...or that we've been negligent parents, forcing a normal curiosity into a switch of genders, or worse, are at fault for even letting her act and dress "like a girl." Then why did my child sob all weekend by the phone, waiting for anyone to call? Who would ask for this, or push somebody into this? Each new friendship lasts a few days, until they realize it is social suicide to hang with my daughter. Were it not for her camp friends, I don't know what she'd do.

What's in a name?

2011-01-26T20:35:00.000-08:00

I am smitten with names, always have been. As a youth I read the What Shall We Name the Baby book over and over until it was ragged and dog-eared. One day my father approached me anxiously asking whether I was pregnant. No I wasn't, it was the love of names, the sounds that roll off your tongue, their meaning, the rhythm.

This penchant for interesting names has caused my children some dismay. The twins have gender neutral names that are rare to boot. They truly believe we have cursed them with their terrible names. I always tell them that our surname is so common it would be uninspired to have a humdrum first name as well, like being called John Smith or Tom Brown. Also there are so many Nates, Zachs and Jacks in their classes who have to be known by both first and last name. With my boys, their friends can ask each other, "Do you have Aidan in your class?" and the answer won't be, "Which one?"
It was with relief that we started addressing my daughter with female pronouns, at that point it was just too weird to go by "L." But what would we call her? She was one step ahead of us. "Gabrielle" she started signing pictures, a rosy-cheeked, spiky-lashed self portrait in clay. Gabrielle. It was a beautiful name but I was not a fan: my husband had briefly dated a Gabrielle. Besides, a name that was too pretty, like Tiffany, could sound like a drag queen.

She still went by a boy's name at school and a variety of girls names at home. When a substitute teacher or a new playground friend would ask her name she'd change the subject or walk away. She was literally ashamed to use her male name. We tried a gender neutral nickname but this was only a stopgap measure.
I wanted Matt to be involved in the choosing. That way he could claim our daughter. Grace was a name he'd always loved, why not Grace? Matt would have nothing to do with deciding. (Love you Matt, just trying to write with honesty.) Uncomfortable with the transition, wishing it would happen next month, next year, next decade, he couldn't stomach choosing a name. He loved the boy name he'd chosen before. So it was up to L and me.

As we drove around doing errands I'd call out, "How about Elsie? Ayla? Phoebe?" She'd respond, "Ariel, Cinderella, Belle!" all Disney princess names. No way was my child being named after a Disney princess nor a pop star like Britney Spears or Hanna Montana.

Some trans kids end up with names that could be for girls or boys. This can make it easier on the parents who may hold a last vestige of hope that it will be only a passing phase. The problem is that as your child becomes an adult she may still look androgynous, which is fine for some, if they are merely gender variant. But a truly transgender person with a unisex name people might ever be inviting the question, "Are you a man or a woman?"

Others let their kids choose entirely--let them claim their right to be who they want. I get it, but it just wasn't working for me. Parents name their children (or at least have veto power.)

So I'd keep on throwing out names. One day I tried out "Janet." Janet was the name of a dear childhood friend. "Ruthie! Oh my gosh! I love it better than Gabrielle!" "Are you sure?" She nodded enthusiastically. We pretty quickly settled on Janet. Only later that did I find out that we'd inadvertantly named our daughter after an American Girl Doll.

When a confession attracts the wrong audience.

2011-01-21T09:23:00.000-08:00

Okay let me start out by saying ick, ick, ick.

And then I'll go on to say that I put our lives on the line on a regular basis by writing about my family's experience raising a transgender child. Families have been reported to child protective services, and while this usually just creates some bureaucratic stir, it sometimes ends up with children being removed from families or granted custody to estranged spouses unconvinced of their child's condition. With an adopted child, having an outside agency step in had a higher risk.

I write because I want others to know they're not alone. Both parents of gender variant children and adults who wish they'd had more understanding families find meaning in my stories. Maybe I'll save one kid from a life of turmoil.

I used to write intermittently, heck I only had 28 followers. Then I discovered the statistics counter. I had readers in Russia! Australia! Japan and Denmark. In Slovenia I have one lone regular reader. I imagine her sitting there late at night in a room lit only by the glow of her computer screen.
The stats taught me something much more dark.

One day I decided to put myself out there. I wanted to contemplate what it means to have the wrong body. There are parts of me I hate. Lying down in the tub looking down at the wild p*c brush that has no bikini line and fades practically down to my knees I cringe. I can barely shave for raised painful bumps, same goes for waxing. And I feel almost shame when I ask for skates at the rink. Men's 11, I mumble. These are nothing compared to hating your v*a, your br*sts, your p*s , your 5 o'clock shadow. I described how my child pined for br*st bds like her blossoming peers.

Then I read my stats. The search terms included "br*st bds" and "p*bc hair." Countries that never visited popped up. 17 from Argentina, 17 from Iraq. I pictured a bunch of soldiers gathered around the computer jerking off, thinking about my daughter, my crotch.

Shocked I deleted my posts. I deleted any photos that showed our faces. Still I know that somebody out there is getting his yayas out reading my blog.

Boring, complaining post: Sorry, it's all I got.

2011-01-19T19:07:00.000-08:00

Couldn't get to sleep until 1am last night, then woke up at 7:00.

Had a hundred things to do because my next bunion surgery is tomorrow but was so sleepy I had trouble getting going.

One of my best friends called to say her mother died. Her father died long ago and her mother-in-law passed last month, so no grandparents for her daughter.

I couldn't decide whether to cancel my surgery to go be with my friend. After checking out other possible dates and trying to figure out what to do, I ended up opting for surgery.

I called a couple of her friends we all knew from China.

I started trying to do some last minute things before surgery. Laundry, cleaning out bathroom, cleaning out stinky fridge. Empty recyclable bottles lay on the bathroom floor ready to sort. Veggies and the glass plate from a fridge drawer were out on the counters when my friend called to ask me to book her tickets. I got on the phone and managed to do that.

I realized I was late for an appointment just when my friend called to say I'd mis-booked the second leg of the trip. Unbelievably, I spent over an hour on the phone with the airline. As I was transferred to each person, we had to start the whole process over again and repeat all the new information.

My kids kept on calling, having arrived home to an unlocked door and things strewn all over. They were worried about me (I found out later) but I couldn't answer their calls because I was on the phone with the airline.

By the time the last agent came on the phone and asked for all the information over again I started crying. Meanwhile my friend called to tell me she had to check her luggage but it had to go to the old location because her new itinerary wasn't booked yet. She started consoling me as I cried in her ear. I told her she was nuts because she was consoling me and her mother had just died.

At home I made dinner and the children helped. After dinner I cleaned up then got ready to go out grocery shopping.

I checked on facebook and my favorite person I play a form of scrabble with disappeared. We used to chat as we played and were an even match. I thought she had dumped me and started crying again.

I bought a Hoho at the supermarket and it tasted disgusting. I ate all three in the pack anyway.

Back at home one son helped me unload the car (yay!) and my husband helped put the stuff away (thank goodness.)

Then my kids started fighting as I continued to clean up. I ran upstairs and said, "I couldn't get to sleep last night, I got up early, my best friend's mother died, I cleaned the house, spent hours on the phone booking tickets and am having surgery tomorrow. If your sibling upsets you keep it to yourself. Throw a pillow in your room but do not talk to or engage them." Ten seconds my son made my daughter mad and she threw water on him.

Fifteen minutes later the twins were playing so rambunctiously and shouting so loudly that I called upstairs and asked them to quiet down. Instead they gave me some flack.

Then I remembered I had to still book car rentals. That went smoothly.

After that my facebook friend reappeared and we started playing Lex. Phew.

Wish me luck on my surgery.

Sharing the idea of transgender people with children

2011-01-10T07:10:00.000-08:00

The post below cites studies that show teaching children about transgender people--including transgender children--won't cause them to become transgender, but will educate them about diversity and will help transgender children feel safe to open up about their identities.

Should We Introduce Children to the Concept of Transgender People
Joanne Herman, Huffington Post, January 10, 2011

What will people think?

2011-01-06T09:02:00.000-08:00

There are many who dare not kill themselves for fear of what the neighbours will say. Cyril Connolly

When you have a transgender child, the different stages of reactions can feel endless:

Deceit:

My first semi-unsuccessful chat, was with a neighbor. I told her Janet was born in the wrong body. She seemed to listen well enough, and so I asked her, "I don't want people talking about us behind our backs, if you hear anybody with questions can you tell them to address us directly?" Soon after I discovered she had been talking about us to a mutual friend to the tune of "how could a child that young possibly know??" I could have explained...

Ridicule:

In the school yard I overheard children sniggering as they passed us. I bristled, but at least Janet was oblivious. ADHD can have it's benefits.

Confessions:

Before Janet transitioned she was having trouble in the lunch line for her feminine behavior. I called up the cafeteria worker to explain the situation. She said, "Oh, I understand. You know my sister's gay." Same with the dentist assistant's cousin. Likewise the middle school
secretary's daughter.

Empathy:

Not long after baseball season started Janet changed her name and pronouns--luckily it was a at least a co-ed league. Before we broke the news to the team I told a fellow baseball parent whom I didn't otherwise know. Hearing our story she burst out in tears, overwhelmed, saying what an amazing thing for this child to leave China and get to start out anew in a loving family who accepted her.

Champions:

The same mother above met me the next week and told me she had been defending us at church. She told her fellow parishioners that they didn't know our family, so who were they to judge? Similarly, a friend who lived in a different school district bumped into me at the supermarket and enthusiastically informed me that she'd been standing up for me. Grateful though I was, there was a side of me that didn't want to know strangers around town were gossiping about our family. Ignorance might have been bliss.

Support:

Three casual acquaintances surprised us by sending cards and one by calling expressing their support. In a note Janet's teacher wrote:
I was very impressed with how the whole 3rd grade handled the talk this morning. They were the ones reminding me to change her name tag and when I called her L by accident they reminded me.

Acceptance:

My brother wrote, "I guess your husband's family was finally due for a girl grandchild! Congratulations...you can count on us to accept her choices. Cindy will have to share the spotlight now." Even more so my mother was thrilled to have another granddaughter to shop for and promptly took her to the mall.

Doubt:

Gay friends would tell me that "he" probably was just gay. Others would tell me "he" would grow out of it (and still do.)

A friend told me she had been a tomboy her whole life, only hung with boys, excelled at sports and would have agreed to be a boy if somebody had asked her. Maybe, but she never insisted she was a boy.

Others would pinpoint any "boy-like" behavior in her and claimed proof she was "really a boy." She loves to duel with sticks and run around crazily, hence she's a boy? People have trouble understanding there is no real gender duality, rather a gender spectrum.

Oblivious:

One doctor we saw just ignored the information, even though her name on the file had been changed. He continued to address Janet as "him," even commenting on the scabs and bruises on her legs that "boys will be boys." After two such appointments we found a new doctor.

Rancor:

TYFA monitored closely the more well-known "hate groups" for reactions to our news (so we didn't have to see it.) While there were many nasty discussion for weeks, they eventually petered out. Some sent hateful letters to Janet's school principal. Luckily no one has ever been mean to us personally, which isn't always so for families with transgender children.

My own overreaction:

Two days after she transitioned at school a bespectacled boy asked Janet if she were a boy. Tamping down my Mama Bear, I bent down and asked him how he'd feel if someone made fun of him for wearing glasses, that we were all different, but we don't make fun of differences. His mother, apparently nearby, saw me and didn't like the way I talked to him and complained to the principal (can you say triangulation?) In retrospect, he was probably just confused. My bad.

And so...

Overall we've been relatively fortunate. Janet still gets some jabs from classmates, which is upsetting, but she rallies. As long as she's not stealth there will always be unwanted attention. If I can give back by writing and helping others through this process, then it will be worth it.

Chocolate dump cake, when no cake is not an option

2011-01-04T15:33:00.000-08:00

Your best recipes for snow-ins and other emergencies

I was runner-up in the Salon.com's Kitchen Challenge. Above is my entry. Enjoy some chocolate cake on me!

Sad and glad tidings for transgender children

2010-12-23T06:14:00.000-08:00

When the going gets tough, transkids keep going. What choice do they have? A transboy we met at the Philadelphia Trans-Health Conference, we'll call him Charlie, had some sad tidings. He was invited to a friend's birthday party. Charlie's mom takes the approach to tell parents of friends of her son that he's trans, and so had a talk with the friend's mom. In this case I'm a proponent of "don't ask don't tell," or none of your damn business! Still, there's no manual and we each choose our own paths.

Fortunately the friend's mom was cool with it. Later that evening, though, the father called and said, while they love him, they "have to look out for their son's best interest and having a relationship with Charlie is not in the picture. Charlie is sinning and you as his parents need to have more leadership in raising him." Charlie, heart broken, was told he could at least keep the presents he'd bought for his friend. Cold consolation. His mom was bewildered thinking that they all were Christians, and Christians are supposed to be compassionate. My experience is that while a good majority of religious people are very compassionate, agnostics and atheists are consistently accepting. Strange, huh? When Charlie complained on facebook, Janet, 11, wrote to him,

"Hey Charlie, I know how that feels and life is like this so u have to get over this situation and be strong and confident. I know how that could be hurtful and I am trans but that never happened to me. But if you have recess you could see him in school or join a club and see him at the club or something like that...but i feel bad so I am going to say be strong and try to find more new friends and stand up for your self and tell people that u are proud being transgender and be happy with life."

What strikes me is that she urges him to be strong, not dwell on friendships that don't work and be proud, while she rarely follows this advice herself. Actually, her advice sounds like what I've given her when she loses friends. When this happens she wails for hours like a child bereaved of a parent, which, being adopted, she really is. She tells Charlie that it hasn't happened to her, but while not directly, I suspect it's why friends have dropped her. In one case she heard a friend's mom say over the phone, "You are not allowed to go to Janet's house and you have to stop going to the library club where you see her," without saying why.

There's hope, though, if at least Janet's taken my message to heart. Even if she can't act on it just now, she gets it at some level. And so, with glad tidings, I wish you all hope for your children, for the ones you love, including yourselves.

One minute, I'm over it...

2010-12-20T08:38:00.000-08:00

...the next minute I feel the opposite. Spectrum, Animal Liberation Orchestra

When I'm not over it, it's often because of the responses I get from others. These days they are few and far between, but occasionally a comment comes from left field. I understand that people don't always get it. Insofar as that is the case, we, as experienced parents have the opportunity to educate and by doing so, make the world a safer place. Sometimes I do just that. Other times I am miffed. Who are these people questioning a proscribed diagnosis? When I tell others my child is transgender (which I rarely do anymore) they think that means I'm inviting debate, or worse, opening myself up for the possibility that my child is actually not transgender. (By the way, Google speller still thinks "transgender" is not a word.)

Think about it. Imagine I tell you my child has ankylosing spondylitis, a form of arthritis. You feel you know this is ridiculous, since children don't get arthritis. You tell me you don't believe it and try to convince me that the diagnosis is wrong. If you take any initiative, which most people won't, you search Wikipedia for the term and see no mention of children, which is then your proof that my child couldn't possibly have arthritis. You are more than satisfied that I am mistaken, or even misguided. Had you searched juvenile arthritis, you would have found you were wrong.

Why is it that when I say my child is transgender I get responses like:

I've been in survivors of rape and incest groups and have sat with people for hours (the group commitment was taken very seriously) for years talking about some really deep weird sexual stuff but never that. My first thought; I am--not what I think you'd want to read--very, very skeptical.

To be fair, this guy outright said that he's coming from a "I'm trying to understand kinda way," which is better than most skeptics. This is a mild example since he didn't seem to be judging me. Did you notice, though, that he connected being transgender with "some really deep weird sexual stuff?" Let me be clear, being transgender has nothing with sexuality: who you are is different than who--and what versions of sex--you like. My main problem, though, is that he told me he probably didn't believe me. Had I asked him?

When thinking about it, why would people assume that the diagnosis was come upon lightly? Are we so naive that we would have done no research? Wouldn't a parent with a child with arthritis read pages and pages of literature, figuring out as much as they can, as well as possible treatment and cures? After our extensive research, and after a diagnosis from a psychological expert, we have come to the conclusion that our child's life is at risk if we do not let her to live as the girl she really is. We did not ask you whether you thought it was a good idea, and definitely did not ask you to help us make a "better" decision.

These days I try not to engage; I instead direct people to TransYouth Family Allies, especially to their media page. If at some point you, my audience, face skeptics, I encourage you to do the same.

My motto is educate, and when fed up, delegate.

Glögg: The lovely wine with the unlovely name

2010-12-14T12:48:00.000-08:00

When Grandpa Pete, then known as Rudolph Peterson, or just Pete, met the sparkling Marie on a steamer en route to Sweden, he was swept off his feet. Literally. In grappling for a ploy to attract her attention, a headstand sealed their fate. After a whirlwind romance they headed back to Illinois where Pete became an engineer and Marie held extravagant parties and acted in plays. They eventually sired two children, one of whom is my mother-in-law.

Sad to say I never met Grandpa Pete as he was long gone before I married into the family. His legacy primarily remains in his dedication to celebrating a traditional Swedish Jul. Well, traditional for this family anyway. The Swedish Jul we celebrate has undoubtedly morphed in many ways, but it always begins with the customary Jultide beverage, glögg, a lovely, sweet, heated drink that goes straight to the head and warms you head to toe. The glögg is just the prelude to an extended two to three day event.

Some of the whacky traditions include eating the lutefisk (dried cod preserved with lye, then soaked) with a plastic fork and paper plate so that the fine China and silver don't corrode from the toxic fish. A huge drama is made of how disgusting it tastes; a new family member is usually filmed as they take their first bite. Next we have an extensive smörgåsbord with all varieties of Swedish fare--some more delectable than others. The lingonberry sauce is a treat as well as the spicey hot mustard which accompanies the Julskinka, aka ham. The potatiskorv (white sausage) and Bruna bonor (beans) are not for me. Aversion to lutefisk goes without saying.

After dinner, poison cookies, and other assorted varieties are served by all the girls in the family wearing long gowns and balancing a wreath of candles in their hair as "Santa Lucia" is played on CD. "Poison cookies?" you interrupt to ask. Grandma Marie would make a huge vat of sugar cookies with almond frosting. She'd tape a big sign on top that said "poison" so that her wayward children wouldn't find them and eat them. (As if!)

Later, the Jul Tomte arrives. He is played by a relative, usually in a red vest, a beard and some other inspired accouterment thought up by said relative that year. Somebody else plays the pig. Did I forget to mention the tomte rides in on a pig? The pig's role is to eat and drink out of a dish which the laughing children fill and to attack any person who refuses to say "Thank you" in Swedish. They teasingly say "Thanks, Danke, Xiexie, etc." but the pig snarls until they say, "Tack tack" or "Tack så mycket."

Next we have rice pudding with whipped cream and raspberry sauce. The matrons of the kitchen meddle and scheme to decide in which serving to hide an almond. Whoever gets the almond is predicted to encounter a significant event in the next year: a wedding, a pregnancy, a new job. When the aging uncle refuses to marry they finally gave up on stashing the almond in his dish.
As we eat the pudding, we each write poems which must include the word "rice," then read them off and guess who wrote each. The youngest generation usually write a variation on the theme: Rice is nice when you eat it with mice.

I've met some native Swedes who are flabbergasted by our meals. They can't believe we still eat such a variety of Swedish dishes. Aunt Jean, of Scottish descent, and my father-in-law have only married into the clan, but both carry the weight of maintaining the gastronomical extravaganza, although the recipes probably have become slightly Americanized through the years. Fortunately the glögg recipe has remained intact!

Most importantly, the recipe must be carried out to the letter, including counting the raisins. I have found that the counted raisins invariably almost equal a 15 ounce box of raisins, nonetheless, the counting must be done! The serving pot which sits over a flame is also essential, along with ladle and tiny cups. Make sure at least one almond and raisin appear in every serving. Recipe written straight from Grandpa Pete's hand. He was an engineer and detail was paramount. (Italics my own.)

Swedish Glögg

This recipe is about 48 oz. (about 12 servings) Whose servings were these? You can see the cups are quite small. I love the "put" at the beginning of each instruction, also the odd amount of ounces (14 ounces of water??)

Put
12 cloves
2 cinnamon sticks
6 cardamom seeds

into a flow-thru bag and put this into 14 oz. of water. Boil for 10 minutes.
Put
30 almonds
70 raisins
2 teaspoons of sugar

into 24 oz. of port wine and heat this (this should not be boiled or even be near boiling -- the alcohol would vaporize) (God forbid.)
Mix
8 oz. of brandy
4 oz. of whisky

together. This is separate from 1. and 2. (This could be 8 oz. whisky and 4 oz. brandy) (Is he offering alternative or admitting uncertainty?)

Now pour the 14 oz. of water (from no. 1) into the port wine (no. 2) and then add the mixture of brandy and whisky (no. 3).

SERVE IMMEDIATELY: KEEP THIS WARM WITH A FLAME

Courtesy of J.E. Peterson

Best when server wears a red vest.

"Why I'm not afraid."

2010-12-10T20:19:00.000-08:00

Janet has a mild form of post traumatic stress disorder. Why goes back to her early days in the social welfare institute in China and is another post. Suffice it to say we often have to escort her upstairs to, say, get a brush or a nail file, if everybody else is downstairs. We have to sit with her while she takes a bath. If she sees one TV ad of a scary movie, she's camping out in Mom and Dad's room that night. Interestingly, her fears are focused on being inside, she has no fear of walking outside at night, or being out alone anywhere outside the house.

Tonight she walks up to me and explains she's not afraid anymore. I ask her why. In her best 11 year old girl voice she says, waving her hands for emphasis,

"Well, first of all, we don't live in a dangerous place."

I'm thinking, yeah, we don't live in the inner city, but she says:

"You know, like there aren't any dead people around who come back to life?"

Okay, yeah, she has a point.

"And, two, we have lots of houses around us, like a house on the left and one on the right and one behind us."

True.

"So that's safe. And three, you know how our house is, you know, like, ugly? So if anyone wanted to rob a house they'd go to the house on the left or the one on the right, or the one behind us."

Yeah, probably true, too.

How we knew

2010-12-01T19:43:00.000-08:00

As we waited for the adoption of our son, L, we were getting hints that he might be a different sort of child. So many things about him seemed so feminine, so my sister, a therapist, sent me emails from various lesbian and trans friends. One said:

Assuming that this child fits the Harry Benjamin classification of a 'primary transexual' then moving to the USA would afford her a tremendous opportunity to start a new life in a role that is far more in conformance with who she feels she is. It would be a pity to waste that opportunity.

I totally freaked out. The weight of the responsibility of making that decision mixed with the jarring idea that we shouldn't adopt after all was too much to stand. "Tossed and turned" is hackneyed, but that I did; it was a long and painful night. Could we really make that decision in the two weeks we would be in China? How could children know their identity at such a young age? Still, when we were in China I asked him if he really were a girl inside, but he insisted not. He just liked girl things.

In the fall, after he'd been home two months it was time to revisit this idea. The gender counselor we'd consulted took one look at the tension between Matt and me and suggested we deal with "us" first. This was frustrating because I wanted a diagnosis at once so we could move forward. While I was aware that the stress of the adoption and gender situation was was already taking a toll on my relationship with my husband, I also knew that our child's timeline had it's own trajectory despite the counselor's admonitions.
Soon after, I'd begun reading articles about blocking hormones and letting your child go through puberty as their affirmed gender. Frankly, that seemed nuts! How could you be certain enough to interfere--with the possibility of making some irreversible choices--with a child's body?

I continued my research. By January I was trawling the web for information on gender identity. I came across the local PFLAG yahoo group. On it a parent signed off: proud Jersey Girl, mom of Sammi m2f and Nancy just f, 11 year old twins. Wow. This was the first time I'd have the opportunity to actually be in touch with somebody who had gone through this with a younger child. I immediately emailed her and asked if she minded awfully talking to me about her decisions. She emailed back, "Mind? I've told the whole country on 20/20, so I don't mind talking to you!"

We talked for hours. In a nutshell she told me, "Let your child express. His or her true nature will be revealed." I let go a long breath. This is what I'd been waiting to hear. Every instinct I had as a parent told me to let my children self express. After we hung up I immediately found "20/20: My Secret Self" on YouTube. (TransYouth Family Allies now has several videos linked to their site.) At this point I let go of my doubt and knew we would move forward no matter where it would take us. No way Matt was ready for this but I saw it was inevitable.

Meanwhile, Matt approached me. "I'm finally starting to love this kid," he confided, "I came to pick him up after art class and he'd drawn a princess with a mustache!" To understand this statement you have to understand Matt. He is irreverent, a lover of a all that is quirky. I gulped. He had no idea what the drawing really meant. I knew telling him would deteriorate this early step in bonding.

Still, I needed to have a chat with our child. We sat down and watched the 20/20 video together. Again, again and again. I know what you're thinking; wasn't I encouraging my child to be a girl? When you reconsider you'd see how incredibly ridiculous that is. Who in their right mind would switch genders if they didn't absolutely have to? If he decided to try the girl mantle for a few weeks and then changed his mind, no harm done. If he felt in his bones it was right, then so be it.

Eyes glued to the screen he learned all the characters and their pets' names. He'd look at me and tell me he didn't know who he was. I assured him he needn't ever decide. He could be a boy, a girl or somewhere in between or he might feel different in a few years. In his limited sing-song English he'd repeat with a broad smile, "A boy as a girl, a boy as a girl!" Soon after, a call came from the guidance counselor, "He's telling his English teacher that he doesn't know if he's a boy or a girl!" I said, "Well, he doesn't know, it's natural he'd want to discuss it." She urged me to warn him not to talk about this with his classmates. Of course it was too late. He never has had the ability to hold his tongue.

Finally the time came to show Matt the video. I sat him down and said he needed to watch this, all five parts. He sat through the whole thing, grim faced. Then he looked at me and said, "This is our child." I was surprised. Although I knew L had a good chance of being trans, I couldn't say so definitely. As sure as Matt was that L was transgender, he was equally sure that he wanted nothing less in the world than to have a transgender child.

Afraid of the boogie man, L would always ask me to sit with him when he took a bath. One day as he lay in the tub he looked at me, pressed his hands together and declared, "My heart tells me I'm a girl." And so she was.

Chillout song

2010-12-01T18:05:00.000-08:00

Click here to read about the evolution of the Chillout Song. It's a musical hug.

When Did You Choose to Be Straight?

2010-11-15T11:58:00.000-08:00

Hah!

2010-11-14T16:28:00.000-08:00

Into the third month in middle school Janet has been asked "Did you used to be a boy? Did you have surgery?" It made me wonder if their parents think Janet had surgery. If so, then they might think we are barbaric, sinners, or guilty of child abuse. Parents' perceptions will influence how their children treat Janet. (Note: You cannot perform "bottom surgery" on any individual under 18, nor would we ever consider it in the first place.)

Even as we hope Janet always feels safe and not discriminated against, we try to teach her to shake it off, reinforcing the idea that it's no big deal. A character in John Steinbeck's The Winter of Our Discontent says, when he is called "kid,"

If I had any real dignity, I wouldn't think about it. I nearly forgot something my father told me not long before he died. He said the threshold of insult is in direct relation to intelligence and security. He said the words 'son of a bitch' are only an insult to a man who isn't quite sure of his mother.

Last week the principal called me in. She told me that a parent had complained that her daughter was "creeped out" when Janet was in the restroom the same time she was. The mother said that in elementary school the policy had been for Janet to use the nurse's bathroom and she didn't know why the middle school hadn't continued this policy. (Actually, there never was such a policy, she just went in practice.) The parent was concerned that Janet might exit the stall just as a classmate was adjusting her bra (horrors!) or other article of clothing (as if!)

The principal, an amazing woman, told me that she was never allowed to divulge information about a student with other people. She just wanted to see what my thoughts and reactions were. We discussed how Janet's sexual preference (who she likes) appears to be boys; plenty of lesbians use the girls' room without incident; and there are, without a doubt, intersex children who use the restrooms.

At first I thought the parent needed to be educated. But really, it's none of her business--education could emphasize Janet's being "different." The principal agreed but reminded me that she still had to address the fact that a student was uncomfortable. That's when I had an "aha!" moment. I suggested she say, "I can never discuss another student with a parent, but if your child ever feels uncomfortable using the girls' room, she is welcome to use the nurse's bathroom." Hah!

Sesame Street: Will.i.am's Song "What I Am"

2010-11-09T08:12:00.000-08:00

I read the news today, oh boy...

2010-11-06T19:39:00.000-07:00

In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes.---Andy Warhol

It all started with a letter. Our principal, well-intentioned--although I believe misguided--decided he had to send a letter to the third grade parents saying, "We recently became informed that one of our third-grade students is a transgender child. Transgender individuals have a biological gender that does not match their gender identity, etc.." He felt he had to let the parents know that the school would be talking to their children, and give them the opportunity to opt out. Do you think the principal would have informed the parents that a child had diabetes? In fact by law he wouldn't be allowed to. The loop hole was that he didn't name names, but it still brought unfair attention to Janet.

Shannon Garcia, of TransYouth Family Allies (TYFA) described the discussion, "The children were simply told that sometimes a person is born in the body of one gender, but feels inside like he or she is the other gender. There was no discussion about sexuality or sexual reassignment surgery. It was very simple, very basic so the children could get it. They're fine. It's the parents who have the issue." As a follow-up the guidance counselor discussed with them why we all need to be tolerant of people with differences. Different isn't wrong, it just is.

That time we walked past the school office on Janet's first day we had seen an anxious expression on the secretary's face. (Janet's First Day) Apparently she had been fielding phone calls from upset parents. Eight parents requested that their child be excused from the education session. Four changed their minds after talking to the principal regarding the content of the pending discussion. Given that the majority was fine with it, it is a shame the newspaper article reported:

Pennsylvania elementary school officials angered parents by giving them one-day's notice of planned counseling sessions with 100 third-grade students to explain that one of their male classmates would soon begin wearing girls' clothing and taking a female name and to ask that they accept him as a girl and not make unkind remarks [per an article in the Delaware County Daily Times.]

Why hadn't the article instead said, "A small minority of parents objected"? What the article also didn't say was that from the first day of school in September, buzz cut and all, L (as boy) had drawn dozens of Disney princess pictures for her new female classmates and played playground clapping games during recess rather than dodge ball. She'd walk across the school lawn in the morning, white stuffed rabbit tucked under arm, singing Ariel's wordless tune from Disney's The Little Mermaid in a high voice "Aaah, aaah, aaah." Later when I bought her first pink t-shirt she wore it for four days straight, after which my options were to a) let her wear a smelly shirt or b) buy her a week's worth. As her clothing became more feminine (except for wearing skirts or dresses) her hair was growing out. Nail polish, butterfly tattoos and stick-on earrings. So when the caller on a talk radio show lamented, "This must have been a traumatic experience for his [sic] fellow classmates, one day a boy, the next a girl," he was way off the mark.

So first it was the Philadelphia Inquirer article where Janet's specific school was mentioned. (The article has since been deleted.)

Why is the school introducing this subject to 8- and 9-year-olds?" wrote an angry parent who started a discussion on the Haverford Township's blog site. "Why were we not notified sooner. We received the letter today, the discussion at school is tomorrow."

What, they wanted a week to stew over it and plan a witch hunt? I'm thinking, how hard is it to make a phone call in the morning? The blog was the way the reporter found out. Apparently journalists prowl townships blogs looking for juicy stories.

The talented women at TransYouth Family Allies deftly dealt with the public and press, extracting a promise from the Inquirer reporter that Janet's school name would not be mentioned due to the fact that this could endanger the child. You might think this sounds overboard, but malicious self righteous jerks will actually travel across the country to protest what they believe are evil events and even approach the child or her siblings, trying to teach them that their parents are bad. Apparently the editor overrode this agreement and printed the school's name anyway siting the fact that it was already public information. Come on! Who but a small group of people had access to the township blog? While we luckily had no protesters, the principal received phone calls from outsiders berating him for his aberrant behavior. On the other hand, he also received phone calls from grateful transgender individuals, in tears because he was so kind and understanding, wishing they'd had somebody like him in their lives when they were young.

TYFA's experience was that if there was no more attention after three days we'd probably be in the clear. Instead on the fourth day we received an urgent call from them. It seems there was a CBS television truck outside the school. Fifteen minutes before school let out I pulled up outside the back door of the school. My four children ran across the playground, confused and not knowing why. Despite anxiety, I also couldn't help but feel a frisson of excitment, like we were in an action movie.

As the television story was being edited TYFA continued to advocate for us. Apparently a reporter had found out that Janet was adopted from China. She asked a local gender expert if Janet might not have become transgender because she was surrounded by girls in the orphanage. (Actually, there were plenty of boys at the orphange. Moreover, no one has ever found an environmental link to being transgender.) The gender expert immediately notified TYFA that the news was aware Janet was adopted from China. TYFA, fearing that too much information could target Janet, first asked politely but ended up having to remind CBS that they would be held accountable if any harm came to Janet as a result of their revelations. CBS reworked the piece and aired it a day later, omitting reference to the elementary school and Janet's status as a child adopted from China.

During this time we were dealing with an impending substantial decrease in income, our own lingering angst about our daughter's transition, our on-going process of learning to bond with our adopted daughter--then home only 9 months--all a substantial stress on our marriage.

Once a month a transgender person in America is murdered. Let our moment in the limelight be limited to Janet's third grade transition.

Halloween gender benders

2010-10-30T20:48:00.000-07:00

When a new family joins our list-serve through TYFA, they usually start by introducing their stories. Some lurk for months reading others' postings, unsure of themselves, their situations, their children. Eventually there will be a story. Inevitably the story will involve Halloween, especially the families with trans-identified girls. Their stories will differ from those of your other children.

Halloween to my birth sons. At four: Although Aiden would go to preschool with tiger ears and a bat cape, come Halloween he'd be terrified. He did not want to parade around school on display. I finally convinced him to wear a shirt and matching pants with a firetruck on the front. I made an axe out of cardboard and painted it black. He would be a fireman. Later we parents sat and watched the parade go by. Aiden straggled in teary-eyed with black axe paint smudged on his cheeks. I snatched him up and we sat and watched his classmates march around. Another year Ted, maybe 7 at the time, decided to be a sink. This was stressful because although he had the concept down, he had no idea how to implement the costume. Somehow we rigged together some cardboard, tape, and pipes to make a plausible sink. Meanwhile, Kyle won funniest costume two years in a row at the Boy Scouts Halloween party causing his twin who didn't win any prize to dissolve into tears. The competition can be fierce between the two of them.

So what about a transgender child? Fear of making a spectacle? Competition? Complicated costumes to construct? None of the above. A transgender child who has not transitioned, who may not even be supported in his or her household, may look forward to Halloween with sheer joy. Why? A transgender boy may pass as a tomboy throughout the year, but can really fulfill his more macho side in a Darth Vader or Spiderman costume. A transgender girl will invariably want to be a princess or a pop star like Hannah Montana. For many of us Halloween is a time when once a year we can step outside ourselves, try on new persona. Transgender children who have not transitioned can once a year be themselves. Read that carefully. Once a year they can be themselves. If their parents will allow it.

In our case, our first Halloween as a family before she transitioned, when she was still L, he asked to be a princess at the school parade. I spoke with the guidance counselor who told me that the toughest popular boys might sometimes dress as a cheerleader or princess, and everybody thought it was really funny. They would all laugh with him. If an effeminate boy did the same? He would be ridiculed, his classmates would laugh at him. I listened to her and refused to allow L to be a princess at school. I refused his second choice too, a bunny, on the grounds that it was too cute and also feminine. Finally he went as a magician.

Apparently I was not a total tyrant because I let him go as a princess door-to-door in the evening. A week before Halloween we'd been driving around when I saw a sign on somebody's lawn: free costumes. Hanging from a tree was one lavender princess dress conveniently in L's size. Just as when later, his aunt sent money, I somehow felt free from blame if we found an outfit this way. Later I went to the store to pick out a black wig, a bob with bangs. With his Chinese features, people might not even know he was a boy. You could see his disappointment when I came home. He had hoped for a long blond wig like his favorite pop stars. Still, when I saw him looking into the mirror with the wig on, make up and the fancy dress, I knew he wasn't evaluating his costume. He was peering at himself, sweeping the bangs to the side, intently examining his face. Seeing his real self.

He ran with glee from door to door calling "Trick or treat!" and filling his bag with candy. The wig grew scratchy, though, so he pulled it off to reveal the buzz cut, two months grown out, that he'd come from China with. With that short hair and beautiful made up features he looked like some avant garde French model.

One woman answered the door at his knock and studied us. "Boy or girl?" she asked.

"We don't know yet."

"So brave," she whispered.

National Geographic, Part 3 Sex, Lies, And Gender

2010-10-30T19:52:00.000-07:00

Dress for success

2010-10-28T10:27:00.000-07:00

Just around the corner in every woman's mind - is a lovely dress, a wonderful suit, or entire costume which will make an enchanting new creature of her.
~Wilhela Cushman

As early as the fall, three years ago (we adopted midsummer), L was wearing dress-ups as often as he could (also see Mother May I). Sure, sometimes it would be a pirate or a magician, and we would take heart. More often than not, though, it was a princess or fashion model. We kept hoping he'd grow out of it, that living in the women's dorm in the orphanage had swayed him, and that living with three brother s would swing the pendulum in the other direction.

At first I was so uptight. The twins' friends would come over and L would waltz by in a dress. "Not in front of others!" I hissed, "Only family!" Little did I realize L would take this to mean that when our extended family gathered he should put on a fashion show. Both at his grandparents' and at home, a holiday would come and he'd march up and down the stairs changing his dresses . He'd even dress up his seven year-old brother as a girl, who donned his outfits much more goofily. Sometimes I had to explain on short notice to distant relatives his penchant for the feminine side.

Eventually, when he'd be overwhelmed with grief, missing China, or feeling rejected by his new siblings, I'd take him upstairs to my room and he'd try on my dresses. He'd strut and pose and be thrillled. The next day he'd ask to go upstairs again and I'd be full of chagrin. I'd think that it was supposed to be an occasional diversion not a daily activity. Ever creative she began to hand sew sleeveless tops and skirts out of her t-shirts.

Two different therapists had suggested limiting his choices or insisting on an even balance of traditionally male and female products. I found myself in ridiculous circumstances. At the book store he'd pick up a selection from a series of fairy books. "Get a boy book too!" I'd command crankily, squirming inside. It frankly, felt dumb. Moreover I was sure I was handling it poorly.

It was my aunt, a relative we hadn't seen since my sister's wedding 10 years prior, who prompted the first major shopping trip. Two different counselors had suggested limiting his choices or insisting on an even balance of traditionally male and female products. I found myself in ridiculous circumstances. At the book store he'd pick up a selection from a series of fairy books. "Get a boy book too!" I'd command crankily, squirming inside. It frankly, felt dumb. Moreover I was sure I was handling it poorly.

When my aunt's check for $100 came in celebration of his adoption I felt freed. I wasn't buying things for him, somehow influencing his choices, he could do with it whatever he wished. It was straight to the mall, specifically to the Disney store. He ran about excitedly picking out a princess hairbrush, a throw pillow and sleeping bag. I walked into the clothing area and asked if there was possibly something he liked in there. Wide-eyed he looked up at me uncertainly. He ended up picking a nightgown with Ariel the mermaid printed on the front, plain on the back with long bell sleeves.

Back at home we hadn't decided, was this to be daily wear? He put it on and asked tentatively, "Will Daddy mind?" "Why don't you go ask him," I suggested. He skipped down to the basement where dad was practicing guitar. Dad agreed, despite his strong misgivings and so it was. Every night thereafter L wore that nightgown for months. Later that evening my husband confessed he'd had a visceral reaction. He literally wanted to vomit. Being a scientist with a liberal bent he understood L's penchant for girls' clothing as best he could intellectually. He couldn't explain why from the gut this all was anathema to him. His journey to acceptance was heartfelt and long, but that's another post.

The next step was wearing clothing outside, which felt like another hurdle altogether. It would only be new territory, where we wouldn't bump into people we knew. How did that evolve? Well, we were still bonding as a family. I wanted his brothers--especially his older brothers--to feel like they benefited from L's presence. In China birthdays are not a big deal, instead they all gained a year at Chinese New Year, that's when the big celebration happened. New clothes were the expected gift and three of the boys wanted Eagles football jerseys. L asked for the same version in pink. Ted, the youngest, and L's advocate, said, "Why don't you ask for a dress? That's what you want!" Well. I bought a 12 pack of panties and a dress.

L was so excited! At first we weren't sure he'd wear it out. Then, one of the older twin sons said, "Why can't he wear the dress, we're wearing our new football jerseys?" They continually amaze me. My husband was not thrilled when I suggested we use a female name/pronoun at least for the evening. So we stuck with L, but nobody noticed. In Chinatown while we were waiting for our meal, L and I kept on running outside to the sidewalk. He'd twirl around and then skip back into the restaurant. His movements, expressions just looked more normal when he appeared as a girl. The dress had sparkles which kept on falling off onto L's face. He was shining!

Early indications (revised)

2010-10-18T10:59:00.000-07:00

(Note: although we fully accept our daughter is a girl, I've use the male pronoun to refer to her during the phase we all thought she was a boy.) In the first picture we saw of the boy we decided to adopt there he stood wearing a red shirt holding a pink stuffed animal. "It's a meepit!" the twin boys shouted. They were in a phase where they loved their small pink creatures that looked like guinea pigs on two legs. Wasn't it cool their soon to be brother liked them too? I knew that when I lived in China, boys didn't wear red, but maybe things had changed.

Later we were sent updated photos. In one, he looks adoringly up at the camera, a small pink address book with Disney's Cinderella pressed to his cheek. Worriedly, I started asking around on online adoption groups. Was this a phase? People poured in their anecdotes, how so and so's son wore his sister's skirts; somebody else's son loved to try on his mother's high heels; another had a son had hoarded Polly Pocket dolls. They all seemed to grow out of them. Things would change, I was told, especially once he joined a household of three brothers.

While waiting for him in China we were able to send presents and even communicate by email. We sent neutral or traditional boy items: a stuffed duck and monkey, a super hero wallet, animal stickers, a navy long sleeved tee with a soccer ball on it. Curiously we never heard any enthusiasm or gratitude for our gifts. Weren't children in orphanages excited by presents? One day, after we'd started using the web cam, I showed off my new skirt. "Can I have one?" he asked enthusiastically. Ummm. Through the months we repeatedly asked what names he liked and he never responded. We offered suggestions. Right before we flew to China to adopt him asked him if he wanted to go by his Chinese name, or the name we'd picked out for him (without his input.) He blurted out "I don't want to be called Rudy and I don't want to be called Tang Li, I want to be called Annika!"

At this point I suggested to my husband we pick an androgynous name, just in case. I don't want to paint my husband in an unfavorable light. He is an amazing dad. But the process has been a long and hard one. At that time, though, he blew up. He would claim ownership of our new child by choosing one of his favorite names "L___." And L_____ most definitely was not a girl's name. Not long after, we received a final report of our child's habits, abilities and preferences. "He likes holding a doll while sleeping." "His favorite toy is Barbie doll." "He likes pretending to be girls." One of our reasons for adoption (always ill-advised to plan thus) was to balance out the family, have a similarly aged brother for our little guy, since his older brothers were twins. What if he were a she? What if he didn't like any of the same things Ted did?

In China, at the adoption office, our new son edged in, turned around, and ran into the hall to purchase ice cream pops for everyone in the room. Then he sat shyly with his foster mom. He wore a muscle tee and on his shoulder was a temporary butterfly tattoo. His English was limited. He did however know some terms from movies. He'd point to Ted and say "You're Jasmine, I'm Ariel!" To Matt he'd say "You're Cinderella, I'm Belle!" In this way he talked about most of the Disney princesses. Oh boy. Back outside the hotel it was tortuously hot, so we chose to go swimming in the hotel pool. We had to buy goggles. He of course wanted the pink ones. Even then we cringed. It was not in our parenting philosophy to say no, but we deeply wanted to. Pink goggles it was.

Similarly he was dying for a Disney purse or backpack. I wanted to let him be himself, but in my mind it wasn't a good start on the first day of third grade for a boy to show up with a pink Disney princess backpack. We had to protect him. (This is a similar mantra that parents of gay and transgender children repeat. Much later I heard a gay man say, "They wanted to protect me from the pain of rejecting, but they were really rejecting me.") Meanwhile, our new child would gaze yearningly at the pink bags in the markets. Internally I fought myself. Do the right thing or let my stereotypes guide me? The latter won out. Finally we let him get a small dismal gray and black Disney sling bag that at least had Mickey Mouse on it.

Before we parted his foster mom made us promise not to buy him a new Barbie doll. She'd taken his away prior to saying goodbye. While we waited for all the official documents in Guangzhou, every evening he'd sit at the restaurant and tears would well up and slip down his cheeks. Trying to console him, we did go and buy him a new doll. I knew in my heart, if he really were transgender the best thing we could do for him is let him arrive in America as a girl. Not that my husband could stomach this. But if we did so then he'd never have to socially transition. I leaned over, and in Chinese inquired, "Some people feel like they are born in the wrong body. They may have a boy's body, but they know they are girls. Do you think this is you, or do you just like girly things?" "I just like girly things." Okay. For now.

Janet's first day at school

2010-10-17T10:53:00.000-07:00

Always provide for a distraction when your child appears in public for the first time as his or her affirmed gender. I learned this and other things on Janet’s first day of school as a girl.

Ten days prior, TransYouth Family Allies had sent a representative to train a select group of teachers and staff to deal with the ramifications of a child starting out the school year as a boy and switching gender mid-year. The trainer reported that everyone felt much better after the workshop. But it was the principal who really surprised me. He looked like Jack LaLanne in his sixties. A medium-height man wearing tight tucked-in polo shirts emphasizing his buff physique and sporting a thin mustache groomed straight on his upper lip. I had always felt he had some difficulty looking people in the eye and seemed ill at ease when greeting people around the school. When this very same man told me that Janet should start wearing a dress as soon as possible I was blown away. He said that if Janet had traveled all the way to America from China at age eight in order to find a family that would finally see her for the girl she truly is, then he would go to any length to make sure she need not suffer another day under his auspices. He is now eager to train the entire school, and down the line the counselors from the whole district as well. If nothing else, having a transgender daughter has taught me to expect the unexpected.

But let’s return to the morning of Janet’s first day at school as Janet. Connor—one of my fifth graders—hugs me goodbye and takes off on his bike. Although a bike is faster he leaves for school before us to avoid the crowded sidewalks. I, on the other hand, dawdle, going out the door. The other three play catch on the lawn, backpacks lined up on the porch glider. I am blessed with children who hate to be late. But I don’t want to be early because Janet is wearing a skirt to school today for the first time and I don’t want her to linger too long on the school grounds in front of the crowds of ogling children.

It’s a humid spring day; the flowering cherries and crabapples have reached their peak. The vibrantly colored tulips amass in more diligent people’s gardens. En route to school my other fifth grader, Carl walks a little in front. He doesn't want to be associated with his annoying younger siblings. The day before he’d had his long locks shaved off into a short buzz cut. I grab Ted’s hand on my right, Janet’s on my left. Ted’s hand is cool and loose as always. Janet’s is a furnace—also, as always. Come summer I will usually refuse to hold her hand, I am extremely temperature sensitive and feel great discomfort by a hot touch when I am overheated. This morning is probably only in the sixties but it’s muggy and we’re warm from walking. Despite this I hold on tight.

I find I am bracing myself as when I see people we recognize. I peer into peoples’ eyes to determine what they are really thinking about us. We pass the house of the twins’ friend and I tense. He and his mom are in the driveway. “Hey, Carl, nice hair-cut!” the mom calls to Janet’s older brother. They are a new family and I have only met them to say “Hi.” I’m not sure they know the story of Janet. We keep walking.

We pass the first crossing guard, Bob, who greets us. Bob crossed us in the fall on Janet’s first day to school in America, when she sported a very close-shaven crew cut and wore boy’s clothing (does anyone else have problems with pronouns when writing about pre-transition days? I’ll use “she” because, really, she’s always been a girl, even when looking like a boy, we just didn’t know it.) Bob had broken his arm over Christmas so has missed most of the gradual transition from boys’ clothing, to pink shirts, to today wearing a skirt. He doesn’t know our names, though, so I don’t know if he assumes Janet is a girl or a boy. We keep walking.

We approach a dad that works with my husband. He waves hello and calls, “Nice hair-cut, Carl!” I’m beginning to let down my guard. The second crossing guard is a long-term sub. We pass with only one comment: “You got your hair cut!”

A friend and her daughter walk across the fields of the elementary school. She smiles and holds up one index finger, raising her eyebrows. “Is this the first day as Janet?” she’s asking with her gestures. I nod and gulp. As we get closer she tells Janet she likes her dress. Janet ducks her head and mumbles thank you. I can feel her pulling back on my hand, dragging her steps, not so sure anymore about the day ahead. Now we are cutting towards the front entrance. I really don’t notice anybody staring but I don’t see a lot of third graders either.

We walk in and I wave to the secretary through the glass windows. She smiles but a little uncertainly. I think she’s nervous about fielding phone calls from irate parents who didn’t like the letter that went home on transgender children. The gym teacher always stands in the hall and welcomes the students. Was his grin a little off? Not sure. Janet reports that somebody is laughing at her. I reassure her that people will have to get used to her dresses, it might take them a while to understand. But I don’t look to see who’s laughing. The halls are crowded and she’s worn her pink t-shirt and white pearl-buttoned cardigan before. So in the crowd not everyone will notice her skirt.

At the top of the stairs stand the fifth grade teachers, all young, unmarried and very kind. Their classrooms are right across the hall from Janet’s. A few months ago I had called two of the teachers to talk about Janet because her twin brothers were in fifth grade with them. I was relieved at their support. Last week they attended TYFA’s training and saw the 20/20 special on transgender children, “My Secret Self.” Now, one of them compliments Janet on her skirt and they all give us encouraging smiles.

Down the hall stands Janet’s teacher. She’s young and sweet but firm with her class about diversity and accepting differences. She has managed a classroom so far that has all been behind Janet, who has never gotten teased there, only amongst the wider school population. For her classmates only the name and the skirt will be different. They are all used to nail polish, stick-on earrings and drawings of princesses. Still, Janet hangs back reluctantly, trying to hide behind me. Seeing her so shy to go in, my eyes immediately well up with tears. All of a sudden I feel like we’re at pre-school and it’s the first time I’m leaving my baby girl. This is a new feeling for me because we didn’t have Janet around as a preschooler, having adopted her at age 8. I bend down to give her a quick hug then rise to greet the guidance counselor. We confirm that Janet wishes to leave the room when the counselor gives her brief introduction about transgender issues and the name change.

As I walk back down the hall the tears are falling faster. The cluster of fifth grade teachers all smile sympathetically, then one says, “Now stop that or I’m going to start crying too.” And then she does.

So begins Janet’s first day of school as Janet. Later we leave early for a dentist appointment so we miss the after-school mayhem and perhaps some unwelcome attention. And life goes on.

World stats

2010-10-17T08:10:00.000-07:00

I just discovered that I have had several page hits from Australia, Canada, Japan, the Netherlands, Russia, France, Austria, the UK and India. Most of my hits have come from the TransYouth Family Allies website. Thanks, TYFA! And welcome world! G'day, mate! Welkom! 歓迎 Добро пожаловать! Bienvenue! Willkommen!欢迎中国朋友们！Please send a comment and mark "private" if you need help or have questions.

On the verge

2010-10-16T15:15:00.000-07:00

Janet and I have been waiting 19 months for the results from a bone-age study which was supposed to determine onset of puberty. We both have our reasons. Janet can't wait for puberty because she wants something up top. Plain and simple. I don't think she even knows she'll get hips, too, and some extra padding. Being a girl to her means going to Kohl's and picking out a bra and most of all, needing it. When I think of her classmates, almost all of them have started developing or at least fatty tissue masquerading their development.

I have been waiting anxiously for the results so I can figure out how to brace myself for the medical and social hurdles of puberty as well as the convoluted steps we'll need to pursue to find a doctor willing to prescribe hormone replacement therapy. Rewind. I'm not being honest here, I also can't wait for Janet's body to start changing. Then she'll look more normal.

Imagine the scene. My daughter sits smiling in front of me in her Disney Princess nightgown which she is too old for (she'll tell you) but still wears. She swings her long, almost-black hair, proud of the few caramel high-lights she acquired by saving her money carefully as well as by charming the pants off the hair-colorist who added some extra foils for free. She asks me to check her flea bites, the ones she has 'cause the cat sleeps on her bed. As she lifts her gown I am shocked to see the image of a sweet girl in pajamas sitting in front of me morph into that of a boy with a hard chiseled body. Of all my male-bodied children, hers is the most masculine. Not an ounce of fat and clear muscle definition. Her broad shoulders taper like a body-builder's into a narrow waist. I can't lie. This image can sometimes freak me out. I want her to be normal. Not that any of us are. I just want our family to have typical teenager puberty be the worst of our worries.

Well, I finally finagled the results of the x-ray from the doctor almost two years later. The x-ray taken when my child was then 9 and a half years show that her bones are those of .....drum roll, please.....a 10 year old child, give or take 9 months.Wow, that helps.
------------------
I wrote this a while a go, and I guess never posted it. This summer the doctor has seen a change. We're looking at reaching Tanner Stage 2 (when blockers or hormones are introduced) within the year. We are on the verge. This has the potential to be exciting and scary. When she gets breasts, will people assume she's stuffing her bra? If they see they're real will they think she's more of a freak?

I've fought for Janet in the school system, I've struggled to keep my marriage together through this, I've commiserated with Janet as her friends have disappeared. My new battle--there always is one--is to get the proper medical care at the right time. The doctor most willing to help is in Maryland, and Janet's insurance doesn't cover out of state doctors or even prescriptions. Well, we had a local endo who agreed, then may be backing down. It seems none want to be responsible in case they are later blamed. For what? Abusing a child? I'll keep you posted.

What I didn't know I did

2010-10-15T14:36:00.000-07:00

Since my bunion surgery and my banishment to the couch I have come up with a myriad list of things I didn't know I did on a regular basis. I'm no clean freak, in fact I'm kind of messy. But still...

Close the windows in the morning if the heat comes on.
Open up curtains and shades to let sun in.
Shut the curtains at night so the neighbors can't see everything we're doing
Check guinea pig cage for dry food and water. Feed her lettuce.
Unload the dishwasher if the twins haven't done their chore and reload it so the dirty dishes don't pile up.
Shut closet doors and push in dining room chairs and piano benches for "neat effect."
Empty clothing from dryer directly on couch while still warm so it can be folded and doesn't wrinkle.
Sort it, fold it, and if necessary put away laundry, or direct children to do so (glowering).
Clean kitchen and bathroom sinks after use.
Clean shower stall and bath.
Spread out shower curtains so they dry and rehang bunched up wet towels.
Hang up wet shower mats and replace with dry.
Wipe down counter tops and table.
Remove bread from freezer when other loaf starts running out. Add bread to shopping list.
Put away condiments in fridge door.
Add anything that's running out to shopping list.
Shop.
Water plants.
Fold throws on couches.
Cook dinner.
Let cats in and out 15 times a day.

A jumble of September meanderings

2010-09-04T21:20:00.000-07:00

Try to remember the kind of September
When life was slow and oh, so mellow. (Music: Harvey Schmidt, Lyrics: Tom Jones)

My dad, who loves autumn, too, 12 years ago, with the twins.

Okay, to be honest, I'm not sure how these lyrics apply to this post. I just love that song from The Fantasticks, so sweet and melancholy. I have a love hate-relationship with September. Autumn, though technically starting in October, previews in September. It is my favorite season by far. The clear blue skies, changing leaves, brisk air, mellowing sunshine. Without any expectations I could drink in all that fall has to offer.

Unfortunately my life is burdened with expectations, both real and imagined. Probably more the latter. September means I am afraid I'll putter around the house, do the laundry, or secretly waste time on Facebook and lose a precious day I could have been spending at the arboretum or on a hike. Panic that I've missed an opportunity to live a full life. Yet shame, too, if I do go out, that my husband is overworked and I should be finding a job. I ought to be cleaning the house, it's the least I could do. Instead I end up staying at home fretting, managing to not clean the house, not drink in autumn and not find a job. Whoopee.

September means a quiet house. A cup of coffee, laden with extra milk to mellow it, and the Tuesday New York Times crossword puzzle (good thing the first day of school isn't a Friday!) A walk with a friend. A shopping trip to replenish the coffers. (To you language purists I think coffers has more to do with finances so it isn't the right phrase here, but I wanted to use it, so there!)

At the end of the day a different picture. Cranky, overwrought, tired children tumble into the house, their bodies wrung ragged, unaccustomed to being imprisoned in hard chairs, knees pushing against desks, minds muddle by too much information, thumbs bewildered by not having game controls in front of them.

(I can't write the above without saying our children are so spoiled, not knowing they could go to schools in the impoverished inner cities of Detroit or Newark, or not even be given a chance living in garbage dumps of Guatemala, or the war zones of Afghanistan. How lucky they are to have school. Try telling that to a suburban teen or pre-teen, who knows, without a doubt, that his school is the worst it could possibly be, a total waste of time, and that they cannot possibly learn anything of value.)

September is a bucket of worry. My Janet starts her first day of middle school in three days. At the orientation last week we sat in the bleachers in the crowded gym, close to the door. Eyes riveted on the incoming rush of students, she sat seeking a friendly face. None arrived. Even the children who used to sometimes hang with her, who came to her birthday last March, do not even deign to make eye contact, not even a short wave, a nod of the head. As each child enters the gym their eyes sweep the room, then they rush over to a friend or two screaming "How was your summer!" Janet didn't say a word. Neither did I.

Later I found out two "friends" will be in her homeroom. Friends that didn't call the whole summer but hung out with each other. It's my fault, too, because the principal asked me if she could place Janet with any friendly faces, and in June these girls had been hanging with Janet. I wish I'd never mentioned them. Now I feel terrible that two past friends will be in her classes, bonding while ignoring her. So I remember to breathe and try to distance myself from my childrens' social lives. They will work it out better on their own. Unless they don't, and they get depressed and I miss the cues. Oy. (I know, I'm not Jewish, but I love "oy," it's very useful.)

Will Janet be teased, singled out, ostracized for being transgender? Will she lose her one good friend from a different elementary school who doesn't know she's trans? Will she find new friends who get her differences, with secrets of their own? How will I help without bringing in all my own anxieties and fears?

I lie in bed typing this entry. The crickets call to each other, their songs slowing down as the night gets chillier. Unbelievably it's below 70 degrees and I'm optimistically wearing long sleeved pajamas. It's past midnight, so it's already a September morn.

Gotta love 'em

2010-07-22T21:05:00.000-07:00

The dance

2010-07-22T21:00:00.000-07:00

When Kyle and Aiden were little they gave the best "Mommy!" hugs of the whole pre-school. Really. At 11:30 each morning I'd wait outside the school. I'd get down on one knee and they'd hurtle out the doors, running into my arms. Later, when kindergarten started I was ousted--they were trying to figure out how to be cool in school--but in first, or certainly by second, they went back to rushing me, hugging me, almost knocking me down throughout their elementary school days. Those days were gone, but I still had my sweet grinning boys. Even last fall Kyle would walk by, squeeze my shoulders and say "Love ya, Mom!" I didn't know my days were numbered.

One winter evening I was driving to Modell's with Kyle to get new wrestling shoes and knee pads. (Both soon became useless after Osgood-Schlatter--a knee condition affecting many a teen--kicked in and kicked him out of practice and meets, but that's another story.) On the drive over to the sports store, he ducked his head, hand over his eyes and said under his breath, "Mom, I should have told you this sooner. I feel so bad. It's just, I thought you'd be mad at me.....I have a girlfriend!" I nodded, playing it cool. Heck, he was only in 7th grade! "She's real nice, she's not like some other girls, she's real." He showed me pictures on his cell phone. He was so sweet and dopey. I was thrilled I'd gotten to drive him over alone to the store, one-on-one time with my children are few and far between, yet always worth it. The next day he came over to me in tears. She'd broken up with him by text message.

He'd been dating her a month and I felt a saddened that I hadn't gotten to share the joy he'd experienced during that period. I only got one day! It's not that I'm thrilled that he's dating, it's just I'd like to be in on his enthusiasm.

Fast forward six months. The next time Kyle had a girlfriend I found out by reading somebody else's facebook page. He never mentioned it. In so many ways he has changed. To been-there-done-that parents, this will hardly come as a shock. Our kind, considerate, sensitive, affectionate boy had in six months turned into what seemed like a callous, selfish, materialistic teen. Or is that redundant? Barely home, he rides on his bike throughout town on those silly little stunt bikes. How do they get leverage when they're eating their knees? He forgets to call, and if he shows up for dinner at all he brings four friends. It's essential every night that he has a sleepover with a horde of boys, but never offers to help when his friends are over. It's always important that he have money but thinks I'm clueless when I suggest saving some when he has it.

I'd been trying to clean up the basement to temporarily house this smelly throng of boys. After much goading, I had the boys and their friends downstairs moving tools and shelves, clearing the floor. In my mind we'd straighten the whole basement, paint the floors and/or walls, make the basement look good or at least as tolerable as possible. We had barely cleared a space in front of the 40" projection screen TV we'd found on a curb before they'd grabbed any old kitchen chairs, sat in front of it and started playing x-box. I shuttled them aside to mop the floors and throw down a rug, but soon was shooed away. At least it's easy to please them.

Today Kyle and two friends ran into the house. "We found a cool couch with two reclining seats on the curb! It would be boss in the basement!" I was pleased they'd shown some initiative. They wanted to all jump in the car, but how could we fit the couch in? Instead they would escort me by bike. I drove slowly behind the three weaving and bobbing figures. They rode standing the entire time. Their bodies were so strong and lithe and beautiful. Even as I winced when we turned a corner and they spread out spanning the road--rather than prudently staying to the right--I was stunned by the graceful dance they unwittingly performed in front of me. Those little bikes no longer seemed so stupid. (The low seats, I've learned, have a purpose, too. They protect their privates from getting banged when doing tricks.)

Later that evening Kyle and I drove to Modell's to get some socks. We chatted idly, but it was hard to bring back the sweet evening of last January. As we arrived the store doors shut, as did those of the sneaker shop down the block. We ended up in Kohl's where I got wrapped up in picking out a pair of shoes for myself. On the way out Kyle was pleased. He ended up with some shorts and a bathing suit as well as new socks.

Outside I stopped, stunned. The sky was deep navy blue, still lighter at the horizon. A star or two, or probably a planet, shone extra bright in the sky. To the left the almost-full moon shone white between clouds. Crickets were starting up a racket. "Kyle, stop, look!" I could imagine how it might feel to be outside every night, roaming the streets in the summer air. Before we could talk, his cell phone rang. I urged him to get off, but it was his brother calling from his Grandma's. Then mine rang and my youngest needed me at home. The moment was gone.

Pride part 2

2010-07-10T22:12:00.000-07:00

Matt showed me the video below of Iz singing "Somewhere over the rainbow." I had never heard of him and was amazed by the video. I said "usually if a video showcases the singer versus other images, it's because the singer is gorgeous. Here we have a grossly overweight man singing sweetly." Janet came over to look. After a few moments she said, "He's proud of his body." I can't remember her exact words after that, but in grown-up speak it meant "it's obvious he's proud, see the way he carries himself." Hoping she learns this attitude.

OFFICIAL Somewhere over the Rainbow - Israel "IZ" Kamakawiwoʻole

2010-07-10T22:08:00.000-07:00

Pride and other meandering thoughts

2010-07-10T12:47:00.000-07:00

There comes a time when you have to stand up and shout: This is me damn it! I look the way I look, think the way I think, feel the way I feel, love the way I love! I am a whole complex package....Take me or leave me. Accept me--or walk away. --Stacey Charter

Janet's not there yet, as far as pride goes, but I saw a glimpse the other day. We were traveling north with many stops along the way, long stretches of highway between stops. Sometimes she'd listen to her music, other times get talkative. With her imagination the miles flew. She had seen a video of the Anne Frank story which prompted her flow of thoughts. I would have saved Anne Frank. I would have assassinated Hitler. I would have gotten there in time. Let's just say I was a soldier. She paused. Could women be soldiers? I answered that I wasn't sure, back then, maybe not. Well, that's okay, she said smugly, I'm trans! I'd go in as a spy, as a man, and kill Hitler! Then I'd come out and be a woman, and nobody would recognize me! This was the first time I've heard say call herself "trans" in a proud, even heroic way.

Janet loves the 'what if.' She often starts a sentence with "let's just say" or "what if." Most of her "what if" questions have no plausible answers, unless you realize they mean we should let our imaginations fly. What would our cat say if she turned into a human? Would she say she was mad at us for keeping her in our house, or thank us for the food? Literalist that I sometimes am, I would say, How should I know? She can't do that! Until I realized she meant let's imagine...

On the car ride she worried about the drive, peppering me with questions of safety and getting lost and weather conditions. I cracked up when she said, what if our tire gets flattered?

What is pink? by L

2010-06-20T14:30:00.000-07:00

Pink is the color of a dress
Pink is the color of my eraser
Pink smells like Miss Loeb
Pink tastes like ice cream
Pink is a color in my books
Pink is the earring
like in your ear

Written 6 months after her arrival in America, pretransition

can't win

2010-06-13T20:50:00.000-07:00

Therapist told me my child was terrified to go to the family shore house because she had been rejected or ignored by the large group of cousins. She said I shouldn't take her unless I talked to the parents. I emailed them, and I guess I should have called. Now people are saying they hear my message but think I was criticizing them. Nobody told me this directly either, they did it through my husband. I'm sick of being the black sheep in that family.

We don't live in a war zone. We aren't impoverished. No major illnesses.

Still.

Words of wisdom

2010-06-09T13:25:00.000-07:00

Be sure that it is not you that is mortal, but only your body. For that man whom your outward form reveals is not yourself; the spirit is the true self, not that physical figure which and be pointed out by your finger.

~ Cicero Roman author, orator, & politician (106 BC - 43 BC)

to be nobody but yourself--in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else--means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight, and never stop fighting.

~ e e cummings

Trust yourself. Think for yourself. Act for yourself. Speak for yourself. Be yourself. Imitation is suicide.

~ Marva Collins

There is no way to be a perfect mother, and a million ways to be a good one.

~ Jill Churchill

Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: "What! You, too? Thought I was the only one."

~ C.S. Lewis

Turn your wounds into wisdom.

~ Oprah Winfrey

The three wishes

2010-05-16T19:50:00.000-07:00

Right before bed, Ted said, "I wonder what I'm going to dream about?" He'd been having some interesting ones and was looking forward to what would happen next. We talked about maybe writing them down in a dream journal. Janet overheard and said, "I have three dreams!"

One, that I'm a real girl! I assured her she was, and she said, "Yeah, but a girl with the right parts!"
Two, that I have magical powers! and,
Three, that I marry my crush.

And then we went to bed.

Gender identity video

2010-05-14T10:06:00.000-07:00

Video of a sweet transgender girl

Here's a link to an interview of a friend and her awesome daughter. They both risk exposure in favor of education and better education of the public. This, we all hope, will create a safer environment for all of us.

My first post on the Transyouth Family Allies list serve, 2 years ago

2010-05-13T19:28:00.000-07:00

Hi, I'm new,

I have an almost 9 year old son named L who is questioning his gender identity. On top of that, he's adopted from China, home just 6 months. As we get less uptight (yeah, I know) he has been pushing the boundaries... nightgown at night, Disney Princess pillows, blankets, etc., pink socks at school and necklaces, now a new dress for Chinese New Year's with sparkly silver shoes to match.

In China, when he told us he wanted to change his name it was to Anika, although we were hoping he'd said "Anakin" as in Skywalker, who it turns out, he has a crush on.

So we're going to have to be figuring out the next steps. Should he be talking to somebody trying to figure this all out, or should we just let it flow where it goes?

He's already talking about wearing a dress to school, though, so we have to do something.

When asked he'll tell me he doesn't feel like a girl trapped in a boys' body, he just REALLY likes traditionally girl stuff. I can't be sure how honest this answer is yet. Being adopted, he's likely to be a little cautious about wanting to please us. (Although, frankly, from day one, he asked for a dress.)

He doesn't seem to mind his penis. He definitely is preoccupied with images of boys who wear dresses. Did you see the superbowl commercial where the topless blond turns around and it's a male teen in a wig?

Wondering what the next step is...

Sometimes the system goes on the blink and the whole thing turns out wrong

2010-05-07T20:19:00.000-07:00

How did I know it was going to be a bad day? Was my first inkling when I found myself in the dollar store standing in line only to realize after a minute or two that I hadn't found anything I'd wanted, that I didn't need to be in line?

I certainly should have suspected it when I decided to try on a pair of "skinny jeans." I thought at the time it was funny. I was thinking of the top ten reasons why I shouldn't buy skinny jeans. I only got to seven. Which is supposed to be lucky.

7. I'm not skinny...
6. ...but my wallet is.
5. The holes in my other jeans aren't that bad.
4. I shouldn't go around trying to look like a teenager, not that I'd be fooling anybody.
3. I had trouble squeezing the pant legs over my muscular calves.
2. In the mirror from the belly button to my ankles? Light bulb-shaped.
1. When I tried to pull the pant legs off back over my muscular calves I fell backwards and pulled a back muscle.

Soon after I got home the phone rang. It was Janet's school teacher. At this point I should have known it was going to be a bad day, but I'd gotten teacher phone calls before, they were usually manageable. Apparently Janet had been saying things that bothered her friends. She's got good friends because instead of avoiding her, they wanted to solve the problem. The three friends got together with the teacher to decide what to do. They asked Janet why she kept on saying weird things. They never told the teacher what it was. Janet agreed to try to stop. She admitted that it might be hard.

After I hang up I talk with Janet. What had she said that bothered her friends?

"Asshole."
"Well, um, did you call them assholes?"
"No."
"Did you say to them 'so and so is an asshole?'"
"No."
"Well, how exactly did you say it?"
"Just 'asshole.' It just slipped out."

Oy. Last week she'd told me that a second grader was wearing a Justin Bieber fan shirt. She turned to the girl and said, "Why don't you just kiss his butt!" The girl's mom bawled her out, and Janet had come home in tears. She was really confused because she didn't know why she'd said it. She said, "I felt like I wasn't on my medicine, but I was." Janet takes ADHD meds which usually curb her impulsiveness.

Great. Anyway, I google it, and sure enough there's a link between ADHD and Tourette's Syndrome. Apparently, it often can kick in during puberty. Like all my adopted, transgender, ADHD daughter needs is another complication. Like all my laid-off, struggling to survive financially, stressed out family needs is more stuff to lose sleep over.

I call a friend to cry. I cry a little. Soon after, another friend returns my phone call. I'm standing on the front porch watching Ted play basketball when she calls. Things were looking up. I'd spoken with one good friend, and now another pal from childhood was reaching out.

Danger! Remember? You're having a bad day!

Face scrunched up, the neighbor screams over at us, "You didn't listen to us! We asked you to stop playing basketball and it's wrecking our lawn and pachysandra! My kids played at the high school, yours can too." Which misses the point that I can keep my eye on them when they're playing, it keeps them off the computer, and it keeps them from bickering. Flustered I say, "When George quits smoking!" "He did last April!" Woops. Even more lame I say, "We can still smell it!" Huh? Now I'm just an idiot. "Well, you're welcome to build a fence," I suggest, belatedly. That's what I was supposed to say in the beginning. Something about, "There is case-law on incidental overlap of property. If the neighbor wants to protect his property then it is incumbent upon him to put up a fence or net to stop encroachment."

We go inside and the kids are all worked up. A siren wails in the background and Janet is convinced the cops are coming to get us. Thanks a lot, neighbor, like that girl needs more to be scared about. She regularly has nightmares about her orphanage days.

It's not over yet. Matt pulls up. We regularly get 10 half gallons of milk from a Trenton dairy because it saves us tons of money (read $1.39/half gallon of lactose-free vs. $4.00/half gallon times 10 cartons). Somehow, on the way home, a carton has leaked inside the car, drenching the seat. Matt and I are looking at the instructions and grunting, trying to pry the seat out of the van but it is stuck, maybe rusted. As I reach my hand under the seat my arm is getting soaked with milk which, apparently, has saturated through to the bottom of the seat. Just as I finally release the mechanism, Janet screams.

She and Ted had been playing chase, something that happens more when they can't play a regulated game like, I don't know, say basketball? Ted runs over saying "Janet's really hurt!" We rush over as we hear her cry out. Janet had tripped off the sloping edge of the property and landed smash on the pavement. An scraped arm, a bump on the head. All that girl needs...

Time to go to bed. Before I head up I shut the curtains on the neighbor's side. Suddenly I don't want them peering into our house, our lives.

Because you had a bad day
You're taking one down
You sing a sad song just to turn it around
You say you don't know
You tell me don't lie
You work at a smile and you go for a ride
You had a bad day
The camera don't lie
You're coming back down and you really don't mind
You had a bad day...

from "Bad Day" by Daniel Powter

Not on topic, just love the Traveling Wilburys

2010-04-30T20:12:00.000-07:00

Traveling Wilburys - Tweeter and the Monkey Man from dagb on Vimeo.

I should have recorded it...

2010-04-20T19:14:00.000-07:00

It is so urgent to write when you feel things. Maybe it's just my limited skill as a writer, but I feel I can only write well when my emotions are strong. It's a real shame because there are events I'd like to record. Like when it finally sunk in that Janet was a girl.

Actually, let's back up a few years. When I was pregnant with Ted, Matt and I sat in the exam room waiting for my sonogram. The tech was late, and Matt had to run across the street for an eye appointment. We wanted to learn the gender at the same time, so the doctor wrote it on a piece of paper and folded it up.

I found Matt in the doctor's office. His eye was swollen and weeping heavily. The doctor had gone off to find the head doctor so the two could ooh and ah at how terrible Matt's eye looked. Matt and I had a moment alone. We opened the paper, and started crying. With twin boys, we both had been hoping our third child would be a girl. No such luck.

Now that we had three sons, who could believe that when we started discussing adoption that we were considering a boy? Actually I'd been looking at photos of boys and girls, but was really looking for a specific age. When I found L, I saw a photo of a boy, just one year older than Ted, with a birthday only 2 days apart from him. He hailed from a city I'd visited and somehow all these factors seemed like an omen. Even his name--Ru--sounded like Matt's grandfather's--Rudolph. This from a woman who swears by rationality and the non-existence of gods and omens and fate. When Matt said, "Yeah, let's look into it" I couldn't believe it. For some inexplicable reason I'd been thinking about adoption for years. I'm still not sure why, but I was always drawn to adoption. Also, I was convinced Ted needed a playmate, somebody to draw him away from perpetually pestering his older twin brothers. (Yeah that worked. Now he unceasingly annoys Janet.)

We both decided that having a boy was more rational. He'd share a room with Ted, we'd get bunk beds. Aiden and Kyle had more than enough hand-me-downs for Ted, now we could save some more for their new brother. Yes, a girl would be sweet, but what did we know from girls? More to worry when they hit high school. At least that's what I talked myself into.

Flash forward to the day I really realized our adopted child was a girl. My heart did a little flip. All the anxiety and fear of what it would mean to raise a gender variant child, I momentarily put aside. Why, we had our little girl after all! We could go shopping, get our ears pierced, do each others' hair. Not many days after that period of euphoria I was met with the reality of trying to deal with Matt's almost insurmountable grief at the same news. My happy feelings were pushed aside. With more recent days of an eye rolling, scowling, hair flipping tween, it's even harder to bring back that moment. Oh, had I written about it then...

Yet authors do it all the time. Memoir writers, or fiction writers, they recreate a moment of time for others. They have to make you believe it. This will be a short post. I'll be working on that moment.

What my mom told me. What my dad told me.

2010-04-09T13:39:00.000-07:00

These memories by no means represent the wealth and depth of knowledge that my parents imparted on me. Just two snippets.

Part 1

Today in my yard I saw violets blooming. As a sometime gardener and a lackadaisical weeder, I know full well that violets, though pretty in April, take up valuable lawn space and lead to weeds later in the year. Doesn't matter. I still love my violets.

Every spring when the violets bloomed my mom and I would walk back through our neighbor's backyard (now blocked by fences) across the baseball field and into the woods to pick violets. The hidden patch of violets by the woods' edge always sparked my imagination. I used to wonder how they got there, something about fairies or elves. We'd pick them, bring them home, them wrap them up into little bouquets with wet paper towels and aluminum foil to keep them fresh. Did we do this early in the morning? I'm not sure, but I remember every year bringing them to my teachers.

When fifth grade hit I got shy. My teacher was male. It's possible I had a crush on him. Maybe not, but I was still embarrassed to bring him flowers. Don't only women and girls like flowers?

What my mom told me: Maybe since he's a man, maybe no one else brought him flowers, so it was even more important to bring them to him. Was this one of my formative lessons on having few expectations of gender?

Part 2
Recently I was reading a mystery about a bone scientist by Aaron Elkins. Just a professor, the main character somewhat unbelievably but always entertainingly comes across corpses time and again. Well, not exactly corpses, but the partial skeletal remains of them. In the latest one I read he had to investigate the charred remains of an arson victim. He perhaps too graphically pointed out that a burnt corpse smells disturbingly like a steak barbecue, but looks ghastly, confusing the sense and making one gag.

Which reminds me of the day, when I was very young, that I asked my dad why we didn't eat human meat. I mean if somebody died, and the meat was fresh, why didn't humans eat it? Not that I wanted to eat it. It was more of a philosophical question.

What my dad said: "We don't eat meat because what would happen if we found out we liked it?" Good point.

There you have it. Meandering thoughts on a spring day.

Art below, again, by Jymi Cliche. Jymi rocks.

2010-03-27T21:10:00.001-07:00

Kind of like this house

2010-03-27T21:09:00.000-07:00

My husband's cousin was visiting today. Frank, a sweet, well-meaning family man, who nonetheless tends to put his foot in his mouth. Which I'll get to in a minute. Let me tell you about Frank. He asks about our family, he even listens, but most of all he really likes to talk about himself and throw around jargon uniquely specific to his arcane interests as though we'd all understand. (Or maybe he really thinks we do understand?) Either way, I usually nod my head not bothering to ask the meaning of "kerf," for example. After all, it would only lead down the slippery slope of a topic which--interesting though it might be in brevity--would prove less sufferable in depth.

Frank, on the other hand, is an avid learner. When I mentioned the word "propinquity," partially because I knew he'd bite, he brightened, eyes alert, like an eager puppy. I could almost see his ears perking up. "Propinquity? What would be the meaning of that word?" I knew that he was filing it away in some mental toolbox to fit into an appropriate conversation in the near future. Maybe that's why he'd made it so far in his corporation. That, a moral fortitude, and luck.

Let's face it, we've all had bad luck recently. Even Frank braces himself each time his company conducts more job cuts. The big four nine, he tells us, had been a bigger milestone in his life than turning 50. After 49, apparently, his company cannot lay him off without a damn good reason.

Okay, but there's luck and there's luck. Or maybe a well-planned life and a haphazard life. Which is to say, my husband prepared himself for a virtuous yet lucrative career. Unfortunately, he married a lovely, creative, intelligent woman (moi!) who took a more erratic career path. In fact she's still picking her way through the woods, trying to forge a path towards the golden apple, or some other fairy tale aspiration...a house built of candy? Wait, I must be channeling my children. A room full of porridge? Perhaps not, but certainly a more comfortable bed. Sorry, I'm meandering again. Where is that trail? Oh, yeah. My husband, he planned well, but got bad luck. Frank, if all else fails, at least he married a doctor. He loses his job? Honestly, he wouldn't be trying to figure out whether his kids qualified for CHIP or medical assistance. (Art by Jymi Cliche.)

But about that foot in the mouth thing. During his recent visit, Frank was subject to my son Kyle's wild lamenting over not being able to afford the paint-ball battle his brother and friends were joining the next day. You see Kyle had ignored our relentless efforts to teach him to save his money. He's more likely to instantly spend it before it even reaches his pockets. Frank nodded knowingly. "It's hard to teach the kids these days. As a kids we lived on one side of the street, the houses across the road were water-front homes and by definition our friends there were always more well-off than we were. In fact, our house was humble, you know, kind of like this house..." Ouch! Did I mention Frank and Dear Hubby are in the same profession? Double ouch.

Art by Jymi Cliche, in my mind describes my previous post.

2010-03-12T07:24:00.000-08:00

Mini Mad Mom

2010-03-11T21:06:00.000-08:00

I think in my mid 40's I'm finally realizing that micromanaging doesn't work. This has hit me in the head like a hammer since I started working for an explosive (but well-meaning) boss. More on that situation later, but just realize I keep seeing myself mirrored in her worse traits. Well, I'm on the same spectrum, let's say. I'm mini-mad woman.

It's 8pm and the children, the younger ones at least, should be getting ready for bed. But we haven't let Janet watch American Idol in a while, and this time it's on at 8, not 9, so I decide to leave the TV on (after a good hour of The Simpson's and Seinfeld.) Soon all are watching and Matt is, as always, doing work on his laptop.

I feel him wince as the mood gets frenetic. Some pounce on Janet for talking over the dialog (a combination of not having English entirely down yet, being ultra curious and having ADHD makes her the queen of interrupting.) She gets mad when others talk during the show, but how to explain the subtleties of waiting for the appropriate pause in the show? Everyone is being loud and Matt is cringing.

"Ohmigod!" I think, in panic. I urged him to adopt, and he thought our family was too chaotic to start with, and now it's all my fault. Matt is under so much stress, I worry. The problem with Matt is he gives too much of himself, then feels resentful that he, well, gave too much of himself. Honestly, he should nurture himself sometimes before giving himself so completely to us all. But that's another story. Back to me being the bane of his existence, causing this stress, convincing him to adopt, and then all the complications of ADHD and gender identity and family bickering.

Then comes the bad idea. "Hmmm," I ponder, "I'll intervene and then the stress level will drop." Now's the point where you're shouting from the sidelines "Nooooo! Don't go in there! Bad play!" Unfortunately you're reading this after the fact, so I can't hear you. I start menacingly interfering at every slight slander, whiningly (the spell check doesn't like that one, but spel lcheck and I aren't friends, it doesn't like "transgender" either), ahem, whiningly demanding the kids stop squabbling/lower their voices/stop being so jangly. Belatedly I realize my own contributions add to the number of people whining and yelling and rather than alleviating any stress I have confirmed that this family is bonkers.

When will I learn that interfering (duh!) always makes things worse? Well, frankly, there is no real lesson to learn. If I don't interfere and someone gets hurt it's my fault too. By the end of "Idol" Matt has gone upstairs to try to sleep but Janet has wandered off (even though she was the one who so urgently wanted to watch it) to invent more work for Matt. Her curiosity is an attribute Matt, being a scientist, greatly admires, and often leads to her needing a grown-up to help her a) set up a tent in her bedroom, b) create a solar oven, or c) rescue an old computer monitor from the curb and try to dismantle it. While he is proud of this trait, it drains him because he feels compelled to assist her in her endeavors. Stop setting up the tent! I bellow upstairs. Leave your father alone! Oh yeah, now he'll rest peacefully. Again, my attempts to protect him only make things worse.

The last straw was when Ted stopped to fart in Kyle's face--twice--before heading upstairs to bed. I used my deep belly voice to reprimand him "Get. Up. Stairs." I knew the kids usually felt like I favored Ted and let him get away with things. Ted had been out of hand and I wanted to prove to his siblings that I was on their side. One day last week 10 year old Ted was lashing out at almost 13-year old Kyle with a plastic sword and actually left red marks. Kyle was pretty hurt, shaken and ashamed his younger brother could injure him and he couldn't stop it.

So today Micromanager Mommy swoops in to save the day. Only when she growls in that certain belly voice, all the kids freak out. They, as one, stand up and swiftly silently climb the stairs. I have achieved quiet, but have scared the crap out of my children. Soon after I went to check in on the twins. "I was just trying to protect you from Ted." They just looked at me solemnly, unconvinced. Bad mommy.

I'm gonna scream

2010-02-22T16:33:00.000-08:00

Today it was 40 degrees. My daughter who sulks when I ask her to wear an extra thin hoody over her short-sleeved tee in 20 degree weather asked for one of those "puffy winter coats" saying they look so warm. I'm like, "I'm gonna scream!

Clearly she is influenced by trends, but I wanted to delve more. It turns out she resisted layers in the morning because, as she said, "the rooms were like different temperatures." I'm like, "But the coat is for outside." Apparently she goes to school with whatever layers she wears outside and keeps them on inside. Um, that's why they're like, called layers? So you can add or remove them??

I do know it's what she did in China, we all did. South of the Yellow River there is no central heating in public buildings, so you wear your winter coats inside. But, like, y'know, technically she's not in China any more? And our schools do have central heating? (And, no, I'm not a valley girl, just felt like sounding like one today.)

Nouveau Pauvre

2010-02-21T18:27:00.000-08:00

I thought I'd coined it, but of course I hadn't. Can't be a lot of things out there that haven't been coined yet. You've heard of Urban Dictionary.com? Like Wikipedia, it is constantly being edited and updated, but usually by juveniles. Caution: you may not want to go there if you have a maturity level above the age of 12. It's a convenient place to find out what your 12 year-olds are talking about when they say "This chote came up and tried to pick a fight."(Again, caution.)

The Urban Dictionary says the nouveau pauvre are people who have money but for some reason are suddenly broke. Or, "young people graduating in the middle of a recession who have few employment opportunities, live on a budget, but want to live well." I'd like to extend this definition to include the recently unemployed who are used to a higher tax bracket and find themselves befuddled by the new set of rules and regulations they must face in their day-to-day struggle. I recently posted this on facebook: "I seem to find myself between a rock and a hard place. We earn too little for our children to qualify for CHiP (the state-based health insurance plan for children) but too rich for Medical Assistance. An acquaintance on Facebook commented: "It has been this way for a long time; you just didn't notice. Almost makes it so you have to quit your job or cut your hours so you can get coverage for your kids. How wrong is that?"

I admit we come from La La land. Upper middle class parents on both sides who held the same job most of their lives and have comfortable pensions. Matt was gainfully employed for 10 years while I volunteered here and there, musing about what I'd do when I went back to work (y'know, grew up...) Then came the recession. Given the recession, it feels surrealistic to be piling up six bags (six garbage bags full!) of used clothing that my children won't wear. Probably this isn't wise. I mean seriously, this summer when Ted or Janet want new shorts, what was I thinking dumping several pairs? Yet we are the nouveau pauvre, we don't yet know what it means to truly want. They say they won't wear them. And they take up space in our cluttered house.

Last fall I volunteered to help out a friend who was walking in the breast cancer three day. She mailed me a large box full of t-shirts in short- and long-sleeved grey and pink shirts in sizes small through xxl. My marketing skills apparently stink because I was unable to sell any. Imagine, if we lived in Haiti after the earthquake, whole families would be walking around with "Fun Bags: Breast Cancer Annihilation Tour" t-shirts and feel fortunate to boot. Instead I keep a stack by my bed for when I wake up with night sweats. The rest I dumped in the clothing donations box.

I paused before agreeing for my son to order a wrestling team t-shirt and photo--he has dozens of t-shirts and the photo from his football team lies in a junk drawer in his dresser. It hasn't entirely dawned on us that we cannot appease every one of our children's wishes when our savings account is draining. When will it sink in? We are still living off our savings, but one day, in a blink, we will not be able to pay our mortgage. Our three options all begin with the word 'borrow.'

Borrow from the bank. We have an outstanding home-equity loan we could access. Drawback: when does it end? It's a stop-gap strategy, not a solution.
Borrow from family. At least one relative has told us we could access some of our future inheritance early. Technically it wouldn't be a loan, but it would still be borrowing from our future, money we'd be able to use as we age (providing the stress doesn't down us early :-(.
Borrow from our retirement savings. Having worked for a large corporation for 10 years, we've accrued savings in 401K plans. High penalties would be attached to accessing this money, although we've heard we could borrow against our 401K plan. Again, that word "borrow."

Of course the real option is to start earning enough to support the family. To that end Matt and I are both applying for jobs as well as trying to get our business going. We love helping homeowners to reduce their carbon footprint. It makes their homes more comfortable and helps save the planet. Yet we'd have to do one long audit or two short audits a day, every day to support the family. The fact is, there are no auditors out there bringing in that number of clients, and even the busy ones have only a small profit margin.

Final note: Since I started this entry I had a phone interview for a job. The human resources interviewer was suspicious that I had no grant writing experience. It turned out her boss, the executive director, had insisted they call me in anyway. After all, I'd gone to Oberlin. (Glad to hear that still has cachet some 25 years later.) By the end of the phone call the interviewer said, "This is an off the wall question, but could you possibly come in tomorrow as a temp? The grant is due tomorrow." And so I did. Of course, being a non-profit, the pay is abysmal. But, hey, at least they're hiring. Which is more than I can say about most other organizations. I temp again next week. More on that later.

Eloquent art piece--don't miss

2010-02-21T18:13:00.000-08:00

Please visit here if you want to comment on Aiden's page.

Mother, May I?

2010-02-04T22:13:00.000-08:00

Meeting your adopted child for the first time isn't always love at first sight. It can be. Some families immediately fit like a glove. Other times the bonding comes in fits and starts. The funny thing about bonding with your adopted child--surprisingly, is that intentional bonding often works. Force your stiff face into a smile. She smiles back. Your heart melts just a wee bit. You both take a step towards each other. Kind of like a drawn out game of Mother, May I. One step forward, two steps back.

[Note, although Julie is a girl, during the pre-transition stage we use "he."] We arrived home from China in the hot stuffy weather of August in Pennsylvania. True, China was hotter and stuffier, but not by much. Early the next morning neither L nor I could sleep. At 4 am we arose, wide awake but bone tired. The two of us stepped out into the dawn for a barefoot walk around the block. I am not a morning person, but I wish I were. It was lovely, the quality of light, the quiet streets, the early birds. At that time of the morning it wasn't yet searing, but our tender feet were not used to concrete. In fact, L had never been barefoot outside in his life and by the end of the walk he was practically limping. Our black cat, perhaps due to missing us so much while we were away, in a rare act of companionship accompanied us around the block. What must we have looked like? A bone-tired mom, a wincing, limping boy and a nervous cat, bravely following along, yet anxiously clinging closely to the bushes near the houses like an incompetent spy.

The evening before, my mother had gifted L and his three brothers with welcome-home Lego cars. Tears of frustration filled L's eyes when he could not assemble his. We had assumed that L, being a boy, would love Legos, especially Lego cars. We'd sent little packages of Lego sets to China, as well as a super-hero wallet and sports stickers. One of the pictures we received from China during our nine-month wait was a photo of L looking morose and holding a rather realistic-looking stuffed animal duck we'd sent him. Behind him were hints of pink coverlets, stickers. We had not sent any frilly dolls or fluffy bears, but a mandarin duck. How were we to know? I mentioned it to Janet recently and she laughed. "It made a really weird noise." She'd wanted a soft white bunny.

Not long after L's arrival he discovered the dress-ups. Giggling he came downstairs, strutting in a wig of long ratty black hair. We'd used it for a caveman costume. The lack of dresses didn't stop him for a minute. He'd found a black wizard's gown, turned it backwards and voila! A dress with a deep vee neck. Clown's make-up worked in a pinch. He was spinning around dancing, then ran out onto the lawn. "Get back inside!" my sweet, anxious hubby bellowed. This angry side I didn't recognize. Hadn't he gone to Berkeley, of all places, for University? I am typically the "one who yells" in the family, Matt the stoic is the "one who keeps it all inside." Needless to say, Matt had to have been going through some tough emotions. I didn't know why L couldn't play dress-ups outside but knew Matt was upset. The adoption had been my idea. Okay, more than my idea. Had it not been for my persistence (insistence?) we would still be a family of five. In my mind I was the intermediary and in that capacity set out to please everyone. Probably ended up pleasing nobody.

One day not long after, I sat in the living room of my neighbor, a lively, funny woman whom I'd never gotten to know real well. Like most families who have lived in this town for generations, she was Irish, Catholic and Republican. We both looked up as L came floating down their stairs modeling the daughter Callie's dresses. My neighbor sent him back up, reprimanding, "Those are Callie's church dresses." "L likes to try on girl's clothing," I confessed. "Maybe he's crossgender," she suggested. Wow. I wasn't expecting that from her. "Ah," she explained, waving her hand dismissively, "as a nurse you see everything!"

Later L came home from their house with two Barbie dolls and a story. One of the dolls sang a dreadful song when you pulled the string on her back. Some high-pitched gibberish I barely listened to. I rolled my eyes, already imagining hearing that all day long. Great, I muttered to myself, more annoying children's electronics!

As for the story, it turned out Callie had a hat box full of memorabilia. Her birth certificate, a lock of hair, etc. L really wanted one too. My heart did a flip. We could have a mother-child bonding moment, healing the wounds of being an orphan and creating our family lore together. I helped him gather together his adoption certificate, a copy of the note left with him when he was abandoned outside a police station stating the day and time of birth, early photos. Then he described to me the box he hoped for. I sighed as I realized it was pink and beribboned. I trudged back to see the neighbor's special box. Around the rim of the box it said "It's a girl! It's a girl! It's a girl!" Oh, shit.

In his room we examined his newly acquired dolls. Another bonding moment. "What is the song she sings?" he'd asked, innocently. I later discovered he was quite familiar with the song--he'd watched the show over and over in China. Barbie, Inc. puts out a series of well-known stories as musicals, with Barbie as the star. This particular Barbie doll came from the story "The Princess and The Pauper." In this version the Princess, named Annelise, meets a young woman, Erika, in the marketplace and they realize they could be twins, they look so much alike. The whole DVD had been translated into Chinese, but the songs remained in English. As I later learned, L had carried along with him to the States a stack of these Barbie musicals. Now, he pulled the string and asked me to interpret. I had to pull it a few times to decipher the song in it's entirety:

I'm just like you
You're just like me
It's something anyone can see
A heart that beats
A voice that speaks the truth
Yes, I am a girl like you.

I stood in front of the hat boxes at Ross Dress for Less. They were clearly made for babies or children and not for hats. There sat the exact same squat cylinder box declaring "It's a girl!" The me inside me knew I should get L. whatever he wanted. What difference could it make? Everything, apparently. I could have then and there bravely stepped forward and declared (in my heart), "I will treat this child just as I have tried to treat my other three. I will not regulate his tastes to please myself." But the scared part of me didn't want to make any waves.

I didn't choose the blue boy one, but couldn't get myself to buy the frilly girl one. I told myself had it been merely pink, I'd have bought it. But the words, I thought, they were too much. Instead I chose a neutral beige box with sleds and tricycles. Later he accepted it halfheartedly.

In my heart I knew I would be letting him down. On the way back down the aisle I saw a big bright fuschia fluffy blanket. Perfect, I thought! I would buy it as a concession. When climbing into bed he would be thrilled to discover the beautiful blanket, yet I was secretly glad it would be safely layered under a blue coverlet, keeping him comfy, but hiding his light. That night I made his bed, tucking in everything just so. The next day I checked in to find he had remade his bed, cool sheets inside, warm comfy bright pink blanket on the outside.

Hello? Mom? Are you listening?

No crap, pee & crap

2010-01-19T19:02:00.000-08:00

Sorry everyone for the vulgarisms. Also, please use discretion in whom you show this to.

No crap. I came home from food shopping. I love shopping! I hate unloading and putting things away, but I adore shopping! I talk to strangers, "Can you believe the raisin bran boxes are shrinking as the prices rise?" When I remarked how inexpensive the pears were, a woman asked me how to keep pears from turning brown in a fruit salad. My husband makes fruit salad swimming in orange juice and I passed on that tip. When I comment, some people answer me, some ignore me. But I have fun.I also feel virtuous when I shop at Gentile's, our local best deal in veggies. Healthful food and great prices to boot. I enjoy going. Next stop, Acme where I bought several frozen vegetables to fill in when the fresh ones fail, as well as some staples. When I got home, little Ted queried, "Did you buy any crap?" Nope, no crap. "Aww, mom!"
Pee. The number one imagined issue when others think about transgender people is that something horrific will happen if "those people" use our bathrooms. News flash! They're doing it all the time. No reported incidents. Now that more and more children are being allowed to express their gender identity at younger ages, schools have had to learn to address these issues. Unfortunately bathrooms often become their number one concern. Is it to protect our transgender children? No, it's to protect their classmates from them. Or worse, for the school administrators to protect their butts from angry parents (rather than to, as a novel idea, do what's good and right.)

What exactly people imagine my daughter will do to another girl in the bathroom is a mystery to me. She certainly isn't going to show them her genitals, that's the last thing she would do. Then again, what girls do expose their genitals during bathroom breaks? There are as many redheads as intersex people in the world's population (between 1 and 2%.) My point being, we rarely know what the genitals of people we are interacting with look like. Why should we?

Why all this now? I got a phone call from Janet's cell. She'd peed in her pants on the way home, could I pick her up? You see, they make her use the nurse's bathroom, down the stairs and through several hallways, which are crowded as school gets out. There is a girl's bathroom close to every classroom where girls take breaks, and giggle and talk. But my daughter is too "dangerous" for these places. So sometimes she wets her pants on the way home. Thanks, world.
Crap. I return from rescuing Janet only to be summoned upstairs by my hubby. He wants to show me his rejection letter. The underpaid, temporary, no benefit job that we were holding our breath for him to get? He didn't get it. Crap.

Happy MLK Day

2010-01-18T18:40:00.000-08:00

Poem to inspire any of the oppressed:

Maya Angelou recites her poem "And Still I Rise"

Dangling possibilities revisited

2010-01-14T14:27:00.000-08:00

This morning as I slipped into a long-sleeved silk undershirt to ward off the frigid temperatures, I detected a waft of mildew. I have a nose for these things. The garment had either slightly mildewed after I had folded and stored it when still damp, or it had absorbed any lingering mildew from hanging in the basement to dry. In case it was the latter, I headed to the basement to retrieve any other hanging delicates in hopes of curtailing any future mildew casualties. I had purchased this ingenious hanger common in Asia, especially in Japan and Hong Kong. It looks on the top like the hook of a coat hanger but it descends down into a square upon which dangle rows of pinching clothespins. Why these aren't ubiquitous in the U.S. is a mystery to me. There hung several raggedy gray wool socks, more evidence of our meager attempts to thwart the cold. Also, dangling were silk undies of the more sensuous sort: black, leopard, magenta. In a burst of inspiration I brought the plastic hanger up to the living room by the toasty wood stove. The only place to attach it was a dangling chain from the ceiling fan/light fixture. I had just got it in place when I peered out the window. The insulation guys had arrived in their big truck. I struggled to untangle the hook from the chain as they approached the door. Dangling possibilities...

Themes

2010-01-13T20:32:00.000-08:00

Am I supposed to have a theme? Will you all go away if I don't stick to it? Certainly you all will high tail it if this just becomes whining. Maybe if any of you out there can ask a question in the comments, about depression, parenting, the recession, transgender kids, you name it, I'll try to address that issue is my next post.

Meanwhile, this week we find out if Steve gets a low-paying, temporary job with no benefits. Are we sitting on the edge of our seats?
In the words of Sarah Palin: You betcha! The alternative is stumbling along with the virtuous energy auditing and empty pockets. We thought we'd hear by now, which isn't a good sign. Please make it so.

On a baser note, Matt was bending over to caulk the back of Ted's closet where we added insulation. Yes, folks, he revealed a plumber's crack peeping out from his low-slung jeans. Is this a hazard of the working class laborers? Will I soon develop one? Frankly, folks, I'd rather have writer's cramp.

Which brings us back to me. Mi, mi, mi, mi, mi! I was helping a friend, a busy dual-income family with a small child and ADD parents. They're both academics and she needed research fact checking. I literally loved it! I'm a detective, a Lois Lane, pen behind my ear. She quoted in an academic paper on environmental law: "The U.S. has 5% of the world's population and 25% of the world's emissions." The review board asked, "Where's the citation?" A quick search proved everyone and her brother cited this statistic up the wazoo, including the New York Times. Nobody, it seems, had added a footnote. Finding a source proved difficult. With a gentle nudge from my hubby (that PhD was good for something!) I checked out the Union of Concerned Scientists. Eventually I found a chart showing the world's major polluters and the emissions per major polluter. Add them all up, figure out the percentage of the U.S. and voila! 25%! Not the quote I was looking for, but the facts, ma'am, just the facts. Later I ended up talking to mayors' offices across the country. Everybody was happy to help. In short, I've found a profession I enjoy, now to find clients...

Happy Pieces

2010-01-11T12:53:00.000-08:00

Last night I had a splitting sinus headache. Good, I thought, then I can cancel my meeting with the accountant. Which makes no sense because his job is to help me do my books, and the more trouble I'm having, the more incentive I should have to meet with him, after all, that's what I'm paying him for. Who said I was rational? My fear, if you dig down deep to reveal it's ugly mass, is that he will judge me, I guess, look at me and say, "Who do you think you are trying to run a business???"

So, I woke up, lying in bed and feeling the onset of a headache. Yes! I'll call in and say I have a migraine. But as I stood up the headache receded. After breakfast I wished and I washed, but eventually decided I would have time to cram in last minute bookkeeping and make it to my 11am appointment with a little bit of pride. I threw my notebook and computer into a grocery bag made from recycled plastic with an alligator printed on the side. Arriving, I displayed it to the accountant, bragging, "You like my alligator brief case?" "Um, wasn't your appointment for 1pm?" Luckily, he was fine fitting me in. Unluckily he discovered I hadn't reconciled accounts since September.

I sat at a table, reconciling, pausing to ask him questions as he did other work. Once he came over, said, "You're going to hate me" and wiped out all my hard work. I was $583 off, and he wanted me to recheck. "Young, Grasshopper, one must learn by doing," I teased him.

Two and a half hours later I left feeling I had accomplished something and maybe learned Quickbooks a little bit more. Except for that niggling $1750 deposit I have no record receiving. Still, I was smiling, feeling like I'd accomplished something difficult yet rewarding.

After sustenance I headed to Whole Foods for the shopping. Barring Halo Farms, the oddly nicknamed "world's largest micro-dairy" which sells lactose-free milk at $1.33/half gallon, Whole Foods is the cheapest at a mere $3.80/half gallon. Jeez! Unfortunately Halo Farms is almost an hour away, so when Uncle E cannot make his weekly delivery, we're stuck with Whole Foods. This week he was off.

Almost at the check-out, I remember to check for ginger preserves. I've checked at a couple of the local supermarkets, sure I'd purchased them there before, but with no luck. A young clerk led me to the appropriate aisle. I reached my hand towards a slightly turned promisingly gold-filled glass jar, turning it to read the label. "Yes!" I shouted, raising the last jar into the air and dancing! "Ginger preserves!" Alone in the aisle, I began happily dancing to the jazzy piped-in supermarket music. Looking up I saw an older woman gazing at me smiling. "More people should be like you!" she exclaimed. I giggled, thinking to myself, "You mean all broken bits on the inside?" I guess a few happy pieces floated to the top.

Adoption; or, colorful subplots

2010-01-03T08:29:00.000-08:00

The road is long and windy, Like a good mystery unfolding, It twists and turns, In colorful subplots and sunburns, And fake out endings, And sometimes my patience in the whole process starts bending...(from ALO's Barbeque)

When I first joined the adoption community we were waiting nervously for our child. We already had doubts of our decision with three children and a stressful work situation. With equal mounts of joyful anticipation, and trepidation, We entered a whole new world.

Often the waiting families already had several grown children and then had a new set of younger adopted children. Some seemed compulsive with five or six adopted children, often similar ages. Their stated motivation was their god's calling. I was simultaneously in awe of these people and a bit wary of them. On the one hand, what incredible devotion and sense of mission. How could one not want to parent otherwise abandoned children? On the other hand, it's hard not to read into things. Could some of these parents be suffering from an exaggerated case of empty nest syndrome? How could anyone possibly attend to the needs of that many biological children, let alone those with special needs, raised in institutions?

True, many didn't adopt children older than ages two or three, who often have easier adjustments into the American family. Some only intended to adopt one or two, but found themselves drawn to other waiting children, sometimes their new child's friend from the same orphanage (known in China as social welfare institutes or SWI's.) Other times a family is inadvertently touched by a 13 year old child about to age out of the system (in China a 14 year old is no longer adoptable.) I've seen a family go back to adopt a child with similar special needs, such as a family with an albino child that feels that, with their experience in raising such a child, they are the best family equipped to adopt another. Or maybe their child feels left out.

But do these formulas really work? Does adding an older child to a family, with two elementary aged children adopted as babies, add a blessing or something more complicated? Can a young teen learn to cuddle with, or even fully trust his new parents? Certainly sometimes, but this is not a given. Do the two special needs kids really connect just because they share a particular skin-tone? Can you really even tell until years have gone by how the family has been influenced by the new addition? Bickering youngsters might rely on each other as adult siblings. Those years, though, the years of arguing and anxiety, do they add an unfair hardship to the original set of children, or even to a reluctant parent? Or do the lessons of charity, tolerance and understanding add to the depth of the whole family's life long experience? The latter is, of course, what we count on.

What strikes me most is how indefatigable these parents are. For us, the days, hours, weeks, months following our adoption of Janet were in strict maintenance mode, barely keeping our heads above water. Similar--yet different--from the first year of parenting twins.

Have you ever had a guest that overstayed her visit? Even a beloved family member or friend, after a certain number of days, you grow weary and your routine is thrown off. Now imagine a complete stranger, who doesn't speak your language, has completely different customs, habits, mannerisms than your own, who just won't go home. Moreover you have committed yourself to making sure she stays. Your children who have eagerly anticipated the new arrival quickly sour. Who is this intruder, they wonder. You, the parent, wonder the same thing. What were we thinking?

We couldn't have survived those early days without the mostly online community of fellow adopters who told us, time and again, that this feeling, too, shall pass. They spoke of faith, something that we lack in a religious sense. We discovered a different sort of faith, a faith in the process, that there will come a time when we won't be able to imagine life without this child. The feeling began to blossom. Until, in the sixth month home, we realized we had adopted a transgender child. So the mystery unfolds.

Hormone Wash in the Brain

2009-12-28T18:03:00.000-08:00

I have been asked about the science of a hormone wash in the brain. There is no proven link, but there have been some studies. I'm not a science writer, that's more my husband's field. While I have done a lot of reading on gender identity, I tend to remember things without recalling the actual sources. So, there might be better links, but here's what I found in a quick search. In Foetal testosterone and the child systemizing quotient they discuss animal models:

"In animal models, the critical period for sexual differentiationof the brain occurs when the differences in serum testosteronebetween sexes are highest (4). Studies reveal that the greatestsex differences in foetal testosterone (fT) levels are detectablebetween weeks 14 and 16 of gestation (5)....Finegan, Bartleman and Wong(6) proposed that the amniotic fluid, obtained from routineamniocentesis, could be used to measure prenatal hormone levelsduring the critical period for sexual differentiation of thebrain; the variation in prenatal hormone levels could then belinked to later development of cognition and behaviour."

Also, at Brain Development, Postnatal - M-Z

Studies of male fetus: a hormonal wash physically alters the male fetus’s brain and masculinizes it to produce male sexual behavior. It also creates many of the typical differences seen between the sexes, like girls’ superiority at speech and boys’ at spatial tasks. (Carter, Rita, Ed. Mapping the Mind. CA: University of California Press, 1998.

I do know that while some transgender children become disturbed by their changing bodies at onset of puberty, many children insist on a different gender identity than their biological gender assigned at birth as soon as they can speak.

No studies show that some sort of predetermined set of environmental parameters influence gender identity. This, of course, is what everyone presumes. "Oh, your child was surrounded by girls in the orphanage, no wonder 'he' likes girl things." or "Your child was probably sexually abused, that's why 'he' is transgender." Neither of these situations have been shown to determine gender identity. Actually my child was surrounded by girls and boys at the orphanage, and at the public school she attended. Contrary to popular assumption, the Chinese orphanages are full of boys, some healthy or just "too old" and others born with special needs. Often this means cleft palate or club feet. And sometimes the child is transgender. Which family this child enters will determine their future. We had three boys. Maybe somebody was giving us a sign, "Hey dummy, you were supposed to adopt a girl!"

Also see In Womb Development of the Transexual Brain written by Tamara Sheehan
Also see Transsexual differences caught on brain scan 12:16 26 January 2011 by Jessica Hamzelou

Short update on itching

2009-12-26T08:51:00.000-08:00

See the original post "Itching" on the right. The answer to the cause of the itching? Probably none of the above. I think it was a side effect to my new mood stabilizer medication. That and night sweats. Ugh.

Early indications

2009-12-23T13:58:00.000-08:00

(Note: although we fully accept our daughter is a girl, we use the male pronoun to refer to her during the phase we all thought she was a boy.) In the first picture we saw of the boy we decided to adopt there he stood wearing a red shirt holding a pink stuffed animal. "It's a meepit!" the twin boys shouted. They were in a phase where they loved their small pink creatures that looked like guinea pigs on two legs. Wasn't it cool their soon to be brother liked them too? I knew that when I lived in China, boys didn't wear red, but maybe things had changed.

Later we were sent updated photos. In one, he looks adoringly up at the camera, a small pink address book with Disney's Cinderella pressed to his cheek. Worriedly, I started asking around on online adoption groups. Was this a phase? People poured in their anecdotes, how so and so's son wore his sister's skirts; somebody else's son loved to try on his mother's high heels, another had a son who hoarded Polly Pocket dolls, then grew out of them. Things would change, I was told, especially once he joined a household of three brothers.

Eventually we were able to send presents and even communicate by email. We sent neutral or traditional boy items: a stuffed duck and monkey, a super hero wallet, animal stickers, a navy long sleeved tee with a soccer ball on it. Curiously we never heard any enthusiasm or gratitude for our gifts. Weren't children in orphanages excited by presents? One day, after we'd started using the web cam, I showed off my new skirt. "Can I have one?" he asked enthusiastically. Ummm. Through the months we repeatedly asked what names he liked and he never responded. We offered suggestions. Right before we flew to China to adopt him I'd asked him if he wanted to go by his Chinese name, or the name we'd picked out for him (without his input.) He blurted out "I don't want to be called Rudy and I don't want to be called Tang Li, I want to be called Annika!"

At this point I suggested to Hubby we pick an androgynous name, just in case. He blew up. He would claim ownership of our new child by choosing one of his favorite names "Rudy." And Rudy was not a girl. Not long after we received a final report of our child's habits, abilities and preferences."He likes holding a doll while sleeping." "His favorite toy is Barbie doll." "He likes pretending to be girls." One of our reasons for adoption (perhaps ill-advised) was to balance out the family, have a similarly aged brother for our little guy, since his older brothers were twins. What if he were a she? What if he didn't like any of the same things Ted did?
In China, at the adoption office, our new son edged in, turned around, ran into the hall, and purchased ice cream pops for everyone in the room. Then he sat shyly with his foster mom. He wore a muscle tee and on his shoulder was a temporary butterfly tattoo. His English was limited. He did however know some terms from movies. He'd point to Ted and say "You're Jasmine, I'm Ariel!" To Matt he'd say "You're Cinderella, I'm Belle!" In this way he mentioned most of the Disney princesses. Oh boy. It was tortuously hot so we chose to go swimming in the hotel pool. We had to buy goggles. He of course wanted the pink ones. Even then we cringed. It was not in our parenting philosophy to say no, but we deeply wanted to. Pink goggles it was.

Before we parted his foster mom made us promise not to buy him a new Barbie. She'd taken his away prior to saying goodbye. While we waited for all the official documents in Guangzhou, every evening he'd sit at the restaurant and tears would well up and slip down his cheeks. Trying to console him, we bouth him a new doll. I knew in my heart, if he really were transgendered, the best thing we could do for him is let him arrive in America as a girl. Then he'd never have to socially transition. I leaned over, and in Chinese inquired, "Some people feel like they are born in the wrong body. They may have a boy's body, but they know they are girls. Do you think this is you, or do you just like girly things?" "I just like girly things." Okay. For now.

Sunshine

2009-12-22T07:10:00.000-08:00

At the tail end of a weekend of fun at my parent's house I had a tantrum. I was trying to pack up and everywhere I found wet socks, shorts, snowpants, gloves. It seemed none of the four children had tried to hang out their clothes to dry on radiators. It brought back to mind how at the beach house the twins had their own room. Every day I'd enter to find wet bathing suits and towels on dressers, beds and the floor. I'd explain why this was bad: mildew, wet bad, damaged dresser top. The next day we'd go through it again. Their answer, "Mom! We're not perfect." I never was accusing them of being perfect, that's for sure.

So I went downstairs complaining. Mom, we're not perfect they said. We won't do it again. Seconds later one had dropped snowy minutes on the floor. "No one ever listens to me!" I screamed. I went up into a bedroom and started crying. A few minutes later, I heard the tinkling sound of a music box outside my door. It was playing "You are My Sunshine." My 12 year old, Aaron entered the room, turning the crank of the box, then came up and gave me a hug. Now that's a great end to a wonderful weekend.

In Memoriam or, A plate of Christmas Cookies

2009-12-18T06:26:00.000-08:00

When my uncle died my father found, among other things, packages of opened Christmas cookies from my mom, stacked and dated through the years in my uncle's kitchen. At Christmas time my mom would put together a variety of Christmas cookies she'd made. I can't remember them all, but there was a recipe from her mother: almond cookies; those pecan ones rolled in powdered sugar; maybe some cocoa balls; and certainly sugar cookies in Christmas shapes. She'd place them on festive paper plates, slip them in a baggy with a twist tie, attach a note saying "Merry Christmas 1976!" I have tried to copy this tradition with varying success. This year I managed to make almond cookies. I doubled the recipe and made almost 12 dozen. The plate thing wasn't working for me, the cookies would slide all to one side. So I stuck them in ziploc bags with a paper napkin and wrote on the bag with permanent ink pens. I still ran out of cookies.

It wasn't just the cookies my dad found. Uncle B hadn't called in a few days. His phone was busy. He used to call after a few drinks and talk to my dad in the evenings. The landlord opened the door for Dad, which is how they found my uncle. No one in the family had seen the apartment in a while. We'd always seen him at his ophthalmologist's office or at our house. I suppose we imagined that as a bachelor my uncle's apartment wasn't fit to entertain. That turned out to be putting it mildly. The apartment looked like that of a hoarder, except it was more than likely just the combination of a gay, alcoholic, bachelor who didn't have the energy to deal with his life. Stacks of newspapers up to the knees filled the place. That is the image that remains in my mind from what my father told me. I imagine there were trash and other things piled up. There must have been pathways connecting the rooms. There were a variety of bottles of alcohol, wines and liquors, clearly gifts from grateful patients. (They later sat in our basement and as teens we unwittingly gulped down bottles of $100 champagne.)

Gay. Alcoholic. Bachelor (as far as we knew). Are those nouns or adjectives? How do you define a man? First and foremost he was a beloved uncle, brother, son. He was only 50 and his parents were still alive. Imagine how it feels to outlive your son. As children we loved to visit his office to get our eyes checked. We sat in the waiting room, leafing through stacks of "Highlights" magazines for children with fun puzzles and stories. I felt proud that our uncle was the doctor. Soon before he died, we presume from drinking, I remember him joining us for a family meal. My mother's divorced sister was there and there was some speculation that they'd get together. Or maybe that was another time. Did none of us suspect he was gay? We kids certainly didn't. What I remember distinctly was that blood trickled down the side of his face. From his ear? That part isn't clear.

Was it being gay, being ashamed, that drove him to drink? Or an unlucky inheritance from his gene pool? He was certainly loved. Early pictures show him with a friend, a veteran Broadway actor dining at his parents' home. They remained friends through the years. Nobody seemed to question. Gammy used to say how she was crazy about all her boys (my dad and his three brothers) and their friends.

Our ten year old daughter is transgender. People question our decision to "allow" our child to transition, that is, letting her live as a girl even though she is biologically male. "Isn't she too young to know" they ask. Some scientific data indicates that gender identity may be formed through a hormone wash in the womb. In that case, why wouldn't you know, from the time you could speak, who you were? More importantly, the children who are suppressed, unaccepted by family, even banished, have a high suicide rate, are more likely to run away, turn to street drugs and prostitution. And alcohol. It's not really a decision. We'd rather a happy girl then a dead boy. Would my uncle still be alive today had he lived in a more open times for gays, lesbians and transgender people?

Quivering upper lip

2009-12-17T08:32:00.000-08:00

Met with my psychiatrist today. I'm doing fine and am ready to up the dose of my new mood stabilizer. We laughed a little. I told him how, despite what I saw were positive effects of the drug, my life was incredibly stressful right now. He said, "My part is easy, writing the prescription. The rest, well, you have your work cut out for you." That's putting it mildly.
He is the first psychiatrist I have found who actually listens and you feel your time is worth spent being with him. (Thanks Sarah!) So even though my mood is better, I usually cry at the therapists' office. I mean, you're keeping a stiff upper lip, then somebody asks "How are you feeling?" The lip starts quivering, the tears spill down the cheeks. So, we're having a pretty good session, but I know it's only a matter of time.

It's time to go, and conveniently, the pediatrician is across the hall. Kyle had a knee x-ray done last night (my budding wrestler) and I pop in to get the results. "Are you okay?" the nurse asks concernedly. Too late, the tears gush out. The doctor, a new one, sits with me in the room and tells me Kyle's knee has no broken bones. If it's still sore, maybe he should see a sports doctor. But meanwhile, she puts her hand on my knee, "Tell me if there's anything I can do for you." That damn public sympathy, not good for that stiff lip thing. "A job?" I ask as a tear slips out. She has a friend who works with immigrants, maybe I can use my Chinese. Yeah, well, maybe. Off I go.

I remember our two credit cards need to be paid today. The last stock we sold hasn't made it into our bank accounts yet. I move around some cash from business to personal, hoping everything adds up. Will yesterday's deposit into our business account go through in time? As for that $2700 consulting job last September? Still waiting on that check. Last I heard it was in the mail. Uh-huh. Tell Santa.

So the book. A book on being a recession-era mom? Or a mom of a transgender child? Two books? Combine the topic? Please comment.

The early bird

2009-12-15T04:36:00.000-08:00

I wake up at 6, earlier than I am wont to do. I imagine sitting snugly on the couch, the lamp on, dark outside the windows, reading the paper, drinking my tea and feeling virtuous because I'm up early enough to do so. None of this guilty lazy sleeping as long as I can, afraid to get up and face the day. Except for moments later, Matt comes down, perches on the couch by my feet, turns on his laptop and starts sighing heavily. All my muscles tense. I clearly need to be productive and am doing a miserable job. Then he tells me his cousins are coming on Monday and we have booked him to work. Can't he just come home for lunch? Finally at 7am, 15 minutes late, he leaves for his networking breakfast, which has become more onus than opportunity. Just more time taken up networking with others who also don't have enough work. The blind leading the blind.

It's not exactly that we don't have enough work. We have almost a full load. It's that our business plan lacks one feature--profitability. The amount of work required for each job that the market dictates has a certain cap on price is phenomenal. It puts us in the category of factory workers, toiling away for a low wage. This isn't what we've been taught. As one unemployed worker quoted in the New York Times today, "We grow up with the impression there's a correlation between effort and the fruits of your labor." Funny thing is, we love our clients. They're smart, motivated, ethical. They want to do the right thing.

While I'm looking for jobs, the likelihood of finding something that will earn what we need is almost nil. Should I go for it anyway? Our business mentor imagines if we readjust our thinking we'll come up with a business model that will work for us. I am filled with dread. Even if we are able to create a more profitable plan, we'll then have to figure out how to market to and obtain more customers. Almost all our recent clients have been referred by somebody who requires the labor-intensive unprofitable audit. That well would dry up.

Last post I insisted that depression was funnier than hope. I apologize if this hasn't been too funny. Then again, this is more of a recession posting. Recession is rarely funny.

An almost perfect day

2009-12-13T09:22:00.000-08:00

Saturday morning Matt suggested we all go for a walk in half an hour. I'm happy when he isn't working diligently because otherwise I feel guilty as hell for wanting to sit on the couch, snuggle by our newly installed energy-efficient stove insert--(always happy to plug a friend, let me know if you want me to add a link to your site :-)--drink my coffee or tea and let the morning sink in. In half an hour we all pile into the minivan with little ado (although Ted decides with five minutes to spare to take a quick shower.)
The day is glorious! A brisk December, sunny, blue-skied day. As we start to walk we see that everybody but Mom (me) is slightly under-prepared for the briskness. I give Kyle my extra fleece hat since my hood'll do. But when Ted gets cold I remove my down-coat hood and place it over his thin sweatshirt hood which he tolerates for a while. Then Kyle, 12, Ted, 9, and I (age to remain unspoken) race past the rest to warm up by sprints. Kyle beats me. Dang, he's fast! Soon all are sprinting and frolicking to get our hearts pumping and warm up. Incredibly the other 12 year old, Aaron, is playfully rough-housing with Ted who lives for attention from his older brothers, yet rarely gets it (except the negative kind.)

Janet, 10, (my adopted from China at 8, identified as transgender at 9 daughter) walks beside me asking questions about her future. (Transgender shows up in the spell-check as unknown.) Maybe she'll style hair. I tell her if that's the case, she doesn't need to go to college, she can go to Beauty School. She sagely insists that she needs education, to learn about the world anyway, before she'd study haircare. Next she imagines maybe just doing make-up. We muse about doing makeup for the stars, and maybe doing behind the scenes stage work in middle school to get started. While her imagination wanders, her attention remains focused, her questions clear and intelligent, pausing to listen to my responses.

People imagine that we must always be second-guessing our decision to adopt, considering the child we imagined was a son would in reality become our daughter. Didn't we just a little bit regret it? I won't speak for hubby, but for me the answer is not due to gender identity. In fact, the knowledge we saved this child from certain life-time torment, discrimination, years of hiding her true self, or even possible suicide serve to help me feel more certain that adopting her was essential, even though we didn't know this would be the case at the time we made our decision to adopt.

On the other hand, the fact that she turned out to have ADHD has certainly caused me to wonder whether this adoption was such a great idea. In my lesser moments that is. From day one she was bouncing off the walls. Her random singing, repeated inability to join and follow conversations prompting uninvited interruptions, screeching screams, these made us second guess. That we would have such a thoughtful, delightful conversation on our walk around the college campus would have been hard to imagine a year ago. Thank goodness for pharmaceuticals. Even if they did lay off my husband (see first post).

Back to the campus. We stopped in the campus cafeteria. The lobby had a warm, inviting gas fire and chairs to sit by. This, a far cry from my nephew's college campus where numerous fast food outlets in a mall-like setting serve as a food-plan option. I had heard this were now a commonplace college installation. I was relieved that at this small Quaker-founded college, integrity still remained. Further, the menu was made up of locally grown produce. Last year I worked at a community college where my colleagues were proud they were making a difference in struggling kids' lives, students with full-time jobs and babies who needed the kind of leg-up a community college gave them. They were right, I know. Yet I felt so enlivened by the hope of the ideals of this likely privileged college campus. I hope they have a good scholarship program to serve that underprivilidged community that could also benefit from this environment.

Next we stopped in at a bagel joint not far from the edge of the campus. We sat in over-stuffed chairs and ate our fare. Aaron wondered about the $130 a year bottomless cup offered by the place. We had an impromptu math lesson, determining how many cups you'd have to drink a month to make it worthwhile. Then a marketing lesson on the fact that the frequent visitors would probably buy food, making it worthwhile for the vendor to offer this promotion. It felt interesting and not preachy.

Stopping by the Canada Goose infested pond, after tip-toeing across the green poop infested lawn, the boys tossed pebbles onto the the thin ice. The sound they made clinked like a spoon on a glass of wine, in a satisfying way. We watched a car pull up and a women threw bread to the geese. Even as we tsked her act, bad for the birds, bad for the campus, we enjoyed seeing the water fowl slip and slide on the ice racing after bits of bread.

On the last leg of the walk Aaron unsuspectingly stepped in a sinkhole of mud, filling his shoes and socks. He limped bravely, uncomplainingly back to the car. We recalled how when I was pregnant with Ted, Matt and I had taken the 2.5 year old twins down this same section. They had howled and cried, wanting to be carried. Too heavy for Matt to carry both, and for me, pregnant, to carry any of them, we cajoled and bribed them, Matt ending up picking them up for short distances, relaying them one by one down the path, them bawling the whole time, back to the car. Things had certainly changed for the better.

On the way home in the car I glowingly praised the family for such a pleasant outing. Then unwittingly raised the fact many a recent outing ended in intrafamily bitterness. Matt probably rightly chided me for ending my praise on a sour note. Oh well. It was still an almost-perfect day.

ps: Okay, this was a pretty good post, but aren't the depression posts funnier?

"In this life we're free to dream whatever we want to..."

2009-12-11T08:09:00.000-08:00

"...but that doesn't mean our dreams are going to come true." They certainly have a better chance of coming true if we actually strive for those dreams. I have spent most of my life not striving for my dreams. Which is not entirely fair to myself. I dreamed of having children and I have four. I dreamed of a handsome, caring, intelligent husband, and I have him, too. I had smaller dreams, to be good at something. When I was good at them, sometimes I went off on tangents with little forethought.

I was good at languages and Chinese was being offered. I took it and was good at it, so kept on studying. Then I went in lived in China because I wanted to use the language I had learned. But I never was a sinophile, never had a dream to go to China, was never enthralled with the country. Some would be impressed. "Wow, I've never lived anywhere but Pennsylvania," they'll say, "and you lived in China!" I'm not saying it wasn't cool. I certainly got something out of the experience. What I am saying is I don't have much experience really wanting something and then really going after it. Usually I do the opposite. Want something so bad that I run away. Oh yeah, that'll work!

In therapy they ask you what you liked as a child. How you played. I wrote poems. All the time. Sent them to grandparents for holidays. I drew pictures. Lots of them. I wrote and illustrated stories. I never wondered if I was good, I knew I was. More importantly I thought I was.

Why is that more important? There are plenty of people mediocre at what they do living their dreams. I mean seriously, have you ever seen a butt-ugly building? Some aspiring architect followed his or her dream all the way through school and getting accredited to design that building. Some planner agreed to build it. They thought they were good and accomplished what they were hoping to. Does it really matter that I don't like it?

I have a friend who is excellent at many skills, but has said to me proudly, with her chin raised high, "The thing I do best is sewing!" I am incredulous. I'm a lousy sewer, but I know what makes a good sewer. My mom, for one. This woman in question leaves loose ends, unraveling seams, is without question not a detail person. But does it matter? Sewing makes her feel happy.

So, the therapist, the career specialist will ferret out my dreams and urge me to be a writer, an artist, a poet. Then the recession hits me in the face. Taps me on the shoulder. "Um, Meg? Like, you know, you could have checked all this out when you were home with the kids in school, your husband earning six figures. Like maybe that would have been a better time to explore your artistic dreams? Could you now please crumple them in a ball and throw them in that energy-efficient fireplace insert, they would make better fuel."

When met with this challenge--explore your inner self or continue to take turns down unfullfilling paths with uncertain monetary gain I end up doing neither, frozen like that proverbial deer in the headlights. My husband does the opposite. He drives into frenetic energy doing everything he can staying up until midnight writing reports, scrounging to earn us extra income. Forgetting his keys, his wallet, getting speeding tickets. Neither of us seem to be making any headway. Clearly he is right? Isn't he?

Itching

2009-12-10T05:32:00.000-08:00

I'm lying in bed when I randomly scratch my chin. There, I've done it again. The third time I start to wonder. Soon I notice an itch on my hip. Now my head itches. Guess what my first thoughts are:

I have head lice.
I have ringworm.
My skin is dry from too-hot baths and winter weather.
All of the above.

And the answer is...
all of the above. Before you label me as paranoid and skip to another blog, humor me.

1. The case for lice: A friend of my fourth-grade son has head lice, as have several children at their school throughout the school year. Yesterday a note came home warning of the perils of head lice and suggesting adequate preventative measures. Feeling itchy, I ask myself? Yup, I'm convinced it's head lice.

2. The case for ring worm: My 7th grade son came home from wrestling with a three inch, thrice-wrapped bandage on his inner elbow. Major injury? Unraveling the bandage revealed a dime-sized patch of ringworm, and a massive red irritated patch of skin reacting to all those bandages. Apparently it's a occupational hazard of wrestling--one greatly feared by all wrestling coaches. Hence the huge bandage. Itchy hip? Must be ring worm. Which by the way, isn't a worm at all, but fungus. Sure, now you feel better about it.

3. The case for hot baths: Being in the energy saving business, I'm hyper-aware of striving to be energy efficient. Every light in my house has compact fluorescent bulbs. Still I'm constantly turning off switches. No crack goes unsealed. In the house that is. We recently installed a fireplace insert. Yet as winter yawns and stress builds (see recession) I have been indulging in long hot baths. Since then our water bill has gone up $30. Hey, it's cheaper than a massage! But bad on dry itchy skin.

The verdict?: Stay tuned for further updates. But my rational self (yes, I have one) is expecting number 3.

On the subtitle: [Dep]recession-era mom

2009-12-09T11:28:00.000-08:00

Little pun there in the depression sub-title. I mean a) what is a recession, really? Since we've been down-sized 18 months ago and still grossly under-employed it feels like a depression to us. And b) well, most who know me know that I suffer from depression which has only buckled under stress. Thank heavens for pharmaceuticals. Oops. Unless it's a pharmaceutical company that fired my husband's ass in the first place. Which it was. They didn't just fire his ass either, his whole entire self to boot. And now he would like me to kindly point out that he wasn't fired, his entire department was deep-sixed.

Top ten ways to know you're in a [dep]recession:

First you stop buying cups of coffee at Starbucks. You buy bags of Starbucks ground coffee to brew at home. Then you start buying Folgers or whatever's on sale. You think it's okay until somebody buys you the real thing and you cry.
You cry when you enter CVS because the song is sentimental (and you're not even pregnant).
You cry when your son gets his brand new $50 wrestling shoes stolen from his locker because he has to have shoes and so you buy him some more and you hate that it scares you so much.
You're happy that your husband has so much time for you and your kids, but not for the reason why.
You're happy that your children's medications are free, but not for the reason why.
You have to take a 20 page online psychological test to get a job at fill-in-the-blank_________ (Border's, CVS, etc.)
You find yourself lying on the 20 page online psychological test because, well, just because you're messy at home doesn't mean you'd be messy at work!
You get a phone call from a friend you have spoken to in ages--the Somalian refugee mother with 6 kids who you used to help with literacy tutoring and you realize her income is higher than yours.
You lie to her because she asks how your adopted son is and it's been so long since you've talked, she doesn't even know that he is now your daughter. You're just too tired to explain.
You try to cook inexpensive meals like rice and beans and watch in dismay as they head for the $4 a pop box of cereal served up with $4 a half gallon Lactaid milk. You stop buying the $4 cereal and Lactaid.

The jig is up.

In case you're wondering about the title...

2009-12-08T13:24:00.000-08:00

I wanted to call my blog "Underdog Victorious" from a song by Jill Sobule. It's about a boy who is teased as a kid but grows up to believe in himself. And many a day I feel like an underdog--albeit an over-privileged, heretofore upper-middle class, over-educated one. And sometimes I'm feeling just a wee bit victorious. Unfortunately, or due to my underdog persona, the blog page was taken by some fool who hasn't used it in four years. Bitch.

So I thought about some other songs that I like. One day I'm driving in my car, when I hear this compelling song that grabs me.

"And it's clear to me that this life is gonna be/All about the dangling possibilities that keep turning in and turning out."

I made a point to sort of remember the time, but wasn't sure exactly when it started. I went home and searched WXPN's website and looked up their lists of songs by time, but it hadn't been posted yet. A few days later I tried again, but had a little trouble as I didn't know the title and had to remember the words from the song that had grabbed me. I eventually found "Barbeque" by "Animal Liberation Orchestra" (who???)

Well by now you'd think I'm a music junkie and the fact is, I'm not. I often don't listen because music distracts me from all the busyness in my head. But when I do find an album I like, I put it in the car player and listen to it to death. Over and over, with the unfortunate result that I end up connecting it to whatever is going on at the time which is usually bad (see: underdog persona), say like commuting to a job I don't like. Months later I try the CD and get unpleasant flashbacks. But this album, this song, well it has no unpleasant flashbacks--just a driveway moment, sitting in my car listening until to the last strain of the song plays, thinking about the dangling possibilities...