Return to the Rookery

I have realized that I have missed blogging. So, I'm back. (cue Jim Carrey from Liar Liar singing 'here she comes to wreck the day')

As the blog description states, I'm not for everyone. I'm opinionated. I tend to be crude, verbose, condescending, snarky, just plain bitchy, and to top it all off - I'm crazy. I had myself tested (saving my mother the trouble) and yes, I'm certifiable. BUT - I'm also creative, kind, funny, intelligent, and fluent in sarcasm, movie lines, and whale 😉

Today's installment: my transgender adult child. That's a mouthful, isn't it? Brief background: I have 3 children. I thought I'd had 2 sons and a daughter. Seems I was mistaken. I have 1 son and 2 daughters. And if you don't like that statement, you can fuck off. Just sit there in your wrongness and be wrong. Because this is my child, even though she's an adult now. She tells me she's a girl; she's a girl. I love my children, not the packages they come in. If you're one of those parents who denied, will deny, refuse to accept, whatever, I will NEVER understand you and will never quite believe that you meet the qualifications to be a human being.

Does this mean the whole concept isn't difficult for me? Not for one second is this easy. I didn't see it coming. Nope. Didn't have a clue. And don't think that hasn't messed with me, because it has. Equal parts guilt trip and shock. And people think being a parent is boring. Sure. In what universe?

It's not easy for me. I support my daughter in this journey. And I worry. Not about me. I'm fine. I worry about the rest of the world. Unfortunately, even in this day and age, those in the LGBTQ community are targets of discrimination and even violence. So I worry. I'm prepared to fight with her and for her, just like any of my other kids, but that doesn't stop the worry.

I also wonder about her childhood. What did I miss? How? Was I not paying attention? And then the guilt starts. Motherhood can be one HUGE guilt trip anyway, and then add this to the mix. Whew. Then I wonder some more. Am I supposed to ignore all the memories of when she was 'he' and all the fun, cute, and often disgusting things that happened? I don't want to. I don't want to lose that or feel like I have to mourn that. So I choose not to. This is still my child, dammit. Her package doesn't change how long I was in labor, or the awful all damned day sickness I had for 7 months of pregnancy, or how handsome 'he' was in his little tuxedo when both my 'sons' walked me down the aisle for my second wedding. I cherish those memories and refuse to lose them just because I've gained a daughter. So, how does that work, some may ask? This is how I plan to treat it: if a 'remember when?'  moment comes up, I'll just contribute to the memory like I would otherwise. If needed, I'll preface conversations with something like - "Back when you were acting like a boy...". Because, from my understanding, that's what it was - an act, a sham, a flimflam born of necessity. One I inadvertently participated in and encouraged. (Pack your bags, another guilt trip looming.) I can't change the past. For the sake of my daughter, I frequently wish I could. For all my children, actually, but that's beside the point and a different entry/entries. I can't go back, but I can do my best with a future I hope goes smoothly.

And let me tell you, this journey of hers brings up all kinds of weird issues. Yes, the guilt and such, but also excitement and awe. And the just plain bizarre. That part could be me, I guess. I'm not sure. As an example, she picked her own name. This bothers me. She picked a lovely name. Well, her first name anyway. Seems the middle name is undecided aside from the one I gave at birth which is a male name. Am I mad? No. I'm not mad. I was hoping she'd let me pick her middle name. I made a couple suggestions, but no decisions yet. And yeah, I'm sitting here typing this going, why won't she just let me name her? I did fine the first time around. And yes, I'm smiling and being semi-sarcastic. I'm being funny, but I admit there's a small part of me that feels like a new mom again. I've got this new daughter and she's already an adult. Which means I don't get to name her, damn it. Maybe I am mad? No. I'm not. Maybe a little. Mad at her? Not on your life! Mad at myself for not seeing what I feel like I should have seen or heard or something. (See? There's that guilt trip I told you to pack for.) I guess it's like being handed a second chance at something, but it's really pretty much too late. All I can do is move on, be supportive as possible, and try not to let me beat myself up (one of my many talents).

I live in awe of my kids every day. These people started out as tiny aliens in my belly. With a lot of help and even more luck, they're all grown adults. I am blessed to have watched them all grow and change into who they are today. Their whole lives have been epic journeys and I've been along to see it. Now I get to see these newest changes. I am truly blessed. Crazy, but blessed. How in the hell did I get so lucky to have held those little hands and watch them grow big and see these people turn into the loving, brave, brilliant, bewildering, and awesome beings that they are? I am one lucky woman.

And for anyone reading this who has family who walked away or turned away or otherwise rejected you for being LGBTQ? It's their fucking loss. You're utterly brilliant, gorgeous, and fan-damn-tastic. Don't give up. It gets better. It's worth it. Be you. You are the cat's meow.

For anyone reading this who now hates me? Good. If you hate me, you'll never stop thinking about me or my words. They'll eat at you. And maybe, just maybe, eventually you'll stop to think and take the time to educate yourself. Or not. You may stay the same. I hope not. For your sake. I think it must get terribly lonely and boring when you're so close minded.