Just 30 Minutes

One day last week, between track meets and doctor appointments, I left work at 3:30 to meet Lyss at the doctor for her second meningococcal vaccination. The appointment took all of five minutes and we were on our way at 4:02. She had to be at work at 5 but figured what the heck, she’d just go in early. That girl…

I could have gone back to work and worked 15 more minutes until the ‘end of day’ but because my 18 year old has a better work ethic than I do I went home.

I got home a half hour earlier than I usually do.

But what do you know? Olivia didn’t have any homework that day. I know! Miracles abound.

I called my mom to check in, it was her and my stepdad’s 26th anniversary. I told her how cold it was supposed to be the next day and suggested that she skip the track meet and just stay home and warm.

Then I called my dad to check in with him since I hadn’t talked to him in a few days and he had been in the emergency room just the week before. He was doing well, but, in his words, just didn’t have much gumption. I told him he should just rest and continue to recuperate.

After that phone call I went down and transferred towels from the washer to the drier.

I put a few pieces together in our current puzzle.

I packed Alyssa’s and my lunches. (I know, she’s a senior, she usually does pack her own lunch but on days when she has to work until 9 or so, I pack it for her because I want to and I like being able to do small things to still take care of her.)

I made dinner for Olivia and by 6:30…the evening was spread out before me like a blank canvass. What WAS I going to do with myself?

It’s amazing how that extra half hour seemed to stretch itself out.

Yes, there were a few things that coincided with making those 30 minutes seem like a lot more. No homework is a HUGE gain in time. Dinner was just reheating leftovers rather than actually making something more involved. The towels were already clean in the washer, just needed to go into the drier. But oh how good it felt to have a whole evening of nothing ahead of me.

I think I’ll enjoy retirement when it finally rolls around in fifteen or so years…sigh.

Flights of Fancy

Olivia asked me one day if it’s weird that she sometimes imagines things different from how they are. She went on to explain that she sometimes imagines meeting her current favorite celebrity and being besties with her.

I told her that everyone does this. Then I amended that with, “Everyone with even a little imagination.”

It’s how those of us with an imagination get through the mundane parts of our lives, which, let’s be honest, is the majority of each and every day.

She likes to tell me all about the stories she’s concocting in her head. She calls them ‘fan fic’ because that’s a phrase she heard from Alyssa once upon a time. Even if there’s nothing in the stories about a celebrity, she still calls them fan fic. I don’t bother to correct her because who cares what she calls her flights of fancy?

She has this very vivid world going on in her head. She still has imaginary friends but they don’t visit as much as they once did. These days, they’re off living their best lives, imitating Melanie Martinez to the point of getting surgery and changing everything about themselves.

And that’s okay too because Olivia is able to live out any sort of wild fantasy through Mush Mush and Katherine.

Back in the late seventies and early eighties, I had a very vivid imaginary world going on around me. It helped me through my parents’ divorce, through the birth of my youngest brother and the increase in responsibility I took on when I started taking care of him when he was five months old and I was thirteen. The characters in that world still sometimes check in, letting me see how we’ve all grown up.

My imagination brings me comfort, takes me on adventures and alleviated boredom.

I hope Olivia’s does the same for her as she continues to grow and imagine.

I Can't Not

For the first track meet of Lyss’s senior season, I took a box of chips. You know the kind, the variety pack of individually packaged chips.

For the second, sent four bags of apples.

For the third, I cut up celery and bagged it with baby carrots, grape tomatoes in compostable snack-sized baggies.

I know.

But as I lugged in the bags of vegetables to prepare bagging them up, Tom asked, “Why are you doing this?”

I told him, “Because someone has to.”

He just stared at me.

“Hey,” I told him. “I’m not in charge of the food. I just signed up to bring it. The lady in charge has a bigger job than I do.”

“How many other parents are providing food?” he wanted to know.

I shrugged, “Maybe five or six others.”

“Huh,” he said.

I told him, “There are kids who never have a parent or relative at the meets. There are kids who don’t have food to bring to the meets. We do this because it’s the right thing to do. We provide food and we cheer for the kids who are showing up even though their parents aren’t. And we try not to judge those parents because who knows what’s keeping them away? Maybe they works second shift jobs and can’t take time off. I can’t not do this.”

He watched me wash grape tomatoes and baby carrots and then cut up celery stalks. “You’re one of the good ones,” he declared and walked away.

That one sentence made me tear up and filled my often empty self-esteem to almost over-flowing. Being noticed, by one of the most important people in my world, means a lot. Having him take a moment and acknowledge that I do a lot for our kids and the other kids around them…it’s just nice to hear that he thinks I’m doing a good job.

She Didn't Mean To

The puddles on the floor during bath time.

The noodles on the floor after dinner.

The ink stains on the couch after crafting/drawing/writing.

She didn’t mean to make those messes.

Really. I know she didn’t mean to.

And yet I get frustrated. I get angry. I yell.

I wish I could say I don’t mean to. But sometimes, I can’t stop the words from coming out of my mouth.

The broken cup, the lost shoe. She didn’t mean to.

The half-done homework, the Chromebook forgotten at school, the destroyed artwork she’s trying to piece together.

She didn’t mean to.

I wish I could tell those who work closely with her that she doesn’t mean to do things that frustrate them. She doesn’t mean to make more work for them day after day after day. She’s not doing these things AT them.

But how can I expect them to be more patient with her than I am?

I try to rein it in. I try to listen to myself even as I’m fussing at her about the mess on the floor and how, as I kneel to wash her hair, I didn’t actually WANT to have to put my knee in a puddle of water.

But then she laughs. Even then, she doesn’t mean to. She laughs because she’s stressed and it’s her outlet. She laughs because she probably hopes the laughter will lighten the mood that I’m dampening with my bitching. She laughs perhaps because she doesn’t understand social cues and doesn’t realize that her laughter in the face of my frustration will only serve to piss me off.

And so, I get angrier and louder and meaner. And I hate it. I KNOW she doesn’t mean to do these things. And yet, they keep happening and I keep trying, even as I’m being a bitch, to turn it into a teaching moment to remind her that she’s NOT four years old. She can take a bath without making a mess.

And yet…can she? Can she really? Because there are moments when I wonder. Just like there are moments when I wonder if, while at school, she really can be left alone with scissors. For what it’s worth, at home, we do not leave her alone with scissors.

Reminder: she’s fourteen years old and cannot be left alone with scissors. Perhaps I shouldn’t be leaving her alone while she bathes. But she’s fourteen years old and she deserves a little privacy so…dilemma. I don’t worry about her safety, I just worry about the mess.

She doesn’t mean to be frustrating during dinner when she can’t swallow that last bite. She doesn’t mean to annoy you when she spits it out into the garbage instead of the toilet. It doesn’t matter that she’s been told where the best place for spitting food is. She needs to get it out of her mouth and does so into the most convenient receptacle.

She doesn’t mean to. She can’t help it. Are we pushing her enough? She’s perfectly capable…but is she?

There’s a struggle, a line we can’t quite see. We want to push her to do more, try harder, do her best but when will we know that we’ve pushed hard enough, when she’s done enough? When will we all see that she can’t help it and that she didn’t mean to?

Waxing Poetic

There’s this tree that sits at the corner of the building in which I work. This tree deserves to have poems written about it.

It’s a knobby old pine with funky branches and it doesn’t belong on the corner of an office building.

It belongs in front of an old cottage where fairies flutter among the violets, singing to the butterflies and bees as they flit between the dandelions and the morning glories.

Inside the cottage lives an old couple, the wife knits and bakes banana bread and irons her curtains. The husband whittles and builds model airplanes and ships in bottles. They smile indulgently at each other as they pass in the small hall that connects the front entry to the kitchen at the back of the cottage.

I go outside every day and check the mailbox for work and pass by this tree and each time I want to hug it.

I know, weird. I’m not really a tree-hugger but this tree is just so…it’s not big enough to be majestic but it’s something. Maybe it’s magical or mystical or a portal to a quieter, sweeter time.

I have imagined living in this cottage in the woods. Maybe I’m the old lady who crochets instead of knits and I make blueberry muffins because I like them better than banana bread. I imagine being away from the hustle and bustle of the modern world. I imagine having a little garden and a few chickens and being entirely self-sufficient. I don’t need anyone or anything that I don’t already have in that little cottage and the small clearing around it.

This tree would live in that little piece of the woods with me, guarding my cottage, watching over my flowers and my vegetables. It would welcome the fairies and the gnomes. It would hold off mischief and wrong-doers. Maybe this tree is the way to my little cottage. It’s how I come and go, how I visit friends and family, how they visit me in my little piece of heaven.

I don’t know. Obviously, this is all just a bit of fantasy. But that tree inspires fantasy. It inspires poetry and the imagination and all kinds of shimmery, dreamy things.

Just Sad

Last week I received numerous emails from O’s teacher. O was having a rough week. She was acting out in class, she hit a classmate, she wasn’t doing her classwork. All of this led to lunch detentions and finally an after school detention.

Tom and I talked to her. She was grounded from her tablet and from watching YouTube on the television.

The day after the plethora of emails, I got a single email letting me know that she’d had a much better day.

We had a weekend and a Mon day and things seemed to be fine. We upped her Lexapro dose and continued to talk to her about appropriate behavior at school

Tuesday came and O had an appointment at the eye doctor to get her new glasses fitted. After that appointment, I made her go with me to A’s track meet. I figured we be there twenty minutes tops because Lyss only high jumps. Alas, all good intentions are met with a laugh and a slap in the face.

We got to the track and found out that they’d started the boys high jump first and so Lyss and the other girls would have to wait until the boys were done before they could jump. Which meant we’d be there the entire meet because the boys had to wait for each other to run their races and blah blah blah.

Olivia actually behaved pretty well. She ran up and down a hill, rolled down the hill and across the grass and managed to entertain herself with minimal irritation to her sister. I was glad she was getting some fresh air and exercise; most days she gets home from school, grabs her tablet and the remote and settles in on the couch for the night. Or, you know, until I get home from work and we sit at the kitchen table to do homework.

Sadly, our bright mood couldn’t last.

Tom, champ that he is, had dinner ready for me and the girls when we got home from the meet around 7:10. We ate, Olivia and I finished her science homework and I checked my phone.

There was an email from her art teacher.

She wanted me to know that she’d kept Olivia in from free period because she wanted O to redo an art project. The teacher had left O’s side for maybe five minutes to help another student and when she returned, Olivia had cut her art project into ‘a million little pieces.’ She said that she wants to help O learn to work independently. She said that Olivia is so sweet and works so hard and…whatever. She suggested that Olivia is having a rough week.

Backtrack…at the track, Olivia explained to me that they were doing a project in art based around some artist who paints people with exaggerated features. She said that she’d had to redo part of it because she’d ‘accidentally’ cut the head off her project.

Anyone who knows Olivia at all knows they can’t leave her alone with scissors. Please don’t think I’m blaming the teacher here. I know that Olivia is 14 years old and should be able to work independently without disaster. I know this. Tom’s know this. Hell, Olivia knows this and yet…time and time again, we’re shown that she simply cannot be trusted with certain things. And scissors are one of those things.

I replied to the teacher thanking her for her email. I wiped my tears and finished packing my lunch. I am so tired of yelling at Olivia. I’m so tired of thanking teachers for all the work they’re doing with O. I’m so tired of Olivia feeling like the whole freaking world is against her.

Later that evening, Olivia said to no one in particular, “Why does everyone not like me anymore?”

My heart shattered into a million pieces to resemble the art project she’d destroyed earlier that day. I just…what do I do? How do I help her? How to I reinforce her confidence and self-esteem while reminding her of appropriate behavior?

I’m failing her.

Even though I hugged her and told her how much I love her I felt like she was unsure. I reminded her that we all just want her to do her best and if she destroys her work, she has to do it over again and that’s just frustrating for everyone, including her. But even when she does stuff like that, it doesn’t mean we don’t like her.

But is that enough? Am I doing enough? What else can I do? What more can I do? I want to do whatever she needs from me but I don’t know what that is. She deserves so much more, so much better. She deserves to know she’s loved, to know we LIKE her.

This entire situation just makes me so sad. I can’t even imagine how Olivia is feeling when all this is happening. The idea of her beautiful spirit being crush just breaks me.

Blank

There was a morning recently where I stood in front of the timeclock at work and just…blanked. I walked in at 7:00am. The man in front of me clocked in. The dude behind me was waiting for me to clock in.

I grabbed my timecard and stood in front of the clock watching as the seconds ticked by, switching the clock from 7:00 to 7:01. And I froze.

It was a half a second before I said out loud, “What am I doing?”

The guy who’d just clocked in called out as he walked up the stairs to the sales office, “Clocking in.”

The guy waiting for me to get my dumb but in gear just laughed and said, “It’s Monday.”

I finally remembered the process of clocking in (um, you hold your card in front of the clock, it clicks, you tap ‘in’ on the screen…that’s it.) and went about my day.

But that moment of blanking was eerie.

I might be losing it over here.

Pepsi

My dad loves his Pepsi. He takes medication for high blood pressure so that he can continue to drink Pepsi. If he didn’t drink Pepsi, his blood pressure would probably be fine but, well, he’s 81 years old, let the man have his Pepsi, right?

One recent Tuesday (because of course it was Tuesday…”Dawn’s in trouble, it must be Tuesday.”) I checked my phone around 3:10. I usually leave my phone in my purse, which is then in a file cabinet drawer all day. But that Tuesday, I checked my phone because I wanted to see if Lyss had texted me anything about that evening’s track meet. It was the first of the season.

I didn’t have anything from Alyssa but I did have a text from my sister. She was letting me and our brother know that she’d called an ambulance for our dad that morning around 11:30 because he’d fallen several times in the past few days.

Okay. I told the lovely ladies I work with and they all encouraged me to leave and go see my dad since he was in the hospital that is only about two miles from where I work.

When I got to the hospital, he was still in the emergency room. He’d received two bags of fluids, finally peed and they were actually going to release him to go home in the next half hour or so.

How fortuitous. I texted my siblings and let them know I’d take him home.

The doctor came in and talked to me and Dad.

Wait, let’s back up. As soon as I arrived, my dad informed me that he thought his problems were from his Covid vaccine. See, he’d received his first shot the previous Friday. And his weakness and falls had begun happening after receiving the shot.

So. The doctor agreed that the weakness and loss of appetite could very well be from the vaccine, then he quickly pointed out, “But don’t take that to mean you shouldn’t get your second shot. You need to get that second shot. Just be sure to hydrate before and after. And by hydrate, I mean drink a lot. Even if what you’re drinking is Pepsi, you need to drink as much as you can before the shot and after. Even if you don’t feel like it.”

See, the official diagnosis was severe dehydration. My dad said that after he got his shot, he hadn’t been hungry or thirsty and so hadn’t eaten in three days.

Guys, my dad is a frail man. He can’t afford to not eat for three days. He probably weighs, at most, 150 pounds. He’s small and so even a day without food and Pepsi will take a toll on him.

While I was waiting for the nurses to finish the discharge paperwork, my brother called me. He offered to come to the hospital (he lives about a mile away) and take Dad home to Sister’s house since I needed to be in the next town away for Lyss’s track meet.

Can I tell you how refreshing it was to have a DUDE offer something like that? I didn’t even have to ASK! Women all over the world know what I’m talking about here. We do so much emotional work for the men in our lives and so it was refreshing to have the dudest of dudes offer something like that.

I felt very much like my siblings and I handled this incident like a well- oiled machine. Our teamwork was pretty stellar.

A Dentist - The Backstory

Okay, I feel like I owe you a little background on our decision to switch dentists.

A thousand years ago, when I lived in Chicago, I had a dentist I loved. This dentist worked out of the lobby of an apartment building. Her office was very small. She was her own receptionist, hygienist and obviously, dentist. She was on the young side, probably early 30s and was just starting out. She was so kind. I went to her in humiliation because I hadn’t seen a dentist in over ten years.

At my first appointment, she could sense my shame and told me to let it go. She said something along the lines of, “You’re here now. Don’t worry about the last ten year, think about the next ten.”

I loved her so much. She did so much work to my teeth and I don’t remember any sort of trauma involved.

Speaking of dental trauma: I saw the dentist a lot as a child. I had HORRIBLE baby teeth. They were just nasty. AND, because the universe can be cruel, I didn’t even lose my stupid, awful baby teeth until was eight and older. I was in second grade when I lost my first baby tooth. I remember being pissed about that.

So, this dentist fixed my teeth as well as she could and sent me to an orthodontist, which did wonders for my confidence.

When I moved out of Chicago, I saw my dentist for one last cleaning and she got my new address. Six months later, she sent me a post card asking if I’d found a new dentist because it was time for my next cleaning.

I picked a dentist that was close to my new job and started seeing him. He was fine. Dr. I was very gentle and I like the hygienist, Stephanie, who cleaned my teeth.

This was a comfortable situation that lasted about 18 years. I was happy enough with Dr. I’s care that I took Alyssa to see him when we moved to our current home. Olivia sees a pediatric dentist in Fort Wayne. They’re awesome in their own way.

One day, though, I showed up for my cleaning and found that Dr. I had sold his practice. There was a new dentist in town, Dr. H.

Dr. H could not have been more different from Dr. I. Dr. I was calm, quiet, gentle. He spoke barely above a whisper and was very aware of every move a patient made as he drilled away at her teeth.

Dr. H is loud, brash, aggressive in his treatment. I mean, okay, so he isn’t unaware of every flinch and is quick to offer another shot if you seem to be in pain but he was just so different from Dr. I.

And, get this, neither Dr. I nor Dr. H gave the staff at the practice any heads that the practice was changing hands.

Example, a couple of years ago, the dentist at the practice where I take Olivia decided to retire. Dr. Olinger was a well-respected pediatric dentist in the area. He is the first doctor of any kind to research Olivia’s syndrome before he met her. When he decided to retire, he brought in Dr. Ludwig and had him work in the office with Dr. Olinger for over six months before handing the practice over to him. This gave all the patients a chance to meet him and gave the staff a chance to get to know Dr. Ludwig too.

It felt like both Drs. I and H had gone about the changg-over in a sneaky, underhanded way.

I mean, what do I know? All I know is that the hygienists were surprised by the selling of the practice and the patients had no clue until their next appointment. It was just weird.

And it left a bad taste in my mouth. Well, that and the fact that Dr. H tried to charge all the patients who’d been at the practice for, well, ever, a new patient charge.

Hello! We’re not the new people here, Dude. Maybe we should be charging you a new doctor fee! I mean, he had everyone’s records, what the hell was he charging for, the meet and greet?

No.

And yet…I stayed for almost two years because I’m a creature of habit and I hate change. I stayed because I was loyal to Stephanie. I stayed because of inertia.

I stayed until I didn’t stay. I finally decided I was done. The last real issue I had was that tooth going bad back in January. I paid $96 for a five minute appointment during which he told me I needed a root canal and he referred me to an endodontist. I paid over $1300 for the root canal and then I paid over $1400 for Dr. H to crown the tooth that had had the root canal.

I just couldn’t any more.

So I made the appointment with New Dentist for a cleaning.

I paid $59 for a comprehensive exam and cleaning. That was the new patient coupon cost. I know that the next cleaning probably won’t be that inexpensive but you know what? That’s fine because I feel like I chose this guy. I chose to go to his practice and work with him and his staff. I wasn’t foisted off on him by the last guy. I wasn’t part of a buyout. I made a choice and for now, I’m happy with it. And if it ever gets to the point where I’m not? I’ll find another New Dentist and go from there.

I feel so empowered over here right now. It’s a good feeling.

Flying High

At her last dental cleaning, Alyssa was informed that she needed a couple of fillings. The dentist told her they were very small cavities and that filling them now would keep her from needing extensive work later.

Well, guess what? I wasn’t so happy with our dentist at the time and so…I switched dentists. I know! Go me, advocating for myself and my family. I mean, we’re the consumers here. If we’re not clicking with our current provider, it is within our rights to find a practice we do feel comfortable with.

Yes, I am justifying the switch. Sue me. I’m a work in progress.

I was due for a cleaning and had canceled my last one at the dentist with whom I wasn’t happy because I got a really bad cold and didn’t want to expose them. Then I just … didn’t reschedule.

Don’t worry. I was only three weeks overdue for my cleaning once it happened at the new dentist.

And guess what? I didn’t need any work. And the hygienist who cleaned my teeth was awesome. I know so much about her and her son and her ex-husband I feel like we’ve been friends forever, even though I’m twenty years older than she is and she could totally be my daughter if I’d had a child at twenty.

Ahem.

So since I was so happy with the service I received at my cleaning, I scheduled a consult with this new dentist for Alyssa. I couldn’t get old dentist’s office to send her most recent x-rays because they closed for like twenty seven million days between my appointment and Lyss’s consult.

So we went in x-ray-less.

It didn’t matter. I had the estimate, which told New Dentist what Old Dentist was going to do. New Dentist looked in Lyss’s mouth and agreed that those teeth should be filled. Then he offered to fill them right then and there.

Considering Alyssa’s schedule and her stress level with appointment and meets and practices and homework and Arby’s work, well, we took him up on the offer. Of course, let’s be honest here and say he wasn’t doing this out of the kindness of his heart. No, he was making about $450 off this little twenty minute appointment. So.

I was back in the room where they were examining her. I thought they’d remove me before they started the work but they didn’t. I got to stick around while New Dentist asked Lyss if she wanted to try and have the fillings done without numbing.

WHAT THE HELL!?! Seriously?

Then he asked her if she’d ever had nitrous oxide. She looked me and I replied, “No, she’s never had that.”

He asked her if she wanted to. Again, she looked at me. I told her that if she was going to go without numbing, then yes, she wanted the nitrous oxide.

Guys, I have NEVER had flings without numbing. Hell, I have to have EXTRA numbing each time I get work done. It’s awful all the way around.

I sat there while they set everything up. The put the nitrous mask over Lyss’s nose. She laid there breathing while they continued to make their preparations for her fillings.

The dentist asked her how she was feeling.

She gave a smile and said, “I feel cozy.”

He gave me a look that said, “Oh yeah, this is working almost too well.”

Then he went to work. She said she never felt a thing. She said she thought he was just cleaning her teeth.

She swears she was hearing the conversation the dentist and I were having before we even spoke.

After it was all over, she asked me in awe, “Does anyone ever steal those canisters just to get high?”

Probably.

She said she felt like she was spinning the entire time. Each time the dentist would stop and do something else, she’d start spinning the other direction.

High Lyss is a silly Lyss. I was glad Tom had driving her to me that afternoon so she didn’t have to drive herself home. Not only would it have been unsafe for her to drive, having her with me was just fun.

As we were walking out of New Dentist’s office, Alyssa declared, “We need to come back to this place.”

I guess we’ve found a new home for our dental needs. For what it’s worth, Old Dentist Never offered nitrous. Jerk.

Learning to Stand

Senior year is supposed to be fun. It’s supposed to be the end of one great thing and the beginning of the next great thing.

So why was Lyss crying last weekend?

She’s stressed. Track meets were about to start and the thought of having two meets a week for the next six weeks was weighing on her. She works three days a week (four or so hours two nights during the week and 8 hours on Sunday) as well as has track practice every day that there isn’t a meet. She’s also maintaining her straight As and doing things for National Honor Society.

Let’s not forget hanging out with friends. Remember when that was a priority? Yeah, neither do I. But when you’re 18, it’s incredibly important. I’m not even being sarcastic here, it really is important. I get it.

The more she talked, the more stressed she got and then she cried.

I asked her if it was worth it.

She sighed and said that she just hated running. She loves the high jump. If she could just high jump the meets wouldn’t stress her out.

I suggested her talk to her coach. She sniffled and said she would have to text him because talking to him face to face would be awful.

I laughed and told her that she needs to NOT be like her mother. She needs to grow a little self-righteousness and stop taking on other people’s emotions. And if it was best for her, just quit track.

We hugged, she got to spend some time with N, which made everything better and she texted her coach the next day (a Sunday.) He replied back that he’d like to talk to her the next day. She wasn’t getting out of the face to face after all.

When I saw her next (at the dentist, a post all its own) she grinned and said she got her way.

She’d talked to the coach, cried at him a little, he hugged her twice and agreed to let her do just high jump. He did, however, reserve the right to put her in a relay or two at districts and/or the BBC (a conference meet here in northwest Ohio.) She agreed with that and felt much better about everything.

Well, she admitted, she felt better because she got her way. But honestly, is that such a bad thing every now and then? I mean, we spend our lives doing things that other people want us to do. It’s okay to put ourselves first once in a while. It’s okay to NOT feel guilty about other people’s feelings.

Good advice, Mom. The pot called and said you’re guilty.

Respect

I have quite a few friends, family, acquaintances who have children who have come out in the last few years as transgender.

And can I take a moment to say how freaking proud I am of this generation of parents who have done such an amazing job of creating a safe, loving space where their children feel comfortable being their true selves without fear of being kicked out of their home or treated badly? I am just verklempt over the whole thing.

Anyway!

Speaking of safe, loving spaces, my mom had us all over for Easter dinner this year. It was lovely. We started out on her deck but the sun, that brilliant ball of fire, was quite intense and so we ended up taking it into the kitchen.

In the course of conversation, my brother mentioned that the daughter of one of our step-cousins has come out as transgender.

I could tell by my brother’s tone that he was disgusted by this. I sat and listened as he talked about the person who used to be called Eva has asked to be called Bailey. Bailey has cut their hair very short and wears masculine clothing.

Finally, when my mom and I didn’t seem to be reciprocating his angst over Bailey’s requests, J said, “I just don’t understand it.”

I took that moment to gently say to him, “Well, you don’t have to understand it to respect it.”

He looked a little surprised but let it set in and replied, “True.”

I explained, “Just because you don’t understand it, that doesn’t mean their need to define who they by their own standards rather than by society’s standards isn’t important. Respecting the name they’ve chosen for themselves and using the pronouns they ask you to use is important because it shows that you respect their autonomy, their right to be who they really are. I’m glad Bailey’s dad is being so awesome about that.”

My brother didn’t have much more to say after that and honestly, I’m glad. I didn’t want to fight with him but this wasn’t something I was willing to just let go while he sat there and spouted off. Maybe I’ve given him something to think about.

I hope, for his sons’ sakes that they’re both CIS because honestly, I’m not sure how accepting that household will be if they’re not. It breaks my heart because for all the celebrating I’ve done in the paragraphs above about this generation’s parents, well, obviously, there are throwbacks still among us.