A new day, a new gig, a happier me.

Things are looking up; my mood is lightening a little more each day, and the sunshine and warmth that’s been poking around these parts lately has had more than a little to do with that. For a stretch of days last week and the beginning of this week, it has been sunny and in the 70s, and that is RIGHT up my alley. I’ve had the opportunity to prepare garden beds and plant flowers. The physical work, time outside, and thoughts of beautiful gladioli, dahlias, cosmos, and yarrow bursting open some time in the future all swirl together to make my step a bit more sprightly.

When I haven’t been playing in the dirt, John and I have taken Braden here and there to various parks and playgrounds around our area. I have really missed doing that, and so has Braden. It’s not that you can’t do that kind of stuff when it’s cold – that’s what jackets and hats are for, after all – but my kiddo happens to have a serious HATE relationship with his face getting cold.

And I wasn’t too keen on seeing how he’d feel about a ski mask, so yeah.

But for days recently, we’ve been riding down slides and pumping our legs on the swings, and I’ll be damned if that doesn’t make me a gagillion times more giddy than a glass of red wine.

I do not forsake thee, red wine. I just place you aside for a short time. We shall join again, I promise thee.

Monday night, I was able to hang out with some lovely blogging ladies at the UBP IRL in Nashville, snarf some red wine and cheese, and have my husband and kiddo not far away from me. That was pretty freakin’ nice, too.

And I’ve just started a new writing gig, to which I was referred by the always lovely Sarah (Imaginary Binky).

It’s helping me find my “big girl” journalistic voice, which is kind of cool, in a challenging and frustrating way (can you say, “Lotus has to learn how to get a point across without droning on and on and on for eons?). Yeah, you could say I’m not the Queen of Brevity. And then you could say it again, scream it, and finish by stamping it on my forehead.

So I’ve been setting things up and writing my very first articles as Nashville Parenting Examiner. I’ll be writing a lot of locally flavored items, as well as many general parenting pieces. I’m planning on writing about events and activities that will be of interest to people in this area, and also publish a regular spattering of opinion pieces that anyone can get their head into. In addition, I’ll be hosting giveaways there, and giving general information that is helpful for all parents.

On top of all that, I’m planning on spotlighting Parent Bloggers I know and love (could this be you?) that I’ve built relationships with during my time on this website. Groovy, right? I think so. I’ll be counting on page views and subscriptions to keep me afloat, so anyone subscribing, visiting, and commenting? Will make my day.

The RSS feed is http://www.examiner.com/RSS-6205-Nashville-Parenting-Examiner

The related Twitter account is nashvilleparent

So, warmth, sun, fun, productivity, accomplishments… laughter, mirth, time with family… I’m seeing good things. It’s feeling pretty good.

Why, I’ve been so inspired by happiness lately that I even shaved my legs for the first time in over a month, trimmed the ole’ 70s bush and frolicked in the sheets with my husband. And while you may think, “UH 1) TMI and 2) So?” it’s a big deal here, considering that the last time that happened we conceived a baby. Yeah. Read the archives a little and do the math. You’ll see that it’s been an awfully evil long time.

Psychologically crippling fears resist logic and desire and can put you in places you don’t want to be for even a second. And then they keep you there for indefinite amounts of time. You even start feeling that the pain that’s being caused you and your most beloved is all your fault; you should just wake up, break out, get better, damnit.

It just can’t be forced.  Something’s gotta give, one way or another.

It’s giving. Finally, it is caving in and crumbling away.  Bit by bit.

And as it falls off of my shoulders, I’m feeling that shine again, the one that comes from inside. Not the same shine as before, from the same girl as before, but that’s okay.

Every day of this adult life, I’m learning. I’m always in process; this is a journey. The waiting for the completion of who I am and where I’m going is pointless.  I am ever changing.  It is time I accept that and who I am right now, ready to welcome the next change, whatever the moments that pass may hold.

Just be, right?

I’m workin’ on it.

Lazy Douche Enablers: Dawn, Alex Year Two

Lazy Douche Enablers write posts for me every other Tuesday. That way, I can be a much better… you guessed it: Lazy Douche. Today’s Enabler is Dawn, of Alex Year Two and Room 704

My little secret…

Men – you need to leave. This is not a post you want to read. Go the place that is else . . . come back tomorrow . . .

I was at work one day and the conversation turned to orgasms.

As they do.

I shared a story that I will share with you here.

Scout and I were laying in bed talking about orgasms. Or my non orgasm during sex, as it were. He says, “Well. I . . . I’ve never had someone …. um …. not . . . before . . .”

I opened my mouth to reply . . .

I took a deep breath . . .

“Well, they, um, were liars, fucking liars, sluts clearly very in touch with their own bodies and and very comfortable with themselves . . .”

I didn’t have the heart to tell them that there were a bunch of fakers in there.

The three of us laughed and laughed. Not at my sweet husband, but at all y’all out there who think a woman has never faked it with you.

Hey dudes, I told you to leave. You didn’t listen. This is what you get.

The next day – one of the girls came to work and immediately grabbed me . . .

She shared a story that I will share with you here.

“So I told my husband about our lunch conversation yesterday . . . he didn’t understand why we laughed . . . he said, “but no one has ever faked it with me before . . . ”

(To this day, hubs still believes in the 100% orgasm rate before me. I like to think of it as a gift from me to his masculinity.)

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When she’s not laughing about fake orgasms, Dawn authors a website about her son and other life topics, Alex Year Two. And if you want to see where Dawn, er, gets real, visit her latest project, Room 704. It’s creating quite a “buzz.” And by this Friday, I’ve heard that a visit there will help you stop being a fakester, too. *ohsnort*

I Fell In Love Thanks To An Asshole

When Lotus asked me to guest post, I immediately had a panic attack, worried that I would never be able to think of anything to write on her blog that wouldn’t make people rush to that Unsubscribe button. And sure enough, my panic forced me to put writing this off to the end of the month. (Well, that and an extremely busy schedule and sick child. I suppose those had some impact, too.)

But then it occurred to me: since She of the Awesome Rack lets it all hang loose here in this space, I should take this opportunity to write something that I would never write on my own blog. Something that is too embarrassing or personal to leave in that permanent record for my daughters to stumble upon when they’re a little older. Hell, no – they’re going to have to work harder to find this post!

So let me tell you how my husband and I first got together.

It was 1998, and I was working at the Ohio Renaissance Festival. I had been interested in this guy we’ll call Justin…because that was his name. He was a bit of a playboy, but my 22 year old heart nether-regions found him irresistible. To my surprise, he began showing interest in me, too.

At this moment in the story, I should add that my husband is named Aaron.

Anyway, one day during rehearsals lunch break, in a more secluded area of the festival grounds, Justin and I suddenly hit it off and he kissed me. To my surprise, Justin tried to turn that kissing into more, and I refused. There were people not far away, and I didn’t feel comfortable taking things further since I didn’t really know him all that well yet. He whined that leaving him “unsatisfied” would leave him in pain, and I told him if he wanted more he’d have to wait.

He didn’t call me that week, and at rehearsals the next week he completely ignored me. I walked up to him at one point and asked, “Are you ignoring me?”

Justin huffed back at me, “No. If I was blowing you off, you’d know it.”

“Oh, so you’re ignoring me then. Fine.”

I was furious. Because I refused to put out right away, I was no longer interesting to him? I spent the rest of the day in a foul mood. At the end of the day, in the parking lot, one of my friends found me and told me she and some others were going out to eat, and invited me to join them to blow off steam.

Driving to the restaurant, I had a car full of people. One of those people was Aaron. I knew him a little from rehearsals, but didn’t really know much about him other than he was a newbie at the renaissance festival, and he had a girlfriend. In the car, I vented about Justin, and everyone began adding in their own frustrations about their significant others or those they liked at the moment. Aaron complained about his girlfriend – a girl who he saw rarely because she was off at school – and stated that as a result they decided to have an open relationship.

The conversation continued through dinner. After dinner I was invited back to the campground that several people were staying at that night. We stopped at the grocery on the way back and bought alcohol. (Because you know this story has to involve alcohol at some point.) I was still planning to go home later that night, so I reminded everyone that I wasn’t going to drink much, since I still had a 30 minute drive ahead of me.

Around the campfire, six of us told stories, sang songs, laughed and had a great time. Aaron had a cushioned mattress, so I made him share it with me because I didn’t want to sit on the hard ground. I had more to drink than I had planned on, and as the hours flew by, I quickly realized I was spending the night and phoned my mom to tell her not to expect me home.

I really don’t know when the attraction between Aaron and I started. It could have been at dinner. Or in the car. Or around the campfire. But by late in the night, as I sat close by him, sharing a blanket, I found my hand close to his, and then holding his hand. The air grew cold, and I snuggled closer for warmth. Sometime around midnight, most of the group fell asleep, and the two of us continued to talk. That talking led to kissing, and that kissing led to a lot of hand wandering.

Before the night was over with, we had sex. Crazy, right? Yeah, I know, especially considering I had scolded Justin for suggesting the same thing a week before. But unlike Justin, Aaron wasn’t pressuring me in any way, and I felt some insane connection with him. It’s like some little voice in my head knew we’d end up together.

(At this point in the story I always must add that I had NEVER done anything like that before. I wasn’t a virgin, but I also had only had one other partner – and that was during a long-term relationship.)

Aaron’s long-distance girlfriend eventually disappeared, although for some time he was dating both of us at the same time. Exactly three years after our night at the campground, he proposed. We’ve been together now for over ten years, and while we’ve had the normal stresses every relationship goes through, we love each other and we love our family.

Oh, and we invited Justin to our wedding. I made a point of thanking him for blowing me off that day in 1998. After all, if it wasn’t for Justin being an asshole, I’d have never married Aaron. (Thanks again, Justin!)

Now the only problem I have is trying to think of how I will EVER tell our daughters when they inevitably ask how mommy and daddy met and fell in love. I think we’re going to have to craft a new version of the story, where mommy is a virginal princess and daddy is a knight in shining armor saving her from an evil villian. Although when we hit the teen years, I’m completely screwed, because at that point there’s no way they’ll buy that.
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When she’s not seeing Cupid’s wings on An Asshole (*snicker*), Christina leads a very full life. She is mother, wife, student, writer, reviewer, and woman. How she does it all and balances it with such grace, the world can only wonder. It’s definitely A Mommy Story.

Close Your Eyes and Think of England.

Editor’s Note: This is an anonymous guest post from someone who is looking for constructive comments and feedback. Comments are open on this post for your reflection and discussion, to communicate with the author, and to offer your own experiences. There will be ZERO tolerance for rude comments or ridicule. If you do that, I’ll delete your comment, and ban your IP.

You are encouraged to offer feedback. The author is interested in knowing what you have to say.

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I have a problem. It’s something I’ve struggled with all my life. I need help, and I also need to know I’m not the only one. Or am I?

I have no libido. I have no interest in sex at all. I guess a therapist would call me asexual, although somehow I’ve managed to conceive five wonderful children.

By the way, this is not Lotus of  Merry Crotchmas fame. I can’t speak for her but I’m pretty sure she likes sex. I am an anonymous guest writer. For a long time I’ve wanted to write about this issue, but my blog is very public and it doesn’t get much more personal than this.  In fact it borders on pornographic, so if you’re sensitive to that you may not want to read on.

It all started when I was a child. My family is very religious. In order to foster chastity in me, I was indoctrinated not just  to think of sex as something reserved for marriage, but something so disgusting it should be completely avoided. If there was a kissing scene on TV my mother made mock gagging noises, and my parents never kissed or hugged in front of me. I don’t want to sound like some self-involved whiner, but they never hugged me either or told me they loved me, though I know they did. When it was time for sex-ed, my parents had me pulled out of class so I wouldn’t be exposed to it. I learned about sex and periods later from my friends. When I did get my period I slipped a note under my parents’ door to let them know and maxi pads began to materialize in my bathroom. It was never discussed. As an only child I often wished for a sister that I could talk to about it.

At first this repression backfired. I discovered masturbation at an early age, though I didn’t know what it was. I just knew it felt good. Then when I was about ten a friend of mine showed me her stepfather’s dirty magazines, and I was far from repulsed, although in hindsight all that was shown was the female upper body. In junior high I discovered Harlequin Romances, which I had to hide under my mattress, and I marked all the sex scenes so I could reread them whenever I wanted. As I got older, I discovered Cosmopolitan Magazine and memorized every sex tip.

Somehow I made it through high school as the other kind of statistic: the odd kid that didn’t lose her virginity. I didn’t want to be a virgin, but I didn’t want to be a slut either. I’d decided that I wouldn’t go looking for sex, but if it came knocking I wouldn’t turn it down. I was a fairly popular and attractive girl, a cheerleader even, and I did manage to land a boyfriend my senior year. But I was so shy with him I could barely speak in his presence. I was saddened greatly but not at all surprised when he broke up with me after about a month of this.

When I moved on to college, all my friends were having sex. But not me. My virginity was its own chastity belt, enclosing me in a protective bubble. Anyone with a penis dared not approach, however much I wanted them to, and I was too shy to put myself forward.

I reached the age of 20 without ever having been kissed, or even having any idea what a penis looked like. Finally I found another boyfriend. He was someone I worked with. I had my first kiss, and it quickly evolved into full-blown make-out marathons. But nothing more. Oddly enough, John had a small penis complex. I told him I’d never even seen a penis before, but he was afraid to let me see how small it was. I put myself forward as much as I could stand, determined to lose my virginity. One night I even snuck into his bed with a box of condoms, but he wouldn’t have it. A few days after that he broke up with me, he said he wanted a relationship that was about more than sex and that was all I seemed to be interested in. The other guys we worked with were incredulous and rather interested at this news, but I didn’t want to continue working with John after that, so I left that social sphere.

The phenomenon continued. I’d hopefully go on dates, wearing sexy underwear, armed with the knowledge of Cosmopolitan, but my dates seemed to be as shy as I was, waiting for me to take the initiative. And my very conservative upbringing prevented me from taking that initiative.

I finally resolved myself to being single. Of course as soon as I did that, my future husband came on the scene. I was 26 by this time and felt old. Jeff was a known player in my area, but also the only man that was still single. So when he made his move, I went for it. Because of his reputation I was certain it would be a short-lived, sex only relationship, and I was okay with that.

The experience of sex was not at all what Harlequin and Cosmopolitan Magazine had led me to expect. Sweat, hair, breath, sticky saliva, gross noises, after-smells, yuck. The greatest disappointment of all was oral sex. I knew it was supposed to be the greatest thing ever, but as Jeff’s head began to move down my body I became more and more appalled. And then seeing his head there between my thighs, I had never been more mortified in my life. He lifted his head and told me I had the most beautiful vagina he’d ever seen. That only made it worse. I was horrified.  My whole body was tense and I wished he’d just get it over with. As he worked at it my body responded, but my will was stronger. I didn’t like the physical sensations. I didn’t like the idea that I might lose control. I pushed him away.

And then it was my turn. I thought I knew exactly what I was supposed to do, but it was all theoretical. Remember, I’d never even seen a penis before. And there was hair, and smells, and strange alien movements. I gathered my bravado and went for it. But Jeff had also read Cosmopolitan, and had learned that you’re supposed to let your partner know exactly what you want them to do. He wouldn’t stop talking, asking me to do this or do that, use my hands more, go this way, stop this other thing, until I gave up.

I felt like an idiot and a failure. I was supposed to know how to do these things. Isn’t it instinctive? Why did I not find his penis attractive? Why did it, in truth, repulse me?

The logical assumption here is that maybe I was gay. Of course that did occur to me, and I gave the thought a good deal of consideration. But I found female genitalia even more repulsive.  I decided I’d simply placed to many expectations where they didn’t belong, and shouldn’t have assumed I’d be a sex goddess from the start, even though everyone seemed to think it was supposed to work that way.

While the sex was a disappointment to me, it wasn’t to Jeff, and what was supposed to be a physical relationship only developed into something more. We got married, and had a big wedding with all the pomp and frills. I spoke to Jeff about my inhibitions, and he promised to help me try to get past them. He understood that his attempted direction had put me off of oral sex, but I was afraid to tell him that it went beyond that. I didn’t like or want sexual pleasure. I didn’t mind trying to appease his libido, but that’s all it was for me, an appeasement. Because you can’t have a marriage without sex, can you?

When my first son was born, I saw a magazine with an article titled, “Get Your Sex Life Back.” I was thrilled, I thought it would have suggestions on how to increase my libido. Instead it was geared toward women with high libidos, explaining how to work more sex into your schedule. And ever since I have seen this as the general way of things. Women are expected to want to have sex, and to want it often. There’s no help or support for women who don’t fit this description. It makes me feel like a total freak, ashamed and afraid to ask for help.

And now the years have passed, and having five kids with busy schedules has made it all too easy to avoid sex.  I feel horrible about this. My husband deserves more and better.

I know I need help, but I don’t know where that help should come from. Jeff has not tried to help me get over my inhibitions as he said he would, but has been very understanding about my aversions, far more understanding than the majority of men probably would be. I don’t know if this is psychological, a result of my upbringing, or if it might be something as simple as a hormone imbalance. Some might even say that if my experience was broader I might feel differently. Maybe that’s true, but I doubt it.

I wonder if I’m really the only one on the planet that could happily live out my life without ever having sex again. Scientists seem a lot more interested in giving men erections than in making women receptive to them. Maybe there are others out there who are ashamed to come forward, as I certainly have been. But I want to like sex. I want to be that sex goddess I always thought I’d be. But for me, that’s like wanting to be a rock star and yet not even capable of speech.

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Remember, comments are encouraged on this post, and the author is very interested in receiving reader feedback, experience, and insight.
But ridicule her or say anything rude and your comment will be deleted.

Nashville For Dummies

Who Also Happen To Be Lovestruck, Underage, and Extremely Gullible

So, Lotus clearly hates you and wants you to be miserable, and I know this because she asked me* to guest post for her. I only agreed because I actually have some valuable information to share with you, her devoted readers. You see, I remembered that there is some blog get-together thingy going on in Nashville in February, and I realized that many of you dear Sarcastic Mom readers will probably be going to that, if for no other reason than to get a view of The Rack close up. Something you don’t know is that I am The World’s Leading Authority on visiting Nashville.

Because I did.

Once.

So naturally, I am more than obliged to provide you all my expert advice on navigating through Lotus’ hometown and getting yourself good and married in 17 easy steps. Prepare to be dazzled.

Fall head over heels in love with your bald, fat, 9 years older than you restaurant manager before you even come close to your twenties.

Let him take wild advantage of you, your car, your ability to both drive legally and go more than 17.39 seconds without snorting anything up your nose.

Hunt him down over the course of 18 months after he takes off from Denver to Nashville with little more than a “So long and thanks for all the fish” mumbled in your general direction one day.

Drive 23 hours straight through the pouring rain to spend two long, glorious weeks winning him back. In Nashville. That’s the key to this whole thing working.

Get to his apartment after getting totally turned around trying to go straight through on the 65 only to end up on some horrible, middle of the night, lost and alone goosechase that lands you on the 40, which is weird only because the 65 and the 40 don’t exactly hit each other even remotely closely to where you wanted to be in the first place.

After finally arriving, have the most awkward make up sex the world has ever known, or ever will know, and watch as he over the span of four hours goes from professing his undying love and suggesting marriage to forgetting you ever existed in the first place. Make sure this happens within your first 24 hours there, so you’re certain to have 13 more days to be stuck waiting for your next paycheck to be deposited so you can get the hell out of there already.

Get fed up 10 days into your 14 day stay because you’ve been stuck in his apartment with his roommate that you don’t even know, you’ve read all your books, and it’s still raining all around you. Realize you are a rain god.

Get into your car and drive. ANYWHERE. End up dead smack in the middle of downtown Nashville, totally on accident. Park and walk. ANYWHERE. Check out Vanderbilt. Follow the river for a ways and end up in some back alley bar with a fabulous live band and a fabulous random guy more than willing to buy you drinks all night.

Get said guy’s number.

Call said guy in front of dipshit ex-boss.

Get taken out by jealous ex-boss to a company function, get introduced as “the bff” and later that night get asked to move to Nashville with him. WITH him.

Drive 23 hours back to Denver, straight, and start packing your life up. If you survive the Kansas stretch.

Get a call at work two weeks later from the man you’re planning to spend the rest of your life with saying he’s just met the woman he plans to spend the rest of his life with.

Die.

Get the hot guy at work shit-faced drunk and nail him in your car to make it all go away.

Marry hot guy from work.

Thank god for small favours. And Jack Daniels.

*Me would be Mr Lady, which is of absolutely no relevance whatsoever to the post.
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Mr. Lady is an amazing writer, a hell of a strong woman, and a damn sexy broad. She authors Whiskey In My Sippy Cup. Not being subscribed to her website is like waking up in the morning and finding out someone has removed both of your lungs. (Have you ever woken up dead? Don’t start tomorrow… visit her today.)

Besides.  There’s a half-naked photo of her on her sidebar, for crying out loud! Go.Now.

PS: She asked me not to blurb her because it makes her uncomfortable, but I like it when hot chicks squirm.

You can tell I’m on my period when I talk about “the indicent.”

Or when I tell you in detail about how I have PMS or, you know, just flat out announce that I’m on my period.  That’s also a good way to tell.

But you can rely on me to talk about the miscarriage around this time of the month, too, I’ve come to realize.  Because, really, it’s actually more painful to me than the date on which the miscarriage happened, this bleeding that says there is no life within these fleshy walls we call “my uterus.” 

The bleeding that says, “AH-HAHAHA, YOU ARE ALONE IN THIS SHELL OF MEAT.”

I don’t think my depression about the matter is excessive.  It’s not worse than it was in the beginning, but it’s not really getting better either.  How about that, y’all?  I guess it takes more time.  Or magic dust.  Or what-the-hell-ever.

Most “normal” days I am “fine.”  Whatever that is.  Sometimes stupid things make me cry.  Sometimes un-stupid things make me cry.  Sometimes people say asshole things, and that makes me cry.  But mostly, on “normal” days, I am fine.  And I think, “Oh, I am getting better, and next time I have my period, it will probably not bother me so much like last time.”

But I am wrong.

I have not gotten past the part where I want that very baby back.  Somehow I feel like I should have been able to let that go by now and want a different one, but it’s just not happening for me.  I have times when I can clearly acknowledge the fact that I still want to have another child someday and that I cannot have THAT child someday, and so I would have to have a DIFFERENT child someday.

But I don’t want to.

And then I think about it some more and I wonder if I really DO want to have another child someday.  Maybe I just still think I kind of sorta like the idea of having another one someday, but that it’s not really true that I actually want to have one.

And I really don’t need to hear any more about how often it happens, or why it probably happened.  I especially don’t want to hear about how it was probably ”for the best” because of why it probably happened.  Thanks, but telling me that my “embryo” [my baby, asshole] was probably some kind of fackin’ chromosomally mutated freak isn’t going to make me want it back less.  If Braden had some type of disease, I would also still want him, I’d just WANT HIM TO BE HEALTHY.

Also, Braden has been extra challenging for me lately.  He is pretty much always up my ass so far I’m choking.  Quite often, he is screaming/whining/throwing a tantrum/crying.  I don’t quite know what to do when, for example, I’ve been playing with him all day and then I’m just trying to have a conversation on the phone with my husband who is NOT HERE and whom I MISS and Braden comes over and shoves a toy in my face.  I tell him to wait, but then he cries, screams, or just gets another toy and hits me in the face with it instead.  I get frustrated and raise my voice at him telling him to, “Just let me talk to Daddy for a few minutes!” but that just makes John mad at me. 

It’s all just triggering a level of insanity in me that I am not mentally coping with very well.  Icanhasdrugz?  Maybe that’s what I need.

I’m reaching the end of my rope and finding it’s just a frayed knob and when I look down, there’s a pit of glass shards waiting below.

What with my inability to let go of the desire to have my dead baby back, and Braden having been really, extra difficult lately, I kind of really am starting to sort of think I maybe don’t want to have another one, not even someday, not even one day.  Not ever.

And it’s making it really hard to make love to my husband.  Because THAT’S HOW YOU MAKE A BABY AND I’M SCARED.

(Ooops, I just said that to The Internet, didn’t I?  Oh well.)

 

That ends this installment of Pity Theatre.  Also known as, “Oh, Poor Me!” 

Not likely to be seen on Broadway anytime soon.

 

 

Being a parent, yourself, always puts things into perspective.

I was totally thinking of complaining today about some Braden-related things. His gums have been bleeding when I brush them, and I’m trying to figure that out. Also, his refusal to use a regular cup has become maddening, and I’ve been trying to help him make the change. These are the type of things I obsess and worry over. You know, on a small scale. Of course, I’m also worried about all the other things that go into raising him properly, and there are many which hit a much more complex/grande scale of importance, but these are the types of details that float in and out of our everyday lives.

Then tonight I watched a 20/20 special called, My Secret Self – A Story of Transgender Children. It aired previously, about a year ago, but this was the first time I saw or heard anything about it.  The special, that is.  The condition itself (Gender Identity Disorder), I have known of already - even studied it to some degree in graduate school – but I’ve never seen a special like this that dealt so intimately with the lives of actual children who have a life-force that is in strong opposition to the shape of their mortal coils.  I learned about the “secret life” of Riley, “Jazz,” and Jeremy.

I found the episode that aired a year ago, on youtube, broken up into five segments.  I’ve embedded them here, so you can watch them, if you’re interested.  It’s worth the time to take in their stories.

When you close your eyes, you don’t have to know the shape of your anatomy to know who you are. You are distinctly aware of your gender. It’s a strong part of your mental identity, your soul, your being, whatever you want to call it. You don’t have to ask anyone else how you should feel, what the shape of your body is, what organs lie inside your abdomen, or what your voice sounds like in order to identify with your gender. You can close off everything outside yourself and check in with your inner core, and you know.

And can you imagine looking at yourself after that and seeing the shape of something else?  Or being told that you are something else?

I can’t even begin to truly understand, but I can begin to imagine.  As a parent, watching that special, I was moved by so many visceral emotions.  Barbara Walters said she thinks most viewers will be “moved to greater understanding.”  I was moved well beyond that.  What must it be like to try to help your child through this?

It was hard to get Braden off the pacifier, and it’s going to be difficult to get him to give up his sippy-straw cups.  Hill of beans.  Such small change.

I can promise that the reasons why I took that piece of plastic away from him and why I want him to learn how to use his cup, even though those things are causing distress for him (and me) in the short-term, are the same reasons why I would support him – the person he is inside his own mind, not the shape of the bag of meat he lives in – no matter what.

It’s because he’s my child, and I love and respect him.  I’m bound by that love and respect to make the choices that are best for him, no matter how uncomfortable and difficult they may be.  Either short term, or long term.

That’s what I signed up for.  That’s why I’m here.

I can’t even begin to imagine reacting in any other way.