I sort of threw Jane in dance so I’d have an extra day to work past 2:30 pm. She seemed to like it. But sometimes it’s hard to tell if Jane likes an activity or just likes hanging with her friends. I don’t begrudge her that. I like to hang with my friends, too. And if she’s hanging while she’s doing pirouettes or what-the-hell-ever, so much the better.
Mothering is sacred work. I pour every ounce of goodness & light I have into this child. But what about the broken parts of me that need mothering, too?
When I was a kid, Field Day was my day of triumph. I got to shock people every year with the fact that I could RUN. I was fast. I guess I didn't look particularly athletic. And, to be honest, my parents didn't really push sports. And coming home dirty from school was frowned upon. So, yeah, rough & tumble wasn't really my game. Which made it even more fun to kick ass every year in the field day race.
So I told her to make her own damn sandwich. (Note: I did not actually say damn out loud. But I said it real, real loud in my head. I think she could probably hear it) She huffed and puffed while she made her sandwich. I took my coffee and my English muffin to the other side of the kitchen, where her huffing was muted by the snorting of the dog.
When I found out I was (finally) pregnant, I fundamentally misunderstood what was about to happen. I mean, I wanted a KID. What I got was, well, a baby. Turns out, babies aren’t really my thing.
Adults always ask kids what they want to be when they grow up. What a weird question. It's not like kids even have any idea about all the things they could be in the world. When adults pose this question, they're invariably inquiring about career choice--as if a job or a career could possibly define a person. What if a kid wants to be brave? Or curious? But these answers would never do--adults would just chuckle and ask patronizingly--again---yes, but what do you want to be?
At 7 years old, my daughter, has already attended seven civil rights marches (if you count the five Pride parades she’s attended—and I do. Oh, I do.). I don’t come from a long line of activists. In fact, my parents always seem (not so secretly) appalled that I let Jane march through the streets holding signs, chanting, and generally being a rabble-rouser. But here’s the thing: Jane was born into activism.
We’ve entered the season of snark with Jane. And, dear God, it is wearing me down.
Chester grabbed Mr. Pips and headed toward the front door. He'd had just enough of Mommy's sighing and the baby's squawking. He wanted things to be like they used to be. He wanted someone to be interested in his stories again. His wonderful, magical stories full of fierce and beautiful creatures and brilliantly brave heroes (who, admittedly, always looked and acted a bit like Chester himself). Now Chester sighed. This new baby had ruined everything. Mr. Pips gazed at Chester sympathetically, and he gave the old, battered stuff bunny a squeeze.
Our daughter’s start in the world was less than traditional--conceived with donor sperm and born to lesbian parents. Then, when Jane was 4, her Bobby (Jane’s non-biological parent), transitioned from female to male. Que the crash course in gender, acceptance, and celebrating who we are—even if who we are makes us a little different.
