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.
A gritty, honest exploration of change, loss, and joy as it's unfolded in my life.
I don’t think about her often, this baby that would’ve been my second child. But sometimes the missing of her will sneak up, unexpectedly. Sometimes.
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.
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.
We took Jane to see Black Panther on Sunday. (Trust me...This is just another in a string of questionable parenting choices.) In our house, we are all about REPRESENTATION and EMPOWERMENT (and, yeah, I get excited enough when I talk about these things to warrant all caps). I wanted her to see a black superhero... Continue Reading →
I haven't talked to Jane about the shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. How do you tell a 7 year old, who loves school above all else, that 17 people went in to school one morning and never came back out? How will she ever feel safe again, once she knows the truth? I... Continue Reading →
I remember her name was Chrystal*. I can remember the honey color of her hair. But I can't recall her face at all. Sometimes our minds take mercy on us, even when we are least deserving. I hated myself in middle school. A boy in my sixth grade science class told me I was ugly.... Continue Reading →
My sweet baby Jane came into the world 7 years (and 4 days) ago. I had some pretty naive ideas about motherhood then. I thought she'd never wear pink. (By day 4 she had on her first pink outfit. She hasn't turned back since.) I strongly opposed princesses and damsels-being-rescued in any format. (Jane's 4th... Continue Reading →
All my life, I was taught to curry favor with men. That’s the honest to God truth.
