My wife and I are well matched. She excels at spelling and identifying feelings, I am in charge of tasks requiring strong spacial relations and picking paint colors. She prefers to focus on keeping the inside of our home in order, I prefer to keep the outside of our house in order. My wife likes to make lists and while I definitely want to know what’s on deck, I avoid lists – I value efficiency and worry that a list might box me in – could result in an inability to innovate – stifle my creativity.
We are complimentary to one another as parents as well. I am available for cuddling and talking about video games- my wife is known for planning and executing adventures. The boys and I build things. She cooks with them. I let them get messy and even paint. She bathes them – or prompts them to shower – and does not let them paint. Teamwork. And when it comes time for serious discussions with our boys one of us is always there to balance the other.
Christmas is coming. We are expecting my mother and her husband will be joining us for the holiday.
I can’t stand the pressure that comes from trying to let the air out of this balloon of anticipation at just the right pace. I need to talk to my wife, then my mother, my brother, my in-laws, my oldest son before my youngest son and none of the above can hear it from someone else. I am desperate to get the air out. But it is not all about me.
My gender impacts very few people. How much might it affect my children? With the youngest it seems the timing might be ok, if I move quickly I could ‘finish’ my transition before kindergarten starts. But for my oldest…
I worry I might be an embarrassment to his 14 year old self. That he may not want to be seen with me. That his peers might single him out for the uniqueness of his family.
He is seven years old again. His substitute teacher is getting married over the weekend. He announces, “My moms are getting married too!” Another child explains that that isn’t allowed. On the way home from school he laughs about how she clearly has no idea how the world works – of course his parents can get married.
We overhear him in the dugout. Its Little League he is eleven or twelve. One of his friends makes a joke about one of the others being gay. Our son, “Dudes – my moms are gay.” “Oh shit dude I didn’t mean it like that – sorry!”
He has gotten to his freshman year having two moms. He seems to have handled it well. There is a possibility that he is better equipped to deal with this than I am. He is a remarkably mature young man.
But first I have to tell him. My therapist asks me to identify the barriers to having this conversation. In summary I simply cannot envision being that vulnerable with him.
It’s 2014, I am at work. My phone rings – it is my brother – who never calls me. I answer, and hear only “Dad … ambulance …” *call drops* I step into a conference room cursing the cellphone reception gods. My brother and I spend the next few minutes trying to work through the are-you-calling-me-or-am-I-calling-you/ STOP-calling-me!-I-am-trying-to-call-you! struggle. It turns out that I didn’t need much more detail than the first call provided – my dad had been taken to the hospital via ambulance and the outlook was very poor. He had had a heart attack.
I tell my boss I need to leave and try to call my wife while in the elevator. She doesn’t answer. We are supposed to meet at a baseball game for, at that time, our only son who is 9 years old. I am thirteen weeks pregnant. “I need you to call me, it’s important.” I get in my car and head home.
My wife joyfully calls me from her car – I am disappointed to be on speaker phone. I know our son is in the car. She is happily trying to make plans as to who will pick up sandwiches vs who will swing by the house to pick up the forgotten cleats. Seems she did not listen to the voice message or see the texts I sent while walking to my car. I try in a few different yet covert ways to communicate that we are not going to make it to the game. I don’t know if I can say it out loud without breaking down – which I cannot stand the thought of when I know our son can hear me. Finally, “Babe! Stop! My dad is in the hospital, I need you to come home.”
We couldn’t get a flight out that night. My father passed in the middle of the night. When my son came to me to offer his condolences I was rigid and, not cold but…cool. I couldn’t stand him seeing me fall apart.
I want to protect him – not burden him with my struggles. I want him to see me as strong and in control. My therapist tells me that he deserves to be a part of my life and that it isn’t my place to stop him from having feelings about me.
Well – that’s annoying. I didn’t have kids so they could be autonomous and worry about whatever they choose to worry about. I had kids so we can cuddle and they can worry about their grades. Though, now that he towers over me we usually stick to things like me ruffling his hair (when he is seated of course) – we have all but given up worrying about grades. Once he passed me in height he suggested we buy a step stool so that I could still see him. Hilarious.
That night I decide to tell him. No plan. Just…deep breath … here we go.
Central Oregon
Eldest son
His little brother is in bed and seems likely to stay there for the night *knock on wood*. He is playing Rocket League in the family room. I signal to my wife a ‘here goes nothing.’ I sit across the room from him on the couch. My wife sits in the other chair. He pauses the game, he knows the routine. He is likely wondering if he remembered to do all the tasks on the list his mother left for him.
“We wanted to talk to you about something. Do you know what ‘transgender’ means?”
“Yeah – it’s like…” he provides a much more informed response than I imagined he would. It kind of throws me off.
I open my mouth. I close it. I half open, quarter close… I am frozen. Now my bottom jaw is just quivering. Seems like I should talk again. I look at my wife. In other conversations this look means, “I am at a loss, please take over the conversation while I compose myself.” It usually occurs when one of the kids is in a small amount of trouble and then they walk face first into a large amount of trouble. Whichever one of us is less caught off guard picks up the lecture and forges ahead. But now she just looks at me, tips her head toward me in a you-have-to-say-something kind of way.
One more depth breath.
“For as long as I can remember I have struggled to understand the disconnect between who I know myself to be and how people treat me. It has been difficult to discuss or even quantify this gap because I didn’t have language for it. And, I guess I assumed that everyone felt this way.
I thought that at some point I would grow into who I wanted to be. That if I could just be mature enough to stop cringing at my name, I would be fine. But I have realized that it is not in fact my name that I am reacting to. It is that my name signifies that regardless of all my effort I am perceived as female. And that is so strange to me because I do not, nor have I ever felt female. Yet I didn’t really understand that.
I have decided to change my name and begin to medically transition. At some point there will likely be surgery, I will start taking hormones, we will have a beard growing contest etc. I will ask that people use male pronouns when referring to me. Questions?”
“I just think this is really cool. It’s so cool that you are finding this out about yourself and making this decision.”
“Thanks man.”
“Yeah. I’m excited. I had sort of noticed that some things seemed different and I was wondering what was up. I go to school with a few kids that are trans. Can I show you the new wheels I got in Rocket League?”
“Yeah – of course.”
This is all to say that sometimes our identities don’t ruin the lives of the people we love. Sometimes they love us just the same.
The boys watching the water do whatever it wishes with the sticks they throw in. Content to observe.
That's Mr. Gender to You 
Beautiful❣️
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