Not Just Transgender

When my children were small, I was part of an online liberal community of (primarily) mothers. One day, a woman who went by laurustina showed up with a funny, delightful little vignette about looking out the window to find her husband and landlord chatting, oblivious to the fact that her transgender daughter Alice's prosthetic breast was on the lawn. While she and Alice watched, her son, Max, rescued the boobie. The whole family was delightful. Read it. You'll smile.

I didn't realize Alice had since died. I missed it somehow, or maybe she didn't tell us. When she posted another story, it was heart wrenching rather than funny. This time, she was consenting to donate her daughter's organs. I've been waiting to get my hands on her memoir ever since.

I finally finished Jules Vilmer's The Complicated Geography of Alice  yesterday, and I encourage you to read it. Probably. Unless, maybe, you're in a similar situation. If you're in the belly of the whale, if you have a depressed, transgender, drug-addicted child, you have enough to deal with. Not that you shouldn't read it, but I won't be the one to tell you to. This book is terrifying, and you may not need any more terrifying right now.

Terrifying because Jules Vilmer and her husband Jay did everything right. They were perfect parents, at least when it came to dealing with Alice being transgender. They would argue, of course. After all, they were there. It's easier to credit someone with perfection when you only have a vague idea of what actually happened. For me, literally perfect wasn't important, just that they'd risen to the occasion. Things turned out badly anyway, because Alice had other problems. That became oh-so-important to me as I read.

When you read about terrible things happening to people, it's tempting - irresistible, even - to figure out all the ways in which they're different from you. If you can figure out where they went wrong, you can figure out how to avoid their fate. But what if they're Jules, Jay, Max and Alice? What if you like them to much to criticize? What if that made you realize, once again, what a tremendous unkindness dissecting every little choice they made would be?

So instead, I tried desperately to tell myself that Alice didn't die because she was transgender. That one can't die of being transgender, because transgender isn't sick. She died because she was mentally ill. Because she was a drug addict. I can't say her parents handled those things perfectly, because I don't know what perfect would look like. I already know I'll be in over my head if one of my children is as tortured as Alice was.

But a transgender child....that's something I thought I could do. It wouldn't be easy, it would be an adjustment, and I'll even confess I'd probably have some grief about it. I'd get over it, though. If I'm a good mother, my transgender child will be insulated from a hateful world. No need to turn to drugs or self-hatred. A transgender child is no tragedy. No tragedy is all I ask.

No, it's not. I want my kids to be happy people with fulfilling lives. No, I don't, I want them to be kids who stay right here with me forever. No, I don't. I want them to grow up. Because it's that or die.

What Valmir wishes for now is so simple.

Sometimes I tell people my daughter ran off to Tangier. If they ask what she's doing there, I roll my eyes and say, "That's what I'd like to know." But oh, how I love the idea of her traipsing across the globe, having adventures so grand she keeps forgetting to call home. 

No, no, no. Alice could not have been depressed or addicted to drugs because she was transgender. It must have been in addition to being transgender. She was a tortured soul, and even if she'd been perfectly content to stay in a male body, she would have struggled just as much. Because being as mentally ill as she was sucks, and Alice was severely mentally ill. It was in the cards; written on her DNA.

Nobody's fault; certainly not her parents. I'll even let the transphobic's world off the hook, because I can't have the transphobic world be the culprit here. Alice's parents did everything in their power to protect her from it. If they were only moderately successful, because most of the world is beyond their control, other gender non-conforming folks have faced much worse. They lived to tell about it. Alice's depression, on the other hand, was unique to her. She's the only person who has ever had it. It's fatal, 100% of the time. Maybe someday, we'll know how to treat severe mental illness, to manage or even cure it. But for now, I have accepted that even parents who do everything right simply might not have enough to work with.

I don't believe either of my children is transgender. If they were, I would know. Right? Anyway, it doesn't matter, because if I'm wrong, I can handle it. Right?

I should take this opportunity to ask myself just who the hell I think I am. Do I think I'm immune to having a child with severe depression? A child with a drug problem? No, I don't, of course not! Yes, I do. No, I don't. Yes, I do.

My children are probably more likely to struggle with depression or addiction than gender identity. The truth is, some degree of addiction or mental illness isn't unlikely. But I already know I'll be lost dealing with either of them. I'd have no map. I never hoped or expected I would know how to be Perfect Enlightened Mommy on the day my 14-year-old was expelled for the second time because we just couldn't figure out how to keep them sober.

Life could throw me a million unexpected loops. These are only three of them. I already knew I'd be at life's mercy with two of them. But I thought I had some control over the third. I could accept. I could protect. If I did that, it would all be okay.

Of course, if one of my children is transgender, and I do handle it well, it will be because I didn't have to go first. The worst of that path has already been cleared. I'll have models like Jules and her husband to light the way. And yes, I'll follow their example, even knowing they didn't get a happy ending. I will never have to be a hero here. The title of pioneer won't be available to me, thank GOD. I'd rather be the mother of two living children.

There are some particularly loathsome individuals ("loathsome" referring not to people who waver, but people who feel sure) who might say Alice died because her parents indulged her. "Let" her be a girl. Didn't employ enough tough love. Talk to some transgender people whose parents didn't indulge them, and get back to me. Longevity may never have been possible for Alice, but because of the life her parents created for her, her time on earth contained joy and happiness as well as torment. Alice's good times happened because she was seen, accepted and understood. While Alice was here, she got to live.

After I finished working yesterday, I had some time to kill, but not enough to go home. I could grocery shop, but that would leave frozen goods melting in my trunk. So I went to a coffee shop to finish the book I was reading.

I knew how it was going to end, but even so, I read the book hoping there had been some sort of mistake, that things would turn out differently. But there was no mistake. Alice is gone. She'll never grow up. Her parents will never get to remember how hard things were for a while, before their daughter settled into her skin, into the world. They'll never get to shake their heads at that poor, dramatic couple who didn't know everything was going to be alright.

When Alice died, her mother took me there. My eyes welled up with tears, and I wanted to sob. But I was surrounded by college and high school students, so I didn't. I finished the book, and went to pick up my kids.

To have a child is to have your heart walking around outside your body for the rest of your life.  A cliche' we all know, and all know is true....ish. I'll have my heart, split in half, walking around outside my body for the rest of my life, unless I don't.

Many years ago, before I had kids, I knew a mother who said of her children, "She is my strength, and he is my joy."

I've felt the same way. My first born, my love for you is fierce. Intense. Unbreakable.

My second born, my love for you is joyful, buoyant, light as a feather. Unsinkable.

But neither of you is unbreakable or unsinkable. My love for you is here for the rest of my life, but I have no guarantee that the objects of it are. I'd have quibbled over that bit, but the contract was non-negotiable. There was no one with whom to negotiate.

Figuring out all the ways in which the victim is different from you is a response to learning about tragedy, but it's not the response. There are others we can fall back on. One is even more cliche', but at least doesn't rob you of compassion or empathy. At least it won't steal your soul. Another response says, there but for the grace of God go I. It says, hug your kids. 

When I walked through the playground gates to pick up my children, I spotted my son right away. Seconds later, he spotted me. I got one of those running-jump hugs that he'll be too big to pull off soon. No matter what tomorrow may bring, I won't have those for much longer.

I may not have him forever. My luminous, happy, friendly, social, astute, quirky and witty son may or may not live a long life. But at that moment, he was there, arms around my neck. Solid gold.

Do They Honestly Know Not What They Do?

It happens all the time. A woman is raped. For whatever reason, it becomes a high profile case. Maybe she was drunk. Maybe she was outside. Maybe she was 11. All high risk behaviors, to be sure, and someone will always be sure to point it out. That someone will be accused of victim-blaming. Now, I would say that accusation is very fair. They're victim-blaming and they know it, right? Nobody could possibly be that clueless, could they? 

Earlier today, it hit me. Yes. They could be that clueless. It's entirely possible. 

A friend had posted this article on Facebook, about a mayor's response to a gang rape in Australia, and expressed her displeasure with the obvious victim-blaming. There should not, in my mind, have been anything controversial or even debatable in what she was saying. The mayor, Kevin Mack, hadn't minced words. In fact, he'd made himself abundantly clear. 

"I always have encouraged women not to walk alone, to have someone with them at all times, because that in itself is an invitation for someone to take advantage of you." 

An invitation. That's what he said. Those were his words. 

"We just need to be a little bit more careful, a little bit more security conscious and we as a public need to look after each other."

He said we just need to be a little more careful, because he knew better than to say you need to be a little more careful. When it comes to looking out for each other, he's doing his part. He's giving women ridiculously obvious advice that no woman needs to hear, because the message was driven home long ago. 

A friend of my friend's defended the mayor. He explained that he was just giving sensible, practical advice. No blaming, no moralizing, just a little pearl of wisdom. 

The discussion grew heated, and the man defending the mayor deleted his comments. Although I had only passively participated, I felt badly. In part because I'd been a bit harsh in my sarcasm, but mostly because it suddenly hit me. He may not fully understand how intuitively women know to be careful in public, at night, alone, and in the presence of men, particularly unknown men. I doubt he thought the advice was new, but he might not have realized exactly how old it was. 

I was in my late teens when I first heard Ani DiFranco sing, "I'm determined to survive on this shore/you know, I don't avert my eyes anymore." It hit me. When I passed a man on an otherwise empty street, I always averted my eyes. I promised myself I would stop. I have many memories of realizing, right after it happened, that dammit, I looked away again! But I don't remember ever succeeding in holding my ground.  

I've understood for some time that many men, especially the white, heterosexual, cis-gendered, middle-or-upper-class, abled-bodied variety, may not understand how different their lives would be if they lacked even one of those markers of privilege. Seeing this man's obvious bafflement, I got it. Again. And better. He doesn't know how deeply women have gotten the message to be careful. 

So, fellow traveler, I'm going to try to put this in terms you understand. 

Your parents told you to be careful crossing the street. Especially under dangerous conditions. There are, in many cases, crosswalks, lights, and other indications that you shouldn't have to worry, but only a fool would trust that all the drivers on the road care as much about your safety as you and your parents do. So you don't just trust the sign that says "walk." You also look. You listen. You get a firm handle on your surroundings before you step out into the street. 

You were told all this so long ago that you don't remember ever not knowing. Not only do you get it, but you know almost everyone else gets it, too. After a certain age, there is rarely a need to repeat this advice. It would be almost insulting to harp on it. 

If I read about someone being hit by a car, my instinct isn't to try to figure out what they did wrong and warn everyone in their demographic not to do the same. The mayor doesn't respond to a story like that by telling all the citizens to be careful crossing, and certainly not if the car in question was driven by a reckless criminal. If he did, yes, it would look like victim-blaming. Because he'd be implying that if you were always careful enough, nobody would ever be hit by a car. And he would never dream of suggesting that you should just stay home, despite the fact that home is well known to be an excellent place to avoiding being hit by a car. One could even argue that home provides more protection from cars than it does from gendered violence. 

Your parents told you to be careful around cars. They said it emphatically, and repeatedly, and they started before you could understand the words coming out of their mouths. For me to repeat it now would be unheard of. 

Jessica Williams and Jordan Klepper were delightful in this bit. 

The Daily Show
Daily Show Full Episodes,  More Daily Show Videos,  Comedy Central Full Episodes

But maybe you don't understand that was a real presentation the girls attended at college orientation? That we were officially told everything Jessica Williams said, it wasn't presented as a joke, and the only difference was that the woman presenting it didn't need to fumble around to remember any of it for comic effect? 

Women know to be careful. They were told by their parents. By their teachers. And by everyone else. We get it, Kevin Mack. Better than you ever will. You have nothing to offer. Your advice is worthless. You can't teach anyone anything about avoiding rapists, except perhaps your daughter or niece - someone significantly younger than you, if you have an important role in her life. Not one single woman heard what you said, took it to heart, and benefitted from it. It may be difficult to imagine, but women have a better handle on this "being female" thing that you do. 

But the three rapists in question did get to fly right under your radar. If you'd been addressing someone being killed by a drunk driver, you'd have reminded the people in your city not to drive drunk. Period. You would not have suggested staying home to avoid drunk drivers. 

The man on my friend's timeline didn't do anything to help prevent sexual assault. He didn't make me understand that Kevin Mack had been right. But he did help me understand where Kevin Mack may have been coming from. A place of genuine ignorance. 12 hours ago, I didn't understand that as well as I do now. He may have honestly not known any better. It may not be what I've always thought - that he doesn't understand this as well as women do. It may be that he doesn't understand it at all. Maybe it's not willful. Maybe it's not even partially intentional. I thought you were lying. I see you may not have been. 

God forgive me, I didn't know that. I didn't know how different things might have been if I'd had that particular marker of privilege. I'm sorry if I was mean to you. I thought I knew you were coming from a different place than I was, but I didn't. Not really.

Girl Culture is Hard

I once believed the greatest gift I could give my children was faith. My faith in them. I thought I could infuse them with confidence and belief in themselves if I gave them one simple message - I believe you can do this. You aren't fragile. You can trust your own judgement.

I still believe that, but it's been harder to give than I would have ever guessed. Or it's been harder to give to one of my children. The one who's a girl.

With my son, it gets easier every day. I don't worry about him unless there's good reason to. I rarely wonder if my fears for him are sound or neurotic, because, since I don't worry excessively, I can honor it when I do.

But my daughter...she's my first born. The one who reminds me so much of myself. I am fiercely, rabidly protective of her. I'm suspicious of everyone. It communicates to her that I have no faith at all. It isn't doing me, her or anyone else any good.

This shouldn't be taken to mean I'm not sufficiently protective of my son. I believe myself to be giving him what he needs, and I'm well aware that a seven-year-old child needs to be protected and advocated for. Don't get the impression I won't kill you (and by you, I mean you, personally). In fact, I'm thinking about hitting you in the head with a baseball bat right now (and by you, I don't so much mean you personally, but more a vague personification of a threat). But I'll only resort to that if I really, really have to.

For the most part, though, I'm confident he'll be okay. I can relax, and allow him to relax. Time and again, I've wished she could have his mom. Because you know how we're all supposed to think we're the worst mother in the world? Well, I'm not. The world would be a better place if I were. Still, there are things I would change if I could, and things I would do differently if I knew how. I could say "If I had it to do over again....," but it would be a lie. I knew I was doing it wrong, but the sad truth is, I was doing the best I could.

They have different personalities, of course, and I could pin some of it on that. Even so, I have to own that a lot of it is me. I take some small comfort in the fact that it's not entirely because she's my girl. I know, because all my friends without daughters have managed to dig up a son with whom to identify too closely.

"If you want to know what's unresolved from your own childhood, have kids." Did I read that somewhere? Or is it an old saying? Or maybe I just made it up, or heard it from a friend? I'm not sure, but truer words have rarely been spoken.

So what's unresolved from my own childhood? School. ADD and all the crap that goes along with it. But most of all, friends and social life.

A few weeks ago, she seemed to be struggling socially. I've learned to bite my tongue when I start overreacting. To a point. I try to be a sounding board, someone to talk to, and a container for her to find her own solutions. I've gotten better, but what I have here seems to be closer to a scab than a scar. It provides some protection, but poke it the wrong way, and it will start bleeding.

For example, one day she was upset because a mean-girl type had been mean.

I've known this girl since she was in kindergarten, although not well. I've watched her grow up. I remembered walking down the hall with her when she was about five, her not yet able to pronounce the letter "r", chattering away to me about her brothers, sisters, and her "fuchoo sister." (Sister-in-law, I believe). None of it meant a damn thing.

"She'll have three kids by the time she's 20," I snapped. Yes, I, 38-year-old mother of two, felt the best defense was to imply a ten-year-old child was a trashy slut. Because that's how I want my daughter to manage conflict. Mean girl? "Trashy slut!" Rude barista? "Trashy slut!" Pulled over for speeding? "Trashy slut!" Telemarketer won't stop calling? "Trashy slut!" Disagree with a college professor about Peru's economic policy? "Trashy slut!"

Around the same time, she had been legitimately named the president of an extracurricular club. She was happy, and perfectly willing and able to do the job, but was considering sharing it with another girl, because the girl was jealous. It had come up at her teacher conference, where her teacher had strongly implied this would be a terrible idea.

I knew she didn't want to share the position, and was under no obligation to do so. Was I right to encourage my daughter to unapologetically be the leader, and not share it just because some other kid was making life difficult? I think so. But the tween girl drama had obviously become far too important to me. One morning, while I drove her to school, I lectured her on how she absolutely must not share her leadership position.

"I know I should stop," I finally confessed to her.

"But you can't," she confirmed. That kid has my number.

When I got home, a friend on Facebook was considering not applying for a job. She wanted the job and was qualified for it. Her skill set was exactly right for it. But she was scared. Scared of putting herself out there and being rejected. Scared of getting her hopes up. Scared, perhaps, that even if she got it, she wouldn't be able to do it.

Oh, hell no. Not on my watch. While I worked on giving her a measured response, I quietly went bananas. Give up something you want, something you might be able to have, something that you perhaps should have? Without even trying? Do that now, and you'll settle for less for the rest of your life!

Knowing if I started, I wouldn't be able to control myself, I said very little. My friend applied for the job anyway, because believe it or not, people can actually make good decisions for themselves without my help. I suppose there's even an outside chance that what I wanted her to do wasn't right for her (no freaking way). But as much as I was rooting for her, was there maybe just a little bit of projection going on? Was I looking at her and seeing my daughter? Was I looking at her and seeing myself?

Now, there's nothing I hate more than other people projecting their stuff onto me, so I can only imagine everyone else feels exactly the same way. So why do I subject one of the most important people in the world to me to it on a regular basis (we all know exactly why)?

I don't always do it wrong. When I have a healthy attitude on a particular topic, I'm just fine. Another problem my daughter recently came home with was boys making sexual comments about her clothing and body.

Yes, I remembered, this is when that starts. I remembered hearing similar in fifth grade. I remembered sitting on the floor in seventh grade, a boy shoving my head into the wall with his crotch, and calmly waiting for him to stop and walk away. I remembered thinking, well, I shouldn't have been sitting on the floor.

I told my daughter it was sexual harassment. I emailed her teacher and asked if the kids were being taught this kind of behavior was unacceptable, and often illegal. Better for everyone, I thought, to stop this right here and now.

But I was not upset. I knew these boys knew nothing of sexual harassment, male privilege or the male gaze. I believed if it was all explained to them immediately, they would save themselves and all the women they met in the future a lot of trouble. Although I would have pursued the same action either way, I was happy to know that what was best for my daughter was also, in my estimation, what was best for the boys who had harassed her.

Why? Because they hadn't poked my scab. Junk-in-my-face boy did not traumatize me. He didn't, for one second, have the power. Any lingering scars I have were caused by people worthier, more important, and just plain better than him.

Maybe he kept on going, and is now, in his late 30s, exactly the kind of man you'd expect a boy who assaulted girls in the hallway at school to be. In that case, he probably forgot all about it, just as I would have if I weren't such a chronic rememberer. (Because it was not important to me. Hear that, loser? I have no feelings about you at all!). I'd like to think if he does remember, he cringes. He teaches his son to never, under any circumstances, do any such thing.

That's what I look like when I'm advocating for my child in a healthy, appropriate manner.

The unresolved sadness and grief lies in friendships with people who actually mattered, mostly (but not exclusively) other girls. What I wish I'd known when I was older than my daughter is now, but still young, was that my actions actually mattered. That while everyone makes mistakes, there were consequences that wouldn't be erased when I turned eighteen. Be too quick to say "I'm done with you bitches" now, and you'll be saying it over and over, for the rest of your life, and you just might encourage your daughter to do the same.

But can you tell a child that? Nope. It's too much to saddle them with. They wouldn't be able to do anything with it. I, at least, got to learn the wrong lessons for myself. I haven't given my daughter any such luxury.

What I do know is that, with all the talk about girl bullying, queen bees and wannabes, girls being mean, catty, two-faced, and dishonest, it was rarely - probably never - a conscious decision on anyone's part. What they fail to mention is, all these girls are kids. Kids who have no clue what they're doing. No one ever decided, "I'm going to emotionally scar you for life now." Everyone was just trying to survive. I won't cast myself as a bully or a victim - I did things I regret, and I suspect there are some who regret their behavior toward me. Had I truly been bullied, I'd be telling a different story. But, while I wasn't totally in control of everything that happened, but I wasn't totally helpless, either.

I see my daughter's suspicion. I see the way she expects rejection, and finds reasons to beat other people to the punch. I know exactly where she got it. Or else I don't, it's all in my imagination. Or, more likely, she wasn't born with it, but it's there now.

I didn't think it would be like this. But here we are. You can't give what you don't have. God dammit. Why the fuck can't I give what I don't have?

Luckily, I'm not the only influence in my daughter's life. Earlier this year, she and her class went to camp for a few days. Ms. Bea - the mother of two boys - blonde, serene, a beatific glow surrounding her at all times, had a fine time hanging with the girls for a few days. Because what the hand-wringers never mention is, girl culture is also great fun. We're talking barrel-of-moneys level shit here.

The next week, she came up to me on the playground.

"Your daughter is amazing!" she told me. "The weekend after camp, I saw some friends, and I told them, 'Don't you worry about a thing. These girls are going to save the world.'"

Don't worry about a thing. I think it would have been more powerful if it had come from me. But it wasn't nothing.

I Think I Failed to Get My Point Across

I suspect my previous post may have come off a little harsh, and ended up saying almost exactly the opposite of what I was trying to say.

What I meant was, don't worry about it. Unless you're a total jerk who is 100% caught up in your own needs and doesn't know how to listen at all, you're probably fine. Seriously, you can be up to 70% caught up in your own needs, and you'll still probably do fine. Also that nobody, at any time, is completely divorced from meeting their own needs, so it's an unreasonable thing to ask.

What I meant was, our expectations of what people should say to us during difficult times are too high, and we should take it down a notch. Focus on the intent, not the content.

That's all.

On Saying the Wrong Thing

Because I think it's fair to say I'm above-average neurotic, I want to get a couple of things out of the way before I start.

1. My husband is the one who is sick. I am not. I come at this from the "well spouse" perspective. Being an existentialist, I recognize that, while we can provide each other valuable support, it only goes so far. Other people matter, but ultimately we all face an infinite, unknown void, and although it's a universal experience, every one of us does it alone. Even the people closest to us cannot relieve us of that. I speak for myself because I'm the only person I'm qualified to speak for. 
2. My husband's illness does not, at this point, appear to be life-threatening. I might have drawn very difficult conclusions if it did. We don't know if his illness is a "get your affairs in order" kind of thing, or more of a "gosh, that's a bummer." 
3. I'm not perfect, and may have violated the very rules I'm advocating at times. Of course, nobody wants to be a hypocrite, but I'm more afraid of being judged as someone with no self-awareness, and if I had no self-awareness, I wouldn't know it. So naturally, I worry. 
4. This isn't meant to be a passive-aggressive dig at people who have offended my delicate sensibilities. I hope and believe that, on the off chance they ready my blog - and I have no reason to believe they do - I'm leaving out as much detail as I can while still making my point. I can honestly say that only, like, 10% of me hopes these women recognize themselves. 

So that's out of the way. 

You know what I hate? Those list/articles circling the internet, helping us all out by telling us "the 9 things you're doing wrong and making everyone hate you" and other such nonsense. Look, internet, you deliberately make us all as self-conscious as possible, and when you're done, you tell us we're narcissists. But having to monitor my behavior for any and all possible faux pas doesn't leave me a whole lot of time to think about anything else. So if you have a sincere desire to improve humanity, lay off. 

So why would I write this? Is it a list of the two things not to do? Or am I just venting? It must be the latter. An idea can swirl around in my head for months or years, until one day, I'm seized with such a strong desire to write about it that I won't have any peace until I do. This is one of those times. 

One thing I've never wanted to do is keep a mental record of all the stupid, insensitive things people have said to my husband or me in regards to his illness. Partly because my experience has been that nobody has said anything all that bad, and partly because I'd rather recognize good intentions than get caught up in the details. People aren't perfect, and I like them anyway. I'm not perfect, and somehow I haven't been shunned by all of society. Expecting every attempt at support to be graceful and perfectly executed is the quickest road to having no support I can think of. 

Additionally, I know that my husband being the one with this particular malady doesn't relieve others of their inherent fears. Most of us know making everything about ourselves isn't how you provide support. So we try, we really do. It's better if you don't launch into a story about yourself when you're supposed to be talking about someone else's problem, and keeping your own ignorance in mind is always a good idea. 

All that is true, and remembering it goes a long way. But we're all going to die, and none of us are happy about it. Serious illness in someone else provokes a very real, valid and primal fear in all of us. The fact is, nobody - from your nearest and dearest, to the cashier in the grocery store - wants to hear, "I don't know what's wrong." It removes their ability to figure out all the ways in which they're totally different from you, and therefore not vulnerable to your affliction. If God-knows-what , God-knows-why can happen to me, it can happen to you. If that bothers you, you're right on. It should. 

Without their defense mechanism of trying to distance themselves, people will try very hard to find an answer. Sometimes, they'll go so far as to make something up. I get it. 

Fact is, people are complicated, and they don't stop being complicated even if I'm the one very close to the center of the drama. Life is messy. Other people are whole even when it's supposed to be about me. Keeping that at the front of your mind will spare you much heartache. 

What I'm trying to say is, people have every reason to say clumsy, thoughtless things. Considering the impossible burden they all carry, they do remarkably well. So well that over the past few years, only two reactions have really, really gotten under my skin. If you want to hear what they are, you've come to the right place. 

Getting on my nerves, part 1: 

A woman who had a prepared speech she liked to give regarding the medical field. I heard this speech no less than three times. 

"Everyone thinks you go to the doctor, they figure out what's wrong, and they cure it, but it's just not true." 

There was more to it than that, but that's the gist of it. It doesn't merit further elaboration. It bothered me because she had us dead wrong, and didn't seem to hear this no matter how many times I tried to say so. 

While I can't say I ever thought my husband would be the one with a mystery ailment, I had no trouble wrapping my brain around their existence. We aren't, and never were, doe-eyed simps who expect daddy to solve all our problems, okay? Not because we're jaded by misfortune, but because we're realists. We don't believe in miracles or miracle workers. We do believe in human kindness, however, and find it's almost as good. I have always know doctors can't diagnose or solve all our problems. 

Also, when I said "in sickness and in health" (I don't remember if I really said that when I got married, but it was definitely implied), I meant it. Moreover, I knew sickness was a "when", not an "if." Did I expect it to happen this soon? No. But I've never had that feeling of the universe reneging a promise it never actually made. On some level, I knew it was possible. 

When I tried to explain to this woman what she was getting wrong, I hadn't yet articulated the nature of my dissatisfaction with the doctors who told my husband, "your tests are fine; go home and wait for something worse to happen." So although I'm fairly certain I told her no, we do not think doctors are magicians who can wave a magic wand and make all one's problems magically disappear, I didn't yet have the words to drive my point home. I do now, but that's its own can of worms, and hopefully she isn't reading this anyway. 

Getting on my nerves, part 2: 

I don't believe in unselfish good deeds. Which isn't to say I don't believe people are good and well-intentioned. I do. I just think we're all trying to get out needs met, all the time. A desire to help is usually at least partly sincere, but there will always be a bit of a self-serving element. That's fine. Advice either pans out, or it doesn't. Kind words of support resonate, or they don't. It doesn't matter. I see your good intentions, and I'm not going to subject them to a purity test. 

I'd prefer your attempts at support be at least, say, 30% genuine, which leads me to the other thing that bothered me. 

A friend made an armchair diagnosis. This happens often enough, and it's fine. Well, I wouldn't blame my husband if he was sick and tired of it, but at this point, you can still bring your guesses to me. You're probably wrong, but probably is a far cry from definitely. 

What offended me about this particular armchair diagnosis was that a) it was very dire, and b) I knew this woman's MO. She loves proving how intelligent and knowledgeable she is so much, she would have been fucking thrilled to have been proven right. Not because she wishes us ill, but because that's how much she loves being right. I could elaborate, but can you see why I didn't appreciate that? 

That's pretty much it. If you want to support us, don't use our misfortune to stroke your own ego, and please refrain from implying we're stupid or naive. You might think we are - that's none of my business - but if your aim is ostensibly to be supportive, I would ask that you keep it to yourself.  I'd say it also didn't help that, as far as I knew, neither of these women had actually earned the wisdom they were so generously sharing with me. 

Also, how lucky am I? The fact that these are my only two complaints are a sign that my family and I know a whole lot of intelligent, kind people. I thank you for it. 

It's a Metaphor

My latest tattoo, designed by my son, immediately after I got it. I already had one of my daughter's art work, and had been waiting for quite a while for my son to authorize the use of his art. When he finally did, I chose this adorable bat. His name, as chosen by my son, is Alex.

Not that I'm especially tattooed, but I do have four. A fairy on my back, obtained soon after college. I imagine it hurt, but some 16 years later, who remembers? I wanted a cute little goblin, but a domineering friend talked me out of it. It's become a symbol of weakness, and I've grown to hate it. But it's on my back, so I rarely see or think about it. The belief that tattoos are permanent used to bother me, but now I'm more bothered by the truth - they aren't permanent. They are only there until I die, which, in the grand scheme of things, will be pretty soon. 

Jenny Linsky, the cat, on my ankle. That one is fine. 

A parrot designed by my daughter on my left bicep. I love it! The way I remember it, getting that one wasn't especially painful. 

Still, I was nervous about this one, located on my inner right forearm (the picture is at a weird angle, making it difficult to tell what body part that is). Since I was very fond of the fellow who did my parrot, I went back to him for this one. 

"This is going to hurt, isn't it?" I asked, right before he got started. 

"Aw, you'll be fine," he said in a deliberately dismissive tone. Tattoo artists discourage theatrics. 

He got started, and, well....motherf%$&r! 

In addition to being stoic, tattoo artists are excellent conversationalists. Dave that tattoo guy deftly kept the conversation going - we talked about dogs (his passion, not mine, but if someone loves something enough, they can probably get you at least temporarily interested), exotic animals, science, and being in a persistent vegetative state. There was never an opportunity for me to point out that this was quite an uncomfortable procedure, or to demonstrate the bravado I had all prepared. 

"I've given birth. Twice!" I would have said. "This is nothing." 

It was a half truth. I have, in fact, given birth on two separate occasions. But this was not nothing. My logic was severely flawed, and within hours I was thankful I'd been prevented from saying something so ridiculous and stupid out loud. Giving birth hasn't caused me to laugh in the face of lesser physical pain. I don't care for having my body carved up with electronic needles any more than I ever did. Same goes for migraines (those things are no joke), stubbing my toe (mother of GOD!), or dislocating my rib while coughing (it's happened twice). 

The 30 Rock celebrity benefit to get Jack's dad a kidney might be the funniest song ever written, and "if you had two dogs attacking you, you'd wish it was just one," might be the funniest line. But even as I laughed myself silly, I knew it wasn't true. If I had two dogs attacking me, I'd wish I had no dogs attacking me. Perhaps more importantly, if I had one dog attacking me, I would not take the time to be grateful it wasn't two. 

What's the most painful thing in the world? What is happening, to you, right now. 

Eleven

“And the child, Francie Nolan, was of all the Rommelys and all the Nolans. She had the violent weaknesses and passion for beauty of the shanty Nolans. She was a mosaic of her grandmother Rommely’s mysticism, her tale-telling, her great belief in everything and her compassion for the weak ones. She had a lot of her grandfather Rommely’s cruel will. She had some of her Aunt Evy’s talent for mimicking, some of Ruthie Nolan’s possessiveness. She had Aunt Sissy’s love for life and her love for children. She had Johnny’s sentimentality without his good looks. She had all of Katie’s soft ways and only half of the invisible steel of Katie. She was made up of all of these good and these bad things. She was made up of more, too. She was the books she read in the library. She was the flower in the brown bowl. Part of her life was made from the tree growing rankly in the yard. She was the bitter quarrels she had with her brother whom she loved dearly. She was Katie’s secret, despairing weeping. She was the shame of her father staggering home drunk. She was all of these things and of something more that did not come from the Rommelys nor the Nolans, the reading, the observing, the living from day to day. It was something that had been born into her and her only—the something different from anyone else in the two families. It was what God or whatever is His equivalent puts into each soul that is given life—the one different thing such as that which makes no two fingerprints on the face of the earth alike.” 
― Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

At an early age, my daughter began saying she was an Atheist. I once remarked to my husband that although she might think this was true, she wouldn't really know the meaning of the word until her eleventh birthday came and went with no letter from Hogwarts. Even my husband, a militant, humorless Atheist, had to admit it would be a sad day.

Tomorrow, that sad day will come. She'll be eleven. Eleven like Harry Potter. Eleven like Francie Nolan. After 70 hours of labor, she was born with a sweet smile on her face. The nurses said she looked like Snow White. I'd once heard of a cult in which someone would attend the birth and, when each child was born, state the essence of each child - strong, kind, powerful, whatever. I didn't want to join a cult, but thought it sounded like a nice thing to have at a birth. But when she was born, I didn't need it. I looked at her and thought, "curious and good natured."

I didn't stop smiling for a year. We took walks, we stared into each other's eyes, we screamed into each other's mouths just to hear the weird echo it made. I was 27, but remember myself like a wide-eyed teen mother, growing up with her child.

When her brother was born, she instructed me over the phone not to step on him. She loved princesses, Egyptology, reading, writing, cooking, sewing, science fiction and fantasy. She's been an Atheist, a Buddhist, an Agnostic, a Christian and a Unitarian Universalist.

When I was pregnant, I kept hearing how awful it was to have a newborn. My life was practically over, they said, and I believed them, approaching her due date like my execution date. She turned out to be a beautiful, happy angel, and I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop ever since. So far, it never has. Thank you so much for being exactly the right daughter for me, my sweet girl.

She tells me she hasn't given up on the letter summoning her to wizarding school. While she acknowledges it won't be Hogwarts, she points out that Hogwarts in England. She feels it's entirely possible that in America, wizarding school starts a little later. Maybe we have a little more time.