Parenting = Grieving
When my kid told Hubby and me that he is transgender, I felt like a child had died.
There is a lot in that sentence. I do not take it lightly. First of all, BFF hates that I use “Hubby” to refer to Hubby. I haven’t thought of anything better yet. I imagine that is not what you expected next in this essay, but this is Year 49.
Second, I can’t imagine what it is like to have a child die. I found myself talking with a couple of women the other day — one is a mother, one is not — and we all agreed that losing a child must be the worst thing. I don’t know. Thank God. I don’t know. So, I realize that for some who do know, my even saying such a thing is extremely offensive. I don’t know what to do about that except acknowledge that it is true.
Then, there are those who find it offensive to even equate death and a child coming out as transgender. Though, I’ve learned enough by now to know that it is a very common feeling. And, of course, we can think on it logically and recognize that it isn’t the death of a child, but the death of the hopes and dreams one had for their child, bla, bla, bla, yadda, yadda, yadda. It sucks.
It sucks because regardless of how open-minded a person may be, regardless of how progressive you may think you are, a child being a different gender than you celebrated since BEFORE they were born, a child choosing a name different from the one you and Hubby deliberately chose for specific reasons, a child being transgender means grief. And, grief sucks.
Here is the deal, though, and this is something no one told me before having kids. Being a parent is a constant barrage of grief.
Stephen Colbert, while interviewing a father of young children this week said, “I know it is cliché, but man, it goes just like . . .” and he snapped his fingers as one does to indicate quickly. And, it is cliché. And, it is true.
LOTS of people told me THAT before my kids were born. Even more told me that while I was exhausted with an infant and a three year old.
“Enjoy these years because they will be gone before you know it.”
So, true.
What I was not prepared for was grieving each and every passing age like a death.
Have I mentioned that I can be dramatic? Did I tell you that I have a sinus infection and my head is foggy? Do feel bad for me, please. It helps me feel better.
But, it is true. It is still true. We’ve had to go through some pretty major times of grief with our two kids, but even without those, the grief would be ever-present.
Mommas talk a lot about the grief of moments like The First Day of Kindergarten. Daddies experience it too. I just don’t know what it is like to be a Daddy, so I can’t speak to that. I do know that the first time I dropped Kid #1 at pre-school, I sat in the car and cried — just like on every TV show and movie you have ever seen! So cliché.
We know there will be grief when I’m Too Old to Hold Your Hand happens. Or when I Can Walk to School By Myself comes along. And, of course, we know there will grieving right alongside the celebrating at High School Graduation.
Of course Mommas are crazy! Can you imagine living like this? It is constant death and rebirth, death and rebirth, over and over again. And, it starts at the moment of the child’s birth!
I was recently listening to Apron Strings by Everything But the Girl from John Hughes’ movie She’s Having a Baby. It says “apron strings” but I always have images of an umbilical cord in my mind when I hear it. Ew. Gross.
No it is not!
Grief is just part of being a parent. It starts the moment they cut that cord. And, it sucks. And, it is wonderful too. I know. It is weird. And, someone more articulate than I am will have to describe it.
I don’t remember the exact moment that I no longer climbed into bed with one of my children each night to read a book. Hubby and I took turns. And, the kids always knew who I was supposed to go with at bedtime. If Hubby read to the oldest, I read to the youngest. And, we didn’t just read. We stayed. Hubby usually fell asleep, often WHILE reading the book. The kid would shake his arm and say, “Daddy, wake up. You didn’t finish the book yet.” Hubby would lift the book off of his face and continue right where he left off.
I sometimes fell asleep but because sleep does not come easily for me, usually I would just finish the book, turn off the light and snuggle whichever child I was with that night. Just writing about that now brings tears to my eyes. It was my favorite thing to do. As they learned to read, sometimes they would read to us. Watching them learn to read was pretty fantastic too. It is like magic. They may as well have pulled a rabbit out of my ear. Even though I was there for every letter and syllable, when they started putting all that together and reading whole pages and books, I was in awe. It felt like a miracle.
And, I don’t know how old each of them was when they finally started saying,
“I’ll just read to myself tonight.”
It was gradual, so I don’t have a date marked down in the Baby Books. It was subtle, so there is no memorial set up in the living room for the Death of Bedtime Reading and Snuggling. And, yes, it is ridiculously dramatic. It still hurts. At the same time I was celebrating the magic of them reading to themselves, I was watching my chance to read to them slip away.
They are 15 and 18 now. There are still nights when I say,
“Hey, want to get in the bed and read and snuggle?”
I’ve been asking that for over five years. They haven’t taken me up on the offer yet. Though, every now and then — and I mean not very often — they will watch a movie with Hubby and me and we will all sit on the couch together or sometimes even lay in my bed together. It is still my favorite thing to do. I think if I had to choose that or chocolate, I would choose that! I think.
Grief of every kind just sucks. There is no way around it. Only through it, as they say. I know I didn’t lose a child when Kid #2 came out. But, I did lose something. And, I grieve that. I didn’t lose a child when Kid #1 graduated a few weeks ago either. But, I did lose something. So, I grieve. I grieve and I celebrate. Both of those things. I grieve and celebrate. All of the things.
