Dear Judgmental Mom

Waves of Change Image credit

I just want you to know we're cool. 

Yes you, with your eyes that won't meet mine these days, the one who ignores me even when I speak to you, the one who seems to tell everyone but me how strongly you disagree with us supporting our transgender child in her transition.

The thing is, I have to let you have your opinion. I don't have to like it or agree with it or think it's at all based in the twenty-first century, but it's your right to have it. Sure, it may go against logic, science and basic human rights, but it's yours.

Ok, I'll admit I was hurt. A little. Not because you disagree with our parenting - that's entirely your call - but because of the way you've chosen to go about it. We're not close friends, we're not even Facebook friends, and I'm pretty sure you don't even know I have a blog. But nobody likes to feel ignored or ostracized, dude. And for a while - a very short while - I contemplated avoiding any place you might be because it made me uncomfortable.

I contemplated it for, like, two milliseconds.

That would have been needlessly complicated and my life is complicated enough, so I'm glad I talked myself out of that one. And you know what else? I don't want my daughter avoiding places because of what other people might think, so I'm definitely not going to set that kind of example.

I want her walk tall, hold her beautiful head up, and be fabulously fierce. I want her to part the proverbial sea wherever she goes, and those nearby can either choose to be where she is or swim away. She doesn't need to be avoiding people, ever. And neither do I.

My child is undergoing a huge transformation. It's something you or I could never fully grasp, but I might have a slightly better clue on account of being her mom and actually researching gender dysphoria before whacking at it with the judgment cane. This was a kid who hid in her room for years. This was a kid who hated who she was. This was a kid who wanted so desperately to be anything but miserable.

And when she discovered what was going on, this was a kid who was terrified of what that meant in a way I can't even begin to imagine.

But she came to us; she entrusted us with this secret she had been holding onto so tightly. She is the bravest human being I know, and probably one of the bravest you know too - even if you can't see it right now. You may never see it, but that doesn't make it any less true.

As parents, we did what unconditional love insisted we do: we supported our child. What else is there to do, really? Have you seen the statistics on LGBT kids who aren't supported by their families?

Sky high suicide rates.

Homelessness.

Poverty.

Misery.

And trans people have the worst of it.

But our daughter had some key advantages: open-minded parents, wonderful brothers, an amazing extended family and network of friends. She has access to specialists and time on her side. And, as this study shows, trans kids who start the process at her age thrive. Their puberty is suppressed before irreversible and traumatic things happen to their bodies. They get medical support early so they can transition as completely as any person can.

They thrive, lady. That's what we want for her; A rich and full and wonderful life. Isn't that what every parent wants?

So, if kids who are supported in their transition thrive and kids who are not supported have the highest suicide rates of any group, who is rocking the shit out of this parenting thing?

Oh, that's right: This girl. The one you're judging.

Funny, that.

Today I took my daughter to get a really cute haircut. She also got her first purse and a necklace and some cute shoes. She looks totally adorable and about as girly as a girl can girl. I can't wait for you to see her.

Because we will be around, my daughter and I.

We won't be avoiding any place or any person.

We will be standing tall and making waves.

We won't ignore you like you do us.

I'm going to be nice and polite and cheerily engage you whenever possible. I'm going to teach my daughter how to deal with the difficult people, because there will be many in her lifetime. There are haters everywhere. You aren't the first and you won't be the last.

So expect smiles and great shoes and one amazing kid and her mom all up in your business. In the nicest way possible, of course.

See you around.

In Defence of Downtime: A Parent's Near Burn-Out Survival Guide

Rule #1: Downtime begins with yoga pants.

I feel a little panicky lately. It's like being a lot panicky, but with a bag of cookies. The feeling comes on, and you can slip one of those bad boys in your mouth to block the screaming sound.

Don't judge. It's a system that works.

I'm juggling, you guys. I'm juggling like I have never juggled before. I'm juggler - a really, really bad one, but with a cute outfit on because you shouldn't take on something if you can't look good doing it. (Exceptions: giving birth, being constipated, and most bacterial infections.)

I have a ridiculous amount of balls in the air: Support the teenager through his graduating year, support the little one who is still behind in French Immersion, support their sister through the biggest change of her life (and ours), and support my husband in his new (and more demanding) role at work.

Homeschool Gutsy, attend a host of medical appointments and support groups, finish high school, volunteer a little at Spawnling's school, shop and cook on a budget, score some work contracts to help with said budget and find time to do them.

Oh, but don't forget to keep writing the stuff you love, work out, spend time with friends, enjoy a hobby or two, hang out a bit on social media, and look totally fabulous. Don't lose yourself, Maven. Don't spend your entire life being everyone else's support. Be amazing for them and be amazingly you.

Do all the things. Clean all the things. Cook all the things. Be all the things.

Holy Hannibal, that's a lot to bite off.

When I look at my sizeable list of responsibilities, I'm not surprised that I'm constantly dropping balls. I'm an epic ball dropper. Actually, it's a wonder I got pregnant three times.

So I maybe kind of snapped yesterday a little bit. Not in a bad way, but in a much needed one. I decided that, for an entire day, I would just say, "fuck it."

Fuck responsibilities.

Fuck productivity.

Fuck getting dressed.

Fuck checking my phone, which I normally cradle in my arms like a little baby and practically coo at as I carry it from room to room with me. I threw it on my bed and ignored it most of the day.

Fuck being a good parent. Kids, stay in your PJs and eat Fruity Pebbles and watch YouTube videos to your heart's content. I did not insist they play outside and did not insist they eat all their fruits and vegetables. I was too busy not doing anything.

Fuck doing smart people things. I love documentaries, but keeping up with theories about what's beyond the universe or discussions as to whether or not the Amish will ever join the 21st century sounded like too much work. So I binge watched terrible reality TV. Awful stuff. I got wrapped up in other people's drama and I loved every minute of it. All the fights. All the hookups. All of it.

Fuck watching carbs. You know what? I like carbs. And yesterday I ate tons of them. Toast. Chocolate. Chips. A fucking sandwich. And it was delicious and so awesome not to care what I was eating for one whole day.

And you know what? I found myself feeling almost human by the end of the day. It made me realize that I don't unplug and decompress nearly enough. I'm always on. My adrenaline is always going. My mind is always racing. I'm always worried. I'm always a breath away from hyperventilating.

And let's face it; you can't be attractive when you're hyperventilating, people. If anything, I need to get it together in the name of vanity.

It sucks to feel buried under a mountain of obligations. I've been there for months. But in many ways, it's a self-imposed prison. Yes, I have stuff to do. Lots of stuff. I have responsibilities I can't even begin to wrap my head around yet. Helping a child switch genders? I could write a book about it (and, actually, I am.) But my expectations of myself are high, and the worry that I'll let everyone around me down by not performing at my best is completely unfair.

I can't do it all. I can't. No one person could.

Some of the balls are going to drop some of the time. I will be mediocre at best when it comes to certain tasks so I can rock the ones that really matter. Some things will fall off my radar completely so my mind can focus on the crucial things. People will get upset with me sometimes for not returning their phone calls or texts fast enough, or for saying no to an event or twelve. That's life. This perfectionist attitude I've been holding onto only leads to tears - and cookies. So many cookies.

So yes, I had a moment. I was entitled to one and I'm entitled to many more. And I will take them when I need them. There's an abundance of bad reality TV out there.

Why am I making my moment public? Because we all have them, that's why. Moments like these are part of the human experience. They're when we're standing on the precipice and we either veer off in the direction of a day of carbs and PJs or we fall into the burnout abyss. I've fallen in there before and it's not pretty. The humidity does terrible things to my hair.

I want people to know that no matter what your situation is, it's ok to lose your shit sometimes. It's ok to not know what you're doing and be scared about it. It's ok to worry that you're making huge mistakes. It's ok to feel like you're taking on way too much, because you probably are.

And it's ok to throw your hands up and say fuck it. Today, just fuck it all. I declare it slippers and cookies day.

Just not too many cookies. There's such a thing as too many. Trust me and my pancreas; we know.

Today I am going to do what I need to do, a little bit of what I want to do, and absolutely none of the things I tell myself I need to do but don't actually need to do at all. It's time to slow it down a little. The abyss is still only a step or two away.

I'm off to hang up my juggler's outfit and put on some yoga pants. This bitch loves some yoga pants.

The Least Sexy Date Night We've Ever Had

My miserable, bathed, groomed, and yet still a little smelly cocker spaniel, Shadow. He looks a little guilty. And he should.

My husband and I never plan Sexy Time.

Sexy Time just happens, because that’s part of what makes it sexy. One minute you’re watching Doctor Who and the next you’re saying “Why, Doctor! Is that your Sonic Screwdriver, or are you just happy to see me?” (In a British accent, of course.)

But it’s been all kinds of busy lately, so last night we decided we would carve out some Sexy Time when we’re not totally exhausted. While hubby went downstairs to let the dogs out in the backyard for a few minutes before bed, I decided to slip into something more comfortable and await his return.

Incidentally, something more comfortable was not nearly as comfortable as the yoga pants and tank top I had been wearing before. It involved fishing out a cute bra and panty set, and stuffing my chest muffins into some underwire in an attempt to set them back a full decade. (Underwire is a very effective time machine. I’m not quite sure why The Doctor doesn’t use it.)

And, oddly enough, I was kind of excited about the whole planning out of the Sexy Time thing. It was almost sexier because it was so planned, and what old and tired parent doesn't appreciate a good, hard planning? Also, my hoots were going to look spectacular in a way that surprise Sexy Time doesn’t deliver. Sweet.

And so, of course, it was right then, when I was standing in the walk-in closet trying to look spectacularly planned, that I noticed The Smell.

The Smell wafted in subtly at first, like a light tap on the nostrils, before basically punching me in the nose. It was an awful, pungent, rubbery smell. Within seconds, our eldest was knocking on the bedroom door. “Mom?”

“Um, I’m getting dressed,” I called from the closet. “Like, sort of.”

“It smells like skunk. Everywhere!”

“I think someone got sprayed!” yelled my husband from downstairs. “I’m trying to find a flashlight. Where are all the damn flashlights?”

R.I.P., deliciously planned Sexy Time.

I sighed and threw a tunic over the whole ensemble – backwards and inside out because I’m a classy sort of dame – and started googling “how to get skunk smell out of a dog and all the other shit I’m probably going to have to get it out of.”

Flash forward to me loudly blaming the kids for the missing flashlights and then finding one where I had left it in the basement that last time.

Then flash to my husband saying “I’m not sure if Shadow is wet from the grass or sprayed or both” and me stooping down low on the deck to get a good whiff, only to get blasted with a skunk oil smell so foul that it made my eyes burn.

Cut to next sexy scene: Me sitting on the garage steps barelegged in a backwards and inside out tunic (because I’m a proper lady) patting the excess skunk oil off Shadow with paper towels while he foams at the mouth and looks like he might vomit and/or might also have rabies. And me, shaving the dog and trying not to let his skunky fur touch my toes, lest I vomit all over him.

All the while, a part of me is wondering if the bra and panty set I’m wearing underneath my atrocious outfit while performing this atrocious task and surrounded by this atrocious smell might somehow make the scene more… erotic.

It does not. But thinking positively can get you through the bad times, kids.

Husband and I then passionately (not passionately) wash the dog together in the backyard. It was really romantic. It was basically just like that scene in Ghost, except instead of pottery there was a smelly dog, and instead of a beautiful soundtrack there was the beautiful sound of us both retching.

When he did finally take my clothes off, it was in front of a hot shower and only because my hands were still full of skunk oil. He stuffed the tunic into a bag, and my beautiful undergarments were cast aside only so I could unceremoniously scrub every inch of my body with the most chemically scented products I could find. I emerged an exhausted yet clean woman who smelled strongly of citrus and some kind of flower scent made up in a Swedish laboratory.  

Shadow has been forgiven for being kind of a dumbass (he’s really too cute to stay mad at), has had three de-skunking baths and a grooming, and has now been allowed to come back into the house. He is quite thrilled, but has the IQ of a dead goat, so I will be scanning the yard before he goes out again after dark and forgets what he learned last night.

And, as with all crazy things that happen in life, there are a few important lessons to be gleamed from this experience:

1. Telling your husband, “Well, at least this will make a great blog story” is probably not going to console him nearly as much as it did you. Weird, but true.

2.  Just because the night ends up with your clothes off does not make it good night. At all.

3. Never plan Sexy Time. Sexy Time is nobody’s bitch.

Depression, and Why we Need to Talk About it More

This contraption saved my life.

I remember the day I planned to die.

It wasn’t all that different from any other day except that it felt like I would finally get some rest. I was so tired. I was worn down from pretending, from trying.

Depression starts off subtle, like a light sheet draped over your body. It’s annoying, but you figure you can shake it off. Each day it gets heavier, until it’s a thick, cumbersome blanket, weighing you down. That heaviness makes everything harder, even the little things. It obstructs your perspective and suffocates your joy. You can’t just shake it off. Sometimes, it feels like you can hardly breathe.

I was tired of living like that. I felt depleted in every way. Worse still, I felt like I was everyone else’s heavy blanket, burdening them with my problems that just wouldn’t go away. It didn’t seem fair.

So taking my life seemed like a good solution – the only solution, really. I was going to do us all a favour. I knew how and I knew when, and just knowing this made me feel lighter.

I went to school knowing it was my final day, and I was probably a little happier than usual. When I talked to people, I tried to drink it in a little, like a last meal. I was careful not to let anyone in on my secret, knowing full well they would probably try and put a stop to it. People can be so meddling, I thought. I needed the pain to end in a way I couldn’t possibly explain to anyone else. They wouldn’t get it. They weren’t inside my head.

I remember it all. I remember when the weight was so heavy that going on for even one more day seemed impossible. I remember thinking that reaching out for help was futile, that nobody could possibly understand, that the pain would never go away - ever. I remember it all.

I was at a friend’s house yesterday when news broke that the incredible Robin Williams had taken his life. He was a genius comedian, someone I grew up wanting to be. We shared a love for the stage, a love for making people laugh.

But I could see it from time to time, that pain in his eyes. I recognized it. I’ve lived active addiction, too. I’ve lived depression, too. And now anxiety is my gremlin, throwing wrenches into my every day.

“I have a good life,” I’ll remind myself on the really bad days. “Why can’t I just be happy?”

And I wonder if Robin, with the world as his oyster, living a life most of us can’t even imagine, asked himself the same thing. My guess is that he did. Mental illness doesn’t give a shit who you are. It doesn’t care if you’re somebody’s parent, or what you do for a living, or how high your property value is. It doesn’t care if you’re loved by tens or by tens of millions. It doesn’t listen when you take stock of all the good things in your life. It doesn’t respond to logic because it’s an illogical beast. That’s what makes it so terrifying.

I don’t often talk about trying to take my life. To be honest, it’s not something that tends to come up in conversation very often. But if I said that was the only reason, I would be lying. Shame is the other.

Mental illness loves shame. It fucking loves it.

When we don’t talk about mental illness, it can continue fester and grow in ourselves and in others. When nobody speaks out - when we don’t hear about other people coming out the other side of something insidious like depression – our brains don’t have the chance to think, “Hey, maybe I can, too.”

Shame keeps things hidden. It says,

“Don’t talk about that.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“Nobody likes a downer.”

“People will think you’re weak.”

“They won’t look at you the same again.”

And sometimes I listen. I’m not proud of it, but I do.

I was saved by a phone call from a complete stranger. I’m not even kidding. On the evening I was going to die, the phone rang. It was my friend’s boyfriend. She had asked him to call me because she knew I was depressed and was worried about me.

I talked to him, this complete stranger. But most importantly, he talked to me. He told me about his dark place. He told me he had tried to kill himself. He told me how much better things were for him now, how he got help, and how the darkness had lifted.

I listened, and I cried, and we made plans to get together the next day. I did not try and take my life that night, and we struck up a friendship that saw me through the darkest part of my life. We’re still in touch today.

His kindness and openness saved me. To say I’m grateful he made that phone call when he did would be an understatement. He didn’t let his shame keep him silent, and I’m here today because of it. I have a rich and full life because of it. I’m married and raising three kids and toiling away in my garden and painting on big canvases and laughing with friends because of it. I’m here to write this because of it.

Depression can take hold of anyone. Suicide becomes an option far too often. There is help out of the darkness, but sometimes people need those around them to shine a little brighter so they can find their way. We need to be that light.

We need to talk about this shit more, you guys. It won’t bring back the incredible people we’ve lost, but it can save someone. I’m proof of that.

Let’s stop drowning in stigma and start swimming in hope.

Why Having a Wrist Tattoo is the Best. Thing. Ever.

We grow from struggle - especially us pretentious brooding artist types - and I know this. But the getting there part is like running uphill while being chased by a shark. Well, a shark on legs. A leg shark. Those exist, I'm telling you. Don't climb any hills.

I'm happy to be coming out the other side of a rather prolonged period of shit shifts. And to commemorate the changes that have happened inside of me because of everything going on outside of me, I decided I needed a tattoo.

Like, yesterday morning.

So I went and got one in the afternoon; you know, in between dishes and groceries. Just a typical day as a suburban mom. Scrub a pan, get inked, buy a watermelon.

Oh, don't get your boxers bunched. I've been thinking about my second inking for a while now. If you've been reading me for a little bit, you know I got a tattoo in October 2012 that meant the world to me. I've been wanting to go back and get another ever since, but I take the whole "permanently etched on your pasty white skin" stuff pretty seriously. It had to mean something.

Anyway, I absolutely love it.

But the greatest thing about having a tattoo where everyone can see it? It makes everything I do significantly more badass.

No, really. Observe:

Leaning on a fencepost? Probably tired from a long night of delinquencies. BADASS.

Pretending to drive a car so you can take a picture? No longer really lame. This could be a getaway car. You just don't know. BADASS.

Fuck this tablecloth. When I set the cup back down it's not going on the coaster. Rollin' and trollin', motherfuckers.

What? Another selfie? Hell, no. This is a statement. You might be initially wooed into a false sense of security by the choice of stylish clothing. But all I need to do is flash my left wrist at you for a second and you'll be all like, "Watch out for that chick. She breathes and shines." Stand back, bitches.

I'm not just giving my kid a thumbs up. I'm giving him a lifestyle.

Is this a woman glueing buttons on a painting? (Don't ask. I have a plan.) Hell no, bitches. This is a rebel artist creating outside-of-the-box art. She doesn't care if you get it. She doesn't even care if you like it. Go ahead and question her shit. She's not your corpo-sheep. Stand back and let her work, motherfuckers.

See? Totally badass. Drive-68-in-a-60 badass. Pay-for-13-items-in-a-1-to-12-express-lane badass. Take-more-than-1-complimentary-mint badass.

I'm a whole new Maven. I also think I may be having a midlife crisis.

I knew I wanted "Breathe." on there to remind me to, well, breathe. Duh. You probably figured that out, right?

This anxious girl does better after a few deep breaths. I get a little less wall-head slammy. I act a little less like a triple-layer douche cake. Basically, I'm just a better person after receiving a larger supply of oxygen.

And "Now, shine?" Sometimes I forget that I'm a pretty great person. And when I lose my confidence, I kind of suck at being awesome. I forget I have qualities and a personality and I go hide in a corner. And nobody puts Maven in a corner. Not even Maven.

So now I have life instructions on my wrist: Calm down. Be awesome. You know, the important stuff.

We all have the capacity to shine. Sometimes we just have to remind ourselves that we do.

Motherfucker.

On The Other Side of Terrified

Source of all this bling: Wikipedia Commons.

There was a time after Gutsy told us she's a girl that I wished we could go back. I was terrified. What did it mean to have a transgender child? How would we know what to do? How would people treat her? Would she ever be happy?

Before seemed simpler. Less scary. We had three kids who's outsides matched their insides. We had three kids in the school system. We had an established family identity of three boys, a dad and a (stupendously awesome) mom.

I wanted to go back.

I don't feel that way anymore. It's taken nearly five months, but I've finally accepted that, while this isn't an easy road, it's actually a pretty good one. A not-so-scary one. A cool one, even. Like, have you seen all the trans* stuff in the news lately? We have arrived.

All kidding aside (for once), I'm good with where we are right now. More importantly - because, believe it or not, there are things more important than how I feel (I know!) - my daughter is good with it. So good with it.

Taking her out of school was probably the best thing we've ever done. (Please remind me of this in September. I beg you.) She's no longer afraid of what the other 500 people at school will think of her. We've created a safe place for her to transition; a cocoon, if you will. She knows the world can be critical and cruel, but she doesn't have to deal with that right now.

In her world, there is no ridicule or shame. She has enough to deal with. She has appointments and injections and blood tests and mood swings and unlearning a lot of the gender roles society insisted upon when she was younger. And on top of all of that, she still has to have time to be a kid, figure out where she's headed in life, and create some great memories along the way. These are monument tasks.

And right now, the school system was a burden and not a help, so we took it away. No regrets.

Until I have to teach physics. Then fuck my life.

I don't want to go back to where we were because I've learned not only a lot about parenting and gender and advocacy through this experience, but I'm also learning a lot about me.

I'm learning that I'm a lot stronger than I thought I was.

I'm learning to re-prioritize life and put myself first.

I'm learning that I don't have the time or energy to devote to toxicity or negativity.

I'm learning that there's more to life than trying to make other people happy.

So no, I don't want to go back. I like it here where I'm not eating my feelings every day and I'm getting up early to go to the gym.

I like that I'm learning to say no, and to step away from situations that drain me.

I love the connections that have deepened as people have rallied around Gutsy, and the amazing new friendships we're forming with people we've met this year.

I love the way my daughter has started wearing shirts with a bit of glitter on them because they make her feel pretty (confidence!), or how she's getting brave enough to use the girls' washrooms when we're out.

I love watching how protective her brothers are of her, and how they have unequivocally accepted her for who she is. Those boys totally rock.

I love seeing the strength in my marriage and knowing we can weather anything together, because we've been through so much and I still think he's totally hot.

Oh, and he's nice and stuff too.

I never had the need to evaluate myself so deeply, or to spend so much time appreciating life. When Gutsy came out, I really didn't think I had it in me to give her the mass amount of support she'll require for years to come - not the way I was living, anyway. So I've had to make changes - big, bold changes - in order to be the kick ass woman I need to be. I see it not as an option, but as a job requirement with incredible benefits.

She may have very well saved my life while I've been fighting so hard to save hers. True story.

I'm not scared anymore. We're not going back, and I'm grateful for that. Forward is so much better.

And has more glitter.

I've stopped people pleasing. (Hope you don't mind.)

I was living under false pretenses. I really thought this parenting stuff was supposed to get easier when they got older. But I guess when you have three kids and one is a teenager and another is transgender and the little one has an attitude that could swallow Manhattan, you're maybe fooling yourself that diapers and blocked ducts would be the most challenging stage.

At least there was naptime back then. Now they don't sleep. They're always around, asking for things like rides and snacks and a rapid SWAT team response time hostage negotiations using me as a human shield help with settling minor sibling disagreements.

When my therapist, a friendly but take-no-bullshit kind of woman who is quite amazing, asked me how I was feeling a few days ago, I told her that I'm just on this side of OK. What that means is that I'm managing, but little stressors send me over the anxiety cliff in no time flat. Extra commitments send me over the cliff, too. Oh, and trying to make sure everybody in my life is happy.

"Wait. Hold up. What was that last part?" my therapist asked in a way I might be paraphrasing.

"Oh, you know. Family, friends, clients, teachers... Everybody wants a piece of me. Trying to manage it all is a full-time job in itself."

 "Why are you trying to make everyone happy?" she asked, and gave me that look. If you've been in therapy, you know that look. (And if you haven't been in therapy and you get enjoyment from reading my blog, you're definitely dysfunctional and - good news - I can recommend a good therapist.)

I hesitated. And then it hit me like a ton of bricks that just hit somebody: I'm a people pleaser. A hardcore, unabashed people pleaser. And that's not good. Well, it is for everyone else, but it's not for me. I'm that nice person who will do anything for you. "Maven? She's so nice. And she has great hair, but that is totally secondary to all the niceness going on."

According to Psychology Today, people who go over the top to please others do so because "the intense need to please and care for others is deeply rooted in either a fear of rejection and/or fear of failure."

Well, go figure. I'm an expert at fearing rejection and failure. I practically have a PhD in both subjects. No wonder I excel at this stuff. I want you to like me and not be mad at me and be in my life - especially right now, when we need all the support we can get. And I want to be really good at things and never, ever make mistakes - especially right now, when the stakes are so high.

Fear has been governing my life. It's been adrenalizing me, helping me subsist on 4-5 hours of sleep while trying to meet a buffet of commitments.

Every week I say yes to things I should say no to.

Every week I don't get things done that should get done.

Every week I say that next week I'll make the time to take care of myself, to go to the gym, to prepare healthier food, to just hang out and read a book, to paint or to write a song.

And every week I end up swamped because, on top of the things that need to happen (like appointments and work and groceries and time with the kids) I end up doing the things I don't really have time for but do anyway (like that extra volunteer shift, or committing to an event I really don't have time for, or helping someone out) which means I don't have as much time for the things I should be doing more of (like working out, losing myself in art, hanging out with my husband, or catching up with good friends.)

And on particularly bad weeks, which are most weeks lately, the housework suffers, we eat like crap and it feels like all the balls I've been juggling are crashing down.

"Amanda? Why do you feel like you have to make everybody happy? Can you answer the question?"

And this is the point where I start crying in the therapist's office, which I knew was bound to happen because I was in a great mood before the session and decided to wear full eye makeup knowing I wouldn't cry. It's a universal law that I should never wear eyeliner anywhere if I want to stay happy.

"I don't want to disappoint anyone," I say through my tears.

"Do you not think you're good enough on your own, without trying to please the world?"

And the answer, sadly, was no. I did not feel like I'm good enough on my own. How depressing is that?

I used to have a lot of confidence, but it's slipped in the last year or so. A challenging move, facing the fact that I never finished high school and working hard to support a kid who doesn't fit the mold has worn me down. Or maybe it's just exposed the ugly underbelly of what I thought was confidence and was probably just ego the entire time.

I can't change how I feel overnight. It's going to take some work. I'm trying to learn to be enough. I wrote about it recently and that was a good start, but there's a ton of work left to do. It's work that I have to do in order to preserve my integrity and be a good mom, partner, family member and friend.  I can't be this exhausted all the time.

When we looked at Gutsy's life and the pressure she's under, we realized that school was the big stressor that we could take away. So we removed it, and she's now able to focus on transitioning to life as a girl.

My big removable stressor is people pleasing. I need to stop saying yes to everything or rushing in to save the day at the expense of my emotional and physical health. It seems honourable in the short term, but in the long term? Well, I won't be around in the long term if I keep this up. I have to stop treating my life as a sprint and instead look at it as the marathon it is. I need my strength for the miles ahead.

I walked out of my therapist's office with a determined look on my now emo princess face. No more bending over backwards to make people happy. From now on, I do only the things I have to do and the things that will feed my soul and nourish my body. I'm choosing my commitments wisely and trying not to get run over by guilt in the process.

And you know what? I feel really good. The past week or so has been much better. I'm sleeping better, eating better and taking some much needed downtime. I've been consistently going to the gym and enjoying the first few blissful days of summer with my family. I've been saying yes to the things I want to say yes to, and unapologetically no to the things I can't or don't want to do.

And if people don't like it? Well, that's their issue. I can't control how other people feel. Any relationship based on me trying to please someone else isn't a maintainable relationship, anyway.

And I'm starting to believe, truly believe, just a little, that the person underneath all this fear is fabulous enough to be liked on her own merits.

Look at me, all growing up and stuff.

How the Internet Sent My Daughter To Camp in Under 12 Hours

A couple of big things happened this week.

First, we pulled Gutsy out of school. It was a decision we had been toying with for a little while. For years, she's been a bit of a square peg in a round holed system, unable to fit in academically or socially. Lately it's proven even more challenging. I guess when you're trans*, hearing impaired, have a severe processing disorder, anxiety and depression, school can get to be a little much. Or a lot much.

"I'm afraid we're losing her," one school professional admitted to me on Monday. "I feel we've tried everything, and she's just shutting down. She's such a bright kid. We need to find some way to reach her." When we looked at all the stress she's dealing with these days - an unimaginable amount, if you ask me - and thought about what we could take out of the equation, school became the obvious choice.

After that, the decision was incredibly simple.

No more fighting with her tooth and nail each morning to get her to a place she hates. No more heartbreak when she admits almost nobody will talk to her, or tells us that her only two friends will be moving away this summer and won't be going to middle school with her in the fall. Most importantly, no more hiding her transition from everyone but a handful of classmates. Gutsy has been wearing mostly boy clothes to school; not because she wants to, but because she felt she had to in order to protect herself. She was terrified.

Nobody should have to hide who they are.

This means I'll be homeschooling. People, I might just be the most reluctant homeschooler of all time. It's totally selfish, but I'm going to miss being alone in the house. It also means I need to cut back a little on building my career (again) and that I'll have to precariously balance her school needs and mine, as I attempt to get my final high school credit in the fall.

It might also mean the two of us have to learn new ways of communicating frustration to one another beyond screaming and slamming doors and being epic drama queens. We have always been so stereotypically mother and daughter that I'm surprised I didn't see the whole trans* thing coming for years, honestly.

Yesterday we took Gutsy to an impressive and welcoming self-directed learning centre. Compass is exactly what she needs. The staff is great and the teens are some of the coolest and most dynamic people I've ever met. They take charge of their learning and do it in ways that interest them. Some of them are trans*, all of them are accepting.

Gutsy was invited to spend the day, and came home happier than I've ever seen her. Her face was lit up, and she spoke excitedly about all the interesting classes offered and friends she had made. She was invited back again today to get more of a feel for things before we sign her up for a day per week in the fall. Like any type of alternative education that isn't publicly funded, it's going to cost us. But it's so good for her. Geekster and I realized this needed to be an essential part of her learning experience, and that we will need to do some creative budgeting to make it work. But we will make it work.

So, of course, that's when I came home and found an email from the staff at Ten Oaks Project, letting me know that a last-minute spot had become available for Gutsy, who had been on the waiting list. And the cost would be $750.

Ten Oaks is about the coolest camp ever. It's for any kid who identifies as LGBTQ, or is the offspring of LGBTQ parents. It provides a completely safe space to be yourself, to be understood by people who get you, and to form potentially lifelong connections with other kids. I hazard to guess it has saved many lives, as children leave there knowing they are not alone.

I sat there, crunching the numbers in my brain. How were we going to do this? We had just committed to tuition fees for next year. And now camp? I didn't think we could swing it.

And that's where you came in.

You, my friends, who encouraged me to crowdfund the camp fees.

I cringed at the idea at first. We are not living close to the poverty line. We are not in a terrible financial position.  We are a middle class family of five who has taken a bit of hit this year, that's all. This is why I didn't want to apply for a subsidy, which the camp offers to less fortunate families. I know there are families who need it far more than we do. But I also knew that coming up with $750 would be a big challenge right now. Not always, but right now.

So I swallowed my pride - a giant amount, on account of quite possibly having the biggest ego of all time - and set up a fundraising page. I asked for the full amount, not expecting anything near that.  I put up the page at 10:30pm. By midnight, it had raised $200.

And by 9:30 this morning - eleven hours later - Gutsy's full camp fees were completely covered. You had donated $750.

I found out we had met our goal right after dropping Gutsy off for her second day at Compass.  I was sitting in the parking lot, and tears started to flow. I never expected this, you guys. And while a part of me still feels shitty for asking in the first place, I am so grateful not to have to worry about where that money is going to come from. We can send our daughter to a wonderful LGBTQ camp, where she will be embraced and wholly accepted, and not be stressed out about how we're going to pay for it.

You are incredible, internet. Friends, blog readers, complete strangers who apparently do whatever your friends tell you on Facebook - all of you. I am indebted to you, and I promise that we will pay it forward when we can.  In the meantime, Gutsy and I will keep sharing her journey, advocating for education and change, and showing the world how love can move mountains.

Eleven hours. You sent my girl to camp in eleven. freaking. hours. I hope you know how amazing you are. I will never forget this.

And just like I did in the parking lot, and again on the highway, I'm now crying and my mascara is running and I need to go eat a cookie or something.

Thank you.

Thank you.

THANK YOU.

We are going to have a very happy little girl on our hands this afternoon when she finds out she's going to camp in July. You made that happen.

Update: We're sitting at $900!  That is $150 above our goal! You guys are amazeballs. As promised, any funds above Gutsy's fees will be given to Ten Oaks to help other kids get to camp. The awesome people at Ten Oaks would like you to know that if you wish to donate directly, they will be able to do something for you that I can't do: give you a tax receipt for anything $20 or over. I'm all about saving the monies, so please feel free to do that way if you wish. And thanks again!

A Poem for My Daughter: In All the Ways I Love You

Credit: Pixabay.com

I had to write a poem for my English Writing class and it was totally out of my comfort zone.

Actually, I didn't have to write a poem. I chose to write it because I am sick of writing ridiculously long pieces for that class. I've been struggling to keep up with the workload and still balance three kids, a ton of medical appointments and a house so messy that a baby could get lost in it forever (please do not bring your baby over.) So when the option of a poem came up, I jumped on it like its name was Adam Levine. I figured it would be cake to write one of these things. Like a boss and whatever.

Problem: I don't, like, write poems. As it turns out, those little lines are tricky bastards. So I spent a good hour obsessing over how to write the poem, and then decided I was just going to shut my brain up with some tea that behaves a little bit like a tranquilizer and write the damn thing. So I did. I wrote a poem about my Gutsy girl and her journey from male to female.

And you know what? It's not horrible, you guys. It has its moments of non-sucktitude. So I'm going to post it. I'm just going to hit publish and be done with it, and if you hate it I'll send you my teacher's email address and you guys can talk about how I shouldn't quite my day job.

In All the Ways I Love You

In bright surgical light I met your eyes for the first time,

Cool blue,

The colour of skating rinks and winter skies.

Eyes that warmed me.

I loved you immediately.

Little hands and toes,

Cheeks too big to fit on that face,

Wet hair and wrapped blanket,

All mine.

And we had waited so long to meet each other, hadn't we?

So very long.

You grew,

And the clothing you wore matched your eyes.

Blue,

So much blue,

Blue with trucks and trains

Blue with backhoes and planes

Animals like tigers and lions

Oh, my,

How you looked good in blue, my darling.

But your inside matched your eyes too,

You were blue like an autumn's rain,

A little dark cloud wrapped up in buzzed hair and grey t-shirts.

You were blue in ways you didn't have words for,

And it curled around your heart like thorny tendrils,

Barbed wires in your psyche,

You screamed on the outside but not about your insides,

You still wore blue.

I thought you liked blue.

But all this time I loved you,

I held on to the someday,

That precious someday that would come,

And make things better,

Like before the world told you what you were supposed to be,

What you are not,

What you can never be.

You were so blue.

Locked inside yourself,

Inside a world of expectations,

Of boxes you were told to fit in.

You never got to choose,

It was chosen for you,

The blue box,
That one,

That's yours.

But how you hated blue.

The news came rushing at me,

Like a train that couldn't slow down,

I never felt the breeze before it whizzed through that tunnel,

I didn't know it was coming until it was there.

But you knew, my darling,

You knew it was time,

You took a deep breath and you said it,

Both fierce and terrified your voice was,

Strong and frail,

Echoing out of the box,

Blowing the lid off for all to see.

And all that time I loved you,

I just never really knew you,

That person deep inside,

The one who pretended far too well,

Who went through the motions,

Who played the role,

The boy who was not,

Who never was,

Who never would be.

Your eyes are blue,

But your soul is not,

Your face says boy

But your heart says girl,

She was always there,

Dressed, so sadly, in blue.

No more blue, mom, you said.

Please, no more blue.

But I still love you,

I always loved you,

In all the ways that matter.

It was never about trucks and planes,

Bikes and cranes,

Blue or pink.

You have the same eyes,

The same smile,

A happier heart,

A hand to hold,

A story to tell,

A voice to be heard.

And I impossibly,

Completely,

Undeniably love you.