Complications After Birth – Part 2

My child is three years old now. It’s been a long, sleep deprived and often agony-filled journey. But it’s also been full of joys. Whether the delight on my child’s face when picking wild berries, the reveling when a favorite poem is read, or the simply joy of arranging dozens of blocks by color, shape, and size – my little one can bring light wherever she goes.

She. He. Him. Her. That’s where our next complication came up.

At 18 months old, my little one asked to wear dresses and skirts like mama. “Sure,” we said. “No problem.” And we meant it. We’ve worked very hard to remain gender-neutral for the most part in our home. There are so many positive aspects to traditional masculinity and femininity, but our society at large has also twisted and perverted so many of those norms and we were keen to have our child express him or herself however she deemed fit, regardless of whether society at large would tell her that’s ‘boy stuff’ or ‘girl stuff.’ So dresses it was. We knew our child struggled with sensory processing disorder and assumed that, perhaps, pants/leggings were just too darned intense of a sensation.

At 22 months old, our little one started asking to be referred to as names other than the one we’d bestowed. Often these were the names of close family friends such as Kelly, Hailey, or Francine. Sweet! How many children with autism have that kind of imagination at that age? Or at any age for that matter… ABA must really be doing it’s work. Right?

At 2 years old, we discussed that maybe our little one wouldn’t end up as heteronormative as we’d assumed. Again, no problem. We love our child, the family who will assume custody in the event of a tragic accident are a gay couple, and the impetus for each of us in our careers is to pursue social justice. Heck, my ex and best friend realized she was gay 6 years into our marriage. It’s not a big deal. What better family, what better region of the country to be other than a heteronormative, white, cis-gendered male of means, right?

But, no, I said. I don’t want my child to be other than the proverbial, fictitious norm. Because I know how cruel society can be. I grew up a bigot, I’ve lived among them, I’ve been one of them. I know the hatred and vitriol awaiting those outside of hegemony, disguised as love and righteousness. Well, 2 is WAY too young to tell, right?

The next several months passed without much of note in the gender arena. The kiddo wore mostly dresses and skirts in hues of purple and seemed largely happy. When the cashier would say ‘my, what a beautiful little girl’ and I’d correct them, my beloved would whimper or cry, but she’d always done that when strangers spoke to her. Clearly she just didn’t want to talk to strangers. I’d ask if she wanted to talk to the person and I’d receive an emphatic “NO THANK YOU! You do it for me papa.” Clearly it was about the stranger-conversation. I honestly didn’t think any more of it.

Then, 3 months before her 3^rd birthday, she refused to go by her given name, insisting it was the wrong name. She also asked to go by ‘she’ and ‘her,’ insisting that she was only a boy on the changing table. Again, we didn’t think much of it. Who cares what pronoun you use?

How on earth could we have been so blind?

2 months before turning 3, my child started sobbing hysterically when, after making a very proper request for grapes I replied, “I’m so proud of you for being so polite, my son.” Several hours later, once calm enough to speak – though far from consoled, my child gasped through sobs and tears, “Papa, why does everyone think I’m a boy? I’m not your son, I’m your daughter. I’m a girl papa, I’ve ALWAYS been a girl. And you always tell everyone I’m a boy.” This went on for some time, with my precious, my diamond, my beloved pouring out her heart to me, sharing her agony, her sense of never being truly known, her hatred of being perceived as someone she was not. She listed dozens of people who’ve called her ‘he’ or insisted she was a boy. She accused me, rightly, of contradicting the few people in her community who assumed she was a girl, despite the fact that she IS, in fact, a girl. And she asked me, “Papa, why is it that even strangers know I’m a girl, but that you and mama, my parents, don’t understand?”

My soul rent asunder. My darling, my child, my love, heart of my heart, blood of my blood, my baby… I am sorry. Forgive me. Forgive me. I’m sorry. You have been suffering in silence for how long? No, not in silence. You told me, you’ve insisted in your own small – no, not small, very large and very plain – ways that I was wrong. You’ve given me every opportunity, every clue that you might not be a boy. That you were not a boy. That you were a girl. That you’ve known for years. That it hurt you when I insisted otherwise. And I was so scared for you, for your future, for the cruelty of the world we live in, from the likes of Westboro to the simple misunderstandings of your fellow toddlers… so afraid and desperate to spare you suffering… so afraid to see you hurt that I perpetrated my own micro-hate crimes upon you. From daily micro-aggressions to outright insistence of the wrong gender. I’ve become the source of our agony, your isolation and sense of being, in your own words, an ‘outcast within our family.’ Forgive me my child. Papa was wrong. Mama was wrong. I am sorry. Forgive us. We will do better.

“Papa,” she asks me every morning. “Papa, why did you think I was a boy? Why did you call me Little Smye when that’s not my name?” S*#%. “Papa was wrong honey, I am sorry. I did think you were a boy, and I was wrong. But you told me you are a girl and now I know. You are my daughter, and I am so glad to know that you are a girl. Sometimes I might make a mistake and say ‘he’ or use the name I thought was yours, but I’m working on it.”

A few weeks later she asked for a family meeting. The Socialist, our daughter and I sat down at the kitchen able to decide on her name. “I want to go by Phutup,” she insists. “Well kiddo… that’s not usually a name. Mama and I talked about it, and usually parents who are right about whether their child is a girl or boy get to choose the child’s name. We were wrong, so we want you to help us decide on your name, but Phutup is usually not a name. Are you sure you want that for your name?” “I dunno, I just like how it sounds.”

PHEW!

“Okay little girl, how about Little Smyette? That’s the girl version of Little Smye and will be easier for your friends and family to get used to.”

“NO! That is not my name, I hate it!”

“Well,” The Socialist follows up. “How about Snugglet? If we had known you were a girl when you were born, that’s the name we could have given you.”

“Oooooh… Mama, Papa, you found my name! My name is Snugglet! I love it.” And then, for the first time in her life, she began to truly weep. No screaming, no sobs, no violent kicking, thrashing and biting… but weeping. “Papa, I’m crying for happiness. What is this?” Needless to say, The Socialist and I were quick to join her.

It’s been rough, coming out – again – as a family to friends and family. Deciding who to tell and when. How much of this story is hers to tell when she wants? How much is our family’s? How do we respond with kindness and compassion when hatred rears its ugly head – not only to Snugglet but to the hater as well? How do we know whether to refer to her as a girl vs a trans-girl and to whom? How can we maintain our composure when a loved one spits in our faces and insists ‘she’s too young to even have a concept of trans,’ we ‘made her this way,’ ‘did she really try living as a boy to make sure?’ or that we’re guilty of child abuse by making her live as a girl? What can we say when even our closest relatives insist it’s just because The Socialist is gay?

Answer: By doing our best and arming ourselves with evidence.

1)    Snugglet absolutely knows she’s a girl – most kids have a gender identity solidly developed sometime between the ages of 2 & 3 and many trans people who come out later in life report having tried to tell someone at a younger age but being told “GET BACK INSIDE! You’re a girl and you MUST have long hair! You’re a boy GD-it! What’s wrong with you?” They shame spiraled, they self-loathed, and the remained closeted in silence. Or else they insisted and were met with rejection and spite. Or, for a very few, they were accepted and grew up well-adjusted. This is our dream for Snugglet. And no, she’s not aware of the concept of being trans or LGBTIQ… but she absolutely knows she’s a girl with a penis.

2)    Nope. You can’t make a person trans. Anymore than you can make a person cis. Or straight. Or gay. Or bi. Wait, are you saying that your own sexual identity is maleable enough that someone could make you gay? Could, without surgery, make you a man/woman/other? Wow…

3)    Are YOU sure you’re cis? Have you tried living as the other gender for a year or two, just to be sure? I mean… c’mon.

4)    How is allowing my child to be who she is at the core of her being, provided she harms no one else, is worse than forcing my child to adopt a persona counter to her very soul? Seems to me very much akin to forcing a boy to wear only girl’s clothes and go by a girl’s name, even when he’s very much a boy. Or forcing a girl to pretend she’s a boy, even when she’s not. How on earth is allowing my girl to be a girl more cruel than forcing her to be a boy?

5)    Beyond that, if this isn’t enough for you, I highly suggest you read some peer-reviewed journals on the topic. Or else get a good therapist. Or, if you want to believe I’m evil and my child is an abomination… I suppose your right to hate has the same constitutional protections as my right to love, so go ahead. Just keep those thoughts to yourself. Just as you have the right to raise your child to believe transgenderedness is wrong, I have a right to raise my child how I will, with what I believe to be love and acceptance. Thank you.

I still slip up, I still call her by her old name instead of her new name. And she is so generous, so gracious, in a way no child – especially no preschooler – should ever have to be: “It’s okay Papa. I know it will take you some practice and I know you’re trying. Thank you Papa for catching yourself and changing to my real name.” Daily my heart breaks as I’m consumed with shame for the suffering I’ve caused the one human on earth who most deserves my unbridled devotion, respect, and full recognition of who she is.

I’m still afraid. I still dread having the conversation about why this or that adult did this or that hateful thing. But I am so damn proud of my child. My daughter. My beautiful beautiful little girl. I love you Snugglet, thank you for having the courage to teach me who you really are. Perhaps I can thank, at least in part, your wonderful autistic brain for helping give you a voice amidst the silencing of our world. 

I love you.

Complications After Birth - Part 1

From Birth to Transition – Part 1

June, 2013, 2 am inside the post office box that The Socialist and I called our bedroom. A groan, a push, a gasp and I’ve caught Little Smye in the birthing tub. The midwife smiles as I fumble my child into my arms, hand the wriggling lithe bundle to The Socialist and cut the cord. “A son,” I cry. “We have a little boy!” I’d never in my life felt such joy or sense of completeness and grounding. Little did I know how much greater joy, sorrow, fear, despair, and elation was to follow.

We knew something was wrong almost immediately. They say that shortly after a child is born, there’s a 4-6-hour period where the newborn sleeps. This was not the case for Little Smye. Our child wailed from the first moment Earth-side until 48 hours after birth. We reached out, we sought help, we were told Little Smye would ‘grow out of it.’

Then Little Smye couldn’t nurse. Every sip of breastmilk led to horrific pain for The Socialist as our child clamped down fiercely and heart-rending choking and gasping as every last drop was aspirated. Five months of finger-feeding pumped milk at about an ounce every 2 hours, three frenotomies, and far too many sleepless nights followed. We reached out again, our child was far too unhappy to be really and truly okay. This was more than a tongue tie and an inability to swallow liquids, we were sure. “Don’t worry,” they chided. “You have a strong boy there; he’ll grow out of it.”

At seven months our seventeenth nanny for Little Smye quit after only 2 hours on the job. We were in the office, each working from home during that ‘trial day’ when we heard a second cry join Little Smye’s. When we went out into the living room, we found our child thrashing on the floor and the nanny – a woman who’d only hours before described herself as ‘able to handle anything, I was in Special Education for 20 years’ – curled in a fetal position crying on our couch, back to our baby. “It’s too much,” she whimpered. “Nothing can sooth your child. I can’t take it, I’m a failure.” Then she ran out of our home. It was like something out of a caricature of a ‘nightmare nannying job’ movie. One caregiver described Little Smye as Dennis the Menace meets Problem Child meets The Omen… with a little of Jigsaw’s cruelty thrown into the mix. Except that our child was only seven months old.

At eight months we turned a corner. Little Smye was nursing heartily and able to drink water if it was thickened with xanthan gum… but still was screaming for 7-8 hours solid daily and sleeping fewer than 5 out of every 24 hours. Any small change in the environment, from the central air kicking on to a car driving past to a cloud passing in front of the sun, to staring dinner 3 minutes before or after the usual time would trigger a violent, spasmodic meltdown. Little Smye still couldn’t sit up or even roll over yet. Something was wrong. “No, you’re fine,” they assured us. “Perhaps you just need some remedial parenting classes.”

At twelve months we finally found a doctor willing to give our child more than a perfunctory once-over. I’ll call him Dr. D.

We were floored. Our child could now sit, roll, and was even speaking in short sentences. One day our kid was mute, a week later I heard “Papa, milk please.” Why was this doctor willing to see us with the gains we’d made? Little Smye was also finally willing to sleep without being tightly held in my arms, I was getting more than 2-hours of sleep in a row – just the night before our appointment I’d managed 3.5 – things were perfect, no complaints. Right?

The morning of the appointment, I called a friend I’d met in birth class to double check whether it was worth wasting this doctor’s time. I described the leaps and bound of improvements we’d seen in Little Smye, our improved quality of life, the fact that I could once again think in multiple complete sentences even if I sometimes had difficulty in speaking them. Things are great! “Um, Smye… none of that is normal. Not even a little. Your child shouldn’t be using words like ‘probably’ yet and you should absolutely be getting more sleep than that. Something is very wrong. Why haven’t you taken your kiddo to specialist before this?” We had. Twenty-four specialists had told us that ‘Little Smye will grow out of it, your child is too young for this to be significant in any way.’ Thank goodness for Dr. D.

We met Dr. D. in his office. “Hello,” he greeted each of us, even Little Smye. My child whimpered and shied away. “Little Smye doesn’t do well with new people,” The Socialist explained. “In fact, if you’re not careful, Little Smye will identify you as someone not to be trusted and… well… we still can’t go through the line at Safeway with the cashier who touched Little Smye’s cheek when Little Smye was 2 months-old.” It was true, even at three years old now, Little Smye recounts the horrors of “The lady with blue hair who touched me when I didn’t want to be touched but couldn’t say no because I didn’t have words yet,” before melting into a puddle of re-traumatization.

Dr. D. smiled, “No problem. I completely understand.” Dr. D. then proceeded to ask us a number of pointed questions; observe Little Smye stare, rarely even blinking, at a piece of yarn blowing in the breeze of a desk fan for over an hour; note the total, violent meltdown when a nurse walked by the door unexpectedly; and offer solace in the form of empathy and validation.

“I’m making a diagnosis of Autism. You’ve been to how many specialists? This is among the most cut and dried instances I’ve seen in decades. I suppose it’s just that your son is so young… they don’t want to over pathologize. But in all seriousness? There is zero doubt in my mind on this one.”

Autism. Finally, a diagnosis. It was the one we’d expected; the one we’d not dared to utter to any healthcare professional for fear they’d see us as “those Munchausen-by-proxy parents” rather than taking us seriously; the one that brought total validation and relief. Finally, someone the world would respect and listen to had given us an explanation for why our child was suffering so deeply. Or… part of one anyway.

What followed were countless visits to occupational therapists, psychotherapists, speech pathologists, autism clinics, birth-to-three services, schools, and several other professionals I cannot recall.

By 18-months, we had in-home ABA therapy, weekly OT, supports from all over the map and were up to 4-6 hours of sleep each night. We also had a child with an active vocabulary of 5000 words and the emotional maturity of a 3-month-old according to one expert. We’d swapped Little Smye from wearing pants and shirts to primarily dresses and skirts at her request and our child seemed far happier. It seemed the sensory aspect of autism was preventing our kiddo from wearing anything tight on the legs. We had no problem with this whatsoever, the clothes don’t make the kid and hey, if you’re happy, I’m happy.

It seemed we’d ‘arrived.’ And yet still, our beloved diamond still was dreadfully unhappy. Whenever the cashier at the feed store would remark “what a handsome young man you have there,’ my child would devolve into a multi-hour scream-fest of the sort that makes your eardrums ring and all you hear is ‘wuhwumwuhwumwuhwum’ rather than the screams themselves. You know the kind of pitch and volume I’m talking about.

It wasn’t until she was nearly three that we finally discovered the next piece of Little Smye’s very complicated puzzle.