The Heart of Parenting

[Contributing Writer, Ruthie / @ruthiepizzle]

My oldest is a girl, my second baby is a boy, so we weren’t as concerned or anxious about the gender of number three; as people liked to tell us, we already had one of each. We just wanted everything to look perfect, healthy lungs, four chambers of the heart, nice measurements, and it did; we were going to have a healthy baby girl. Flowing hair was actually visible on the ultrasound which seemed like a sign to me that the first thing to buy should most definitely be a hair accessory. You know, a bow or a headband or a pink hat. Definitely pink.

Alice was born just a smidge early, late at night. Quiet kitten noises escaped and nursing came easy. A hungry baby, that one. The ultrasound didn’t lie, either, when it came to the hair. Oh, the hair on that baby was put into pigtails within the first week.

Alice’s first birthday was circus themed with pastel pinks and yellows and purples. Alice’s second birthday was Olivia (that adorable children’s book character created by Ian Faulkner) and I can still perfectly picture a photo of Alice hugging her stuffed Olivia doll, wearing a red and white frilly swim suit and the most adorable braided pigtails you’ve ever seen. There were visits to Disneyland complete with the Bippity Boppity Boutique princess makeover, American Girl dolls with dresses and accessories, over-the-top Christmas dresses and flower girl getups, and everything coordinated with the girl siblings – Alice got three more of those, making four sisters and one brother.

Alice was shy. If you were new, there was very little talking. If you weren’t, talking was quiet and soft. At home, though, there were tantrums and yelling and we even once had a conversation about anger. I remember saying, “If you feel like you can’t control your anger, we can talk to someone who can help you.” A few weeks later, while we were sitting and talking after a screaming match, Alice looked up at me, crying, and said, “Can we go talk to that person about my anger?” And my heart broke. I knew something was going on in that little brain.

I knew.

When Alice reached Kindergarten we realized pretend wasn’t being played as much and games like tag or soccer or anything with the boys took its place. Pants were much preferred to skirts and this opinion was voiced often. “I’m a tomboy!” was Alice’s excuse to questions about why there were more boy friends than girl friends, and we ran with that. Cedar was a good friend and they stuck together like glue.

I knew.

In the winter of first grade, we switched schools. Our son is autistic and the small, private school he was attending couldn’t accommodate him, understandably, so we went to the public school in our district. The kids transitioned well. They missed their friends but made great new ones at the new school. Alice, still, found friends in the boys. Dresses at this point were completely out of the question and tennis shoes were a must. Also, that long and beautiful hair was cut to just above the shoulders and when that happened, a smile stretched from ear to ear.

“Agh, I wish I was a boy,” was a phrase we started hearing more and more of. “Oh, boys are icky!” we’d say. “You don’t wanna be a boy!”

But I knew.

*parenting tip: always believe your children when they tell you how they feel*

During winter break of Alice’s 2nd grade year, I heard, “Mom, I don’t wish I was a boy. I am a boy.”

Of course, I knew.

We talked, just the two of us, for a very long time. Alice was always very shy and innocent, never an attention-seeker. Even when there was anger and outbursts, it was never because Alice was naughty. There was not a single doubt in my mind that this was truth being spoken and I needed to listen very, very, carefully.

“I don’t want to be a girl because in my brain I’m a boy. I only like doing boy stuff and I don’t like all the girl stuff and dresses and I don’t feel like a girl. I’m a boy.”

Our community was small, the elementary school tiny. The majority of the population is republican, white, Christian, many quite conservative. My heart broke for what hadn’t even happened yet. In the weeks that followed I did my homework while Alice and I held on to the secret that had been shared. My homework included visiting every website that had any information at all about young children with gender dysphoria. I spent hundreds of dollars on books (Prime paid for itself in those two weeks) and googled “transgender _________” more times than I’ll ever be able to remember. Finally, we told Daddy.

“Daddy, I actually am a boy, not a tomboy, I feel like a boy and I am a boy.” And Daddy’s reply? “Welcome to the boy’s club.”

Our Alice. Our beautiful, shy, perfect little girl. The ultrasound may have been right about the hair but when the tech said, “You’re having a girl!” the ultrasound lied. Alice wasn’t our perfect girl.

Alice was Luke.

And Luke is our perfect, beautiful boy.