Day 12: Scariest Day Ever, Part II
As if my harrowing day in NYC was not enough, I decide to bite the bullet and tell my youngest son when I get home.
Age 17. Senior in high school. Interested art school. And a Brony.
I’m not good at waiting and I don’t want him to think my moodiness has anything to do with him.
So I come home and announce I have something to tell him. Something I’ve hidden from the world for 40 years. And no, I’m not gay.
In a flash, I get a vision of him not responding well. Of never wanting to see me again. Of being ashamed of me. And I lose it. In front of him.
I try to gather myself up, but tears are streaming down my face. Deep breath. REALLY deep breath.
So I dive into my sixth (!!!!!!) admission of the day (are you nuts!?!) and finally speak the words, I am transgendered.
I look up and he is staring at me expressionless. Nothing. Nada.
Not good. REALLY not good.
So I start to babble. This is me babbling. Oh wow have I have become good at babbling. Then I pause.
Wait a minute…
Do you know what the word “transgendered” means?
Omigod, omigod, omigod. It’s second chance time. Like losing a football game on a missed kick, then seeing that glorious roughing the kicker flag.
Well, it’s kinda like Eddie Izzard (who we went to see in D.C. and ran into in London at the Monty Python Reunion show).
After more babbling, my son stops me and tells me he is totally fine with it. Really. His favorite Brony musician is transgendered. His Facebook picture is a photo of him with the same transgendered musician.
I am so relieved. I am so lucky. I am so blessed. He’s even intrigued to see me in “girl” mode.
We hug and while I can’t stop the tears, I can stop the fear, the panic, for at least one night.
But morning comes early to parents of high school students. 6:10 to be exact and while all is good between us, not all is good between my ears.
He leaves for school at 6:30 and within minutes I’m sobbing in the bathroom. Everything that I’ve been holding in from the previous day comes tumbling out. Hell, everything I’ve been holding in for 40 years.
I finally pull myself together, throw on my yoga pants and an eggplant long sleeve women’s ribbed tee over my bra. I tie my hair in a side ponytail, put on hoop earrings and my clogs, and appraise myself in the mirror. Not too shabby. A little cute, actually. Very understated. Very non-threatening (I hope).
3:00 comes and I hear the front door open, my son returning from school. I’m upstairs, so I give him a minute to get settled in, then text, Do you mind seeing girl mode?
After five tortuous minutes, I add, Should I take that as a no? 😉
More silence. A LOT more silence
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Then my phone buzzes. Sorry, the cat sat on me and I feel asleep. I would not mind.
Deep breath. Deep breath. Don’t hyperventilate. Deep breath.
I come down the stairs and my son is waiting for me. He breaks into a broad smile and says, Wow, you look really nice.
Either he means it or he’s going to do really well with women. Either way, score!
I spend the next few hours in girl mode. With someone I know. With someone I love. Who isn’t freaked out by it.
Life is good. Scary, but really, really good.