I wake up happy most mornings.
The sun streams in through the window, it catches the dust in the air just right so the sun beams dance with magic. The birds are chirping, I can hear the kids’ feet stomping around on the other side of our bedroom door. I stretch. And yawn. Absentmindedly my hand reaches out for my wife. I roll over and lean into her warm, soft, body. She’s fast asleep, her breathing soft and deep. My body just sinks into hers, I begin to want her and in that very moment I am reminded that I am trans. That my body doesn’t have the pieces my mind believes it does, or at the very least should have.
This is the first moment of most days that I remember I’m trans.
It’s one of dozens that happen throughout each day.
There’s a dick joke. Or a bathroom without a stall, or stall door, or toilet seat, or shit literally on the toilet seat (ugh men, your bathrooms are gross! Do better.). Someone asks about the name on my credit card, or I go clothes shopping and have all the wrong proportions. Then there’s the way more obvious cesarian scar and a less-than-typical chest. UGH! And when I have to talk to someone at my bank and explain to them why I sound like a man. Hint: it’s because I’m a man.
I could go on and on with my lists but that’s not the point.
The point is that seemingly all day everyday I am reminded that I am trans.
And I wish I wasn’t.
I wish I wasn’t trans.
I wish I was born exactly how I see myself in my head.
The disconnect between my soul and my physical being is incredibly painful. Struggle to get out of bed painful somedays if I’m being honest.
But then there are these babies.
There is no part of me that could wish them away.
AND SO I CAN’T WISH ME AWAY EITHER.
I brought them into this world.
I grew them inside of me.
I birthed them.
I breathed and grew and pushed them into this life.
And then I fed and nourished them with this body that feels so very broken to me, but was so completely perfect for them.
I don’t think that makes me love them more.
I don’t think that makes them love me more.
It’s just how we became a family.
There are so many ways to become a family.
Mine gives me a knowing of what it is like to grow someone. To literally give them the best of you before you take anything for yourself, whether you want to or not, because you can’t control the way your body distributes resources while pregnant.
(It also gives me a knowing of what it’s like to have the government weigh in on your body via things like abortion law. Or knowing what it’s like to worry if you’ll lose your job because you’re pregnant. Or not get a job because your kids will “probably come first, huh?” Or have everyone have an opinion on what you can or can’t do because “you’re a girl.”)
I wouldn’t change that part of my human experience. Or at least I’m glad that it’s not a real option, because I’m sure I would regret it if I did.
Becoming their Mom first made me the Dad I am today.
It set up this relationship with my kids that I think men often shy away from, or are pushed out of, because that’s the “mom’s job.” Or because “I’m a guy, I’m just not good at that stuff.”
But parenting doesn’t have to be so gendered.
There is no part of loving someone with every ounce of your being that is gendered.
A mom is not better than a dad at loving her children because she’s a woman, just like a Dad is not better at providing for his children because he’s a man.
It’s just love. We can all do it all.
And with that, I leave you the to listen to our newest podcast interview with Anne Ferguson of MamaFuel.me.
I AM SO GRATEFUL FOR ANNE!
I love the opportunity to talk about my childbirth experience. It is the most magical thing I’ve ever been a apart of, and as I am read male more and more, it is the part of me that disappears more and more. Thank you for the space!