ME AND MY LOVE.
Labels. Mummy. Truth.
I thought it was cute how this kid rejected anything “for a girl”.
“Is this music for a girl?”
“Macaroni cheese is for a girl right?”
It became easier to just summarise that “None of this is for a girl or boy, it’s just stuff and choices.” But the list of stuff was piling up; toys, trousers, tops and socks, sports, activities, hairstyles, shoes. The answer was always the same, “You get to follow your heart’s desire.” Her heart’s desire was hilarious.
While browsing the sale aisles of the ultra-feminine Monsoon, my three-yearold was pointing at something excitedly, “Look Mummy, I want one!” I span on my heel thinking the first request for a dress had come. No, it was the fire extinguisher. The sting-squisher to give it its proper name.
“Please can we take it home, Mummy? It’s on sale.”
I couldn’t buy the store’s health and safety equipment, but I could respect her choices. But then, age four, the questions took a turn.
“Are sons just as loved as daughters, Mummy?” “Of course,” I would reply. “I can be your son then mummy? I’m not a girl, I’m a boy and my name is George. No, Thomas like a tank engine. No, Freddy. That’s it mummy.. my name is Freddy and I am a boy.”
And so it continued…
“Look Mummy, I have cut my own hair. Shorter now.”
“Look Mummy, I can pee standing up.”
Refusals to leave the house because the clothes weren’t “boy enough”. Even pink cotton pants that wouldn’t be seen by anyone other than the wearer and their laundry fairy would be hidden under the couch for weeks. Most parents want to see their child thrive, but this child was unhappy and I was overwhelmed by how much gender allegiance dictated our day. I did what any other tired, anxious parent would do; I asked Google.
I scrolled through voiceless existence, hidden history, lived experiences of an inconvenient identity. Demands for equality, protection, completed educations, healthcare, family life, respect and inclusion. I was learning that gender is more than outside decoration. Being trans is a valid identity.
“You must have been a very good boy getting this tractor today?” said the sales assistant in the charity shop. Freddy’s eyes bore into mine being me not to betray him. I smiled awkwardly, Freddy beamed. Outside they gave me the biest hug and said, “Thank you for letting me be a boy, mummy.”
He, him, his, whatever; Love. My love, and yours. Fast forward five years and there are days when Freddy doesn’t love himself, rather he doesn’t love being transgender. He can strule to hold his own in a minority. Learning the word transgender was a great day for Freddy, he used it with gusto and pride – but he gets tired of telling everyone what it means.
Progress for inclusive education is slow, our authorities in education worry about the impact visible diversity will have. In our experience, Freddy’s friends needed very little support to accept his transition. Is it radical to suest we should be embracing diversity? Yes, in front of children.
Using the word transgender to describe himself has given Freddy some freedom from the fixed idea of what a boy should be. He enjoys a rich world of play and exploration. He’s learning and growing beautifully. How he assures me that, at aged nine, he’s the capacity to love and care for others and himself. I can relax.
Oh shit, puberty.
Hips growing, breasts budding, first bleed and betrayal by the body. Hormone blockers? Bone density tests, hours of assessment, invasive procedures, binders, packers, cross sex hormones, first crush, first kiss, Snapchat and Insta rejection, spots and getting it wrong.
Shitty statistics telling him he is 50 times more likely to attempt suicide than his cis-peers. Upsetting and inaccurate headlines in national newspapers – where are our allies? Publish the impact of the child-led approach – that’s the real story.
Our family members who don’t understand: “Did you know if you support him he is just as likely to succeed as his peers and be happy?”
I don’t hold the looking glass into Freddy’s future. I won’t be the one making his decisions, but I can prepare him for adulthood in his childhood. Assuring him that he’s valid and equal just as he is – but is this enough?
I’d rather teach every child we meet about the harmful effect of stereotyping and the myth of binary gender than have one more conversation with Freddy about transphobia. Mermaids have come to our rescue here.
Freddy and I spent the weekend at an outdoors centre in the Scottish Borders. That Saturday night, drunk on fun with a rainbow face-paint smeared across his cheeks, “Mum, did you know some doctor helped Jake to look like he does now? He used to look like a girl. Do you think doctors can help me when I’m older?”
“Yes, doctors can help you to have the puberty you want.”
He fell asleep dreaming of the possibilities. Not afraid.