The decision was made by unanimous family vote around the dinner table.  So united were we, that there was no need to invoke the parent’s-vote-counts-as-two clause, as was sometimes the case with these types of decisions.  Yes, we were all in favor of getting a Golden Doodle puppy.  Research was conducted, contacts were made and a breeder was chosen.  And just as I was about to send our deposit money, thereby firmly securing the puppy’s place in our family, a funny thing happened.

Along came Molly.

It was an unbearably warm day in August.  With humidity levels hovering around 90% it was the kind of day sane people would opt to stay indoors.  But our youngest child Josie, an Irish dancer, was performing at a festival on the banks of the Mississippi and so our attendance, being an all-for-one and one-for-all type of family, was mandatory.   Despite the heat, the Irish Festival always attracted die-hard attendees.  St. Paul, Minnesota has a large Irish population, and it seemed most had found their way to the event site, dressed in their ‘Kiss Me I’m Irish’ green apparel from head to toe.

During a break in performances, Sam, Nana (my 73 year-old mother) and I reluctantly parted with our seats in the shade to get some refreshments for our group.  Cutting across a large field, still soggy from the heavy downpour of a summer storm the night before, we came upon a 20 year-old girl with a puppy, actually a wiry black mop of hair, which was wimpering at the end of a makeshift twine leash attached to a dirty pink collar.

“Cute puppy,” Sam commented as we trudged past her, the heat index making it seem like we were moving in slow motion.

The girl’s eyes lit up as she exclaimed, “Do you want her?”

Before I had the chance to think about it, the word “NO!” came flying out of my mouth, the swift verdict one in which only a mother can deliver.  But even at that speed, I could tell it was too late.  The one syllable word hanging as heavily in the air as the humidity, Sam was already laying in the wet grass, with the black mop of wiry hair jumping all over him.

“There is no way we can take this puppy home,” I said defensively.  “We already decided on a Golden Doodle, and besides, we cannot make this decision without Dad and Josie.”

Content with my sound reasoning, you can imagine my horror when my mom announced with great glee, “I’LL GO GET THEM!”  With that, Nana sprinted across the spongy field, dodging muddy rugby players and sheep herding demonstrations to gather the rest of the family.  Not sure how Nana could have missed my clear, blame-Dad-and-Josie-because-they’re-not-here excuse, I stood there stunned.  Feeling the tension, Miss 20-something took the opportunity to explain how it was that she became the owner of the pup.  She proceeded to tell us about a farmer who arrived at the festival that morning with a box full of puppies.  He told all sympathetic hearts within earshot that if he was not able to get rid of them, they would probably meet with an undesirable fate, the thought of which she could not bear.  But when Miss 20-something caught up with her roommates later in the day, they did not share her enthusiasm toward the newfound addition to their apartment and informed her she must find a different home for the dog.

My head still spinning from her sad tale, I glanced up to see my husband and Josie approaching.  Ah, the voice of reason was there to save the day.  “Please explain to Sam that we can’t take this dog,” I said, confident that my practical, allergy-suffering husband would never agree to take a puppy we knew nothing about.  As I waited for him to say no, Sam picked the puppy up and put her in his arms.  Knowing just what do to, as if she had been coached, the 8-week-old pup with the big brown M&M eyes began to lick his face.  And then I heard my big, burly husband with the soft heart say just one word.

“Alright.”

Molly, the only Irish name we could all agree on, became a part of our family that day, at a time in our lives, as it turns out, when we needed her the most.  Sam, who was 12 years-old, was beginning to transition, and she quickly became a true friend when he had no others.  A buddy to confide in when he was down…a kind soul to hang out with when classmates chose not to invite him to their birthday parties.   And a ball of wagging black fur who met the bus each afternoon, so glad to see him even when he was exhausted from the torments of his middle school day.

Over the last three years Molly has been Sam’s loyal best friend, licking away tears, amusing him with her antics, always ready and willing to run, romp and play.  On the days when I no longer knew how to console Sam, his feelings hurt one too many times by people who did not understand his gender variance, she would provide the comfort of an understanding gaze, her mere presence making us both feel better. And I can say with the utmost certainty that she has never judged or made him feel less of a person for being true to himself.   She adored him just the same after he got his first short haircut, and didn’t abandon him when we started using male pronouns.  Demonstrating genuine affection, she has always loved Sam unconditionally for the person he is inside, something I wish more people could do.

How lucky we were on that hot August day to come upon this Black Lab/Collie mix of a puppy in need of a home.  More times than not, whenever people hear the story of how Molly joined our family they say, “So you rescued her,” to which I always reply, “No, she rescued us.”

“The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there…”  Or so the story goes.  And while this is probably true in most homes around the globe tonight, it was not the case in our house the last few years. 

Whether born or married into our family, you are bestowed a beautifully hand knit Christmas stocking created by my mother-in-law.  Each stitch knit with love, one of the main features of these festive stockings is your name emblazoned at the top, which, I imagine, is meant to be a friendly reminder for Santa on his big night.  It was a tradition that dated back 50 years and was the envy of those outside the family, not only for their beauty, but more so for the strong bonds that the stockings represented.

Every year our family of four would hang these treasured stockings prominently on the mantle, reminiscing as we did about their special meaning and the wonderful woman who made them for us.  It was a part of Christmas that we all cherished and looked forward to, that is, until a few years ago.  When Sam began to transition he no longer wanted to hang the stocking with the name “Samantha” over the fireplace for all to see.  This person no longer existed and only brought painful reminders of someone he never really was.  While it broke our hearts not to hang his stocking, we understood, but were not sure what to do.  My mother-in-law passed away several years ago, and so having her make a new one was not an option.  Do we tuck all the stockings, along with the sentimental feelings attached to them away, opting for new store-bought ones so that Sam would not have yet another reminder that he was different?

This might not sound like a big deal, I mean these are just stockings we are talking about for God’s sake, right?  Surely there are more important things to lament about than this.  But when you are raising a transgender child, there are little things like this that present themselves every single day.  And I do mean, Every. Single. Day.  Things that would never be an issue for other children are monumental for Sam, this being one of them.  And so we decided to let my husband and our daughter Josie keep using the special stockings knit by Grammy, while Sam and I began hanging a matching pair of store purchased ones.  It seemed like the right compromise.  But it didn’t feel like it.

Enter my dear friend Kelli.  After two years of hanging our misfit stockings on the mantle I shared my sadness with her.  And she, in her usual calm and comforting manner said, “I know someone who can help.”  She went on to tell me about a woman who was known for her knitting and assured me that she would be able to fix Sam’s stocking.  Now you have to understand, I don’t sew.  If a button falls off of the kid’s clothes they don’t even think to bring it to me – my husband is the keeper of the sewing kit in our house.  So the thought of someone ‘fixing’ Sam’s stocking never occurred to me.  And even as she suggested it, the mental picture I had of changing the name on a knit stocking was not a pretty one.  How on earth would this be done without it being noticeable, I thought to myself; but with nothing to lose I gave her the stocking and held my breath.

A few weeks went by when I got the call from Kelli.  The stocking was done and she could not wait for me to see it.   “I think it looks good but I want you to be the judge,” she said in her dry way. What was that suppose to mean, I wondered?  Was that code for, “…it now looks like a patch-work quilt” I speculated.

When I met her to pick up the stocking I could see she was trying to conceal her excitement.  She handed me a bag and stood back to watch my reaction.  Words cannot even begin to describe the unbelievable job this woman did for a boy she didn’t even know. ‘Samantha,’ like the child, was gone and in its place was the name ‘Samuel,’ beautifully stitched with perfection.  Using extreme care, she only removed the letters, ‘a-n-t-h-a’ replacing them with ‘u-e-l’ so as to keep as much of the original stitching as possible.  Matching the yarn color for the name, while not disrupting the integrity of the rest of the stocking, she not only fixed the stocking, but also gave our family back a tradition we thought was lost forever.  The kindness shown by this woman, who would not accept payment for her work, will never be forgotten.  Each year as we hang our stockings on the hearth we will always think of her fondly and make sure our children understand that what she did for our family embodies the true spirit and magic of the season.

Wishing everyone the happiest of holidays and the best of new years!

With embarrassment I admit that I used to be prejudiced.  I had preconceived notions about people based on where they lived, their political party, religious denomination, and age group, that fit neatly into the boxes I had placed them within.

You’re from the South?  You must be close-minded.  Over the age of 75?  We’ll just avoid certain subjects.  You voted for McCain in the last election?  I doubt we have anything in common.  And I am sure you can imagine how these prejudices were perpetuated once we realized our child was transgender.  I was certain all Republicans would deny my child his rights, our religious friends would shun us, and the senior citizens in our life would never be able to understand the disconnect between Sam’s mind and body.  We would also, I assumed, never again be able to travel south of the Mason-Dixon line.  Suffice to say, I was confident with my assumptions and quickly built a psychological wall of armor between my family and those people in our lives.

Tisk. Tisk.  What a hypocrite I was.

Hyp•o•crite (noun) \hi-pə-ˌkrit\:  1) a person who engages in the same behaviors she condemns others for  2) a person who fails to practice what they preach  3) someone who complains about something but finds themselves doing exactly the same thing   4) Me.

Here I was expecting our friends, family and acquaintances (not to mention society at large) to accept our child for who he was on the inside.  Demanding they not be swayed by the stigma surrounding transgender people, nor judge him for something they probably knew very little about.  Yes, I had very high expectations for them, while at the same time my prejudices were in high gear as I was already making assumptions about how they would treat Sam based on the stereotypes of a category I had lumped them into.   Do as I say, not as I do.

You learn a lot of life lessons as a parent – it comes with the job.  But if you are a parent of a child who is not ‘normal’ (as defined by society) then those lessons seem to come at a much faster pace, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.  I have learned to view these lessons in a positive light, for our life path has shown us the absolute best of humankind, as well as some of the worst, and it turns out you can learn a lot from both.

As word spread about Sam my lesson in pride and prejudice began.

When a colleague from the deep south heard, he called to offer his unconditional support.  I had to confirm whom I was speaking with.

One of the most religious people I know came forward with this simple yet heartfelt statement, “…if you run into the ‘other kind’ of Christian that gives those of us who embrace the message of love a really bad name let me know, I can help.”

When my 75 year-old mother told her friends, some well into their 80’s, that Sam was being bullied and why, they offered to go to his school to ‘teach those kids a lesson,’ which was grandma-speak for roughing them up.  I had to hold them back.

And those Republicans, perhaps the group I feared the most even made me set aside my pride as I admitted to myself that they too were not all out to prevent my child’s happiness.  Some of the most right-wing, Fox News-watching, conservatives I know have begun to advocate for Sam and people like him because they know our family.

It is not to say that some people still perpetuate the stereotypes I may have assigned to them, but that is who they are on the inside; who they are as an individual.  I get that now.  Pride swallowed and prejudices put aside I go forward hopefully a better person for learning this important life lesson … a lesson learned because I have this beautiful child.

I am not an advocate by nature.  At least not an outspoken one.  In the past I allowed my vote in elections to be my mouthpiece. I never wore my feelings on my sleeve, instead opting to send monetary donations to organizations that supported my views.  Political signs never found a home in my yard and my car bumper has always been sticker-free. And it is safe to say no politician’s name or societal hot topic ever graced the front of sweatshirts, hats, totes or any other apparel I might be sporting.  I have my beliefs and strong convictions just like anyone else, but I just never felt the need to climb onto a soapbox to share them.  All of that, I used to think, was for radicals and fanaticals.   That is, until we had Sam.

Having a gender variant child, we quickly learned firsthand how important our role as advocates was to Sam’s mental and physical wellbeing. From school officials and medical providers to friends, fellow students and their parents, we stood side-by-side as we explained a subject that was unfamiliar to most people and misunderstood by society at large. With every discussion on the subject, with every opportunity to share a glimpse of what it was like to walk in his shoes, we felt encouraged knowing one more person might go forward with a new appreciation and understanding for people like Sam.

So that was the extent of my advocacy until last month, when an opportunity presented itself that was on a much larger scale.  An opportunity to be an advocate in front of an audience that was in a position to truly help kids like Sam if they had a better understanding of the subject matter.  And so I said yes.

On October 24^th I boarded a plane to Rochester, NY, armed with a speech and the start of a bad case of stage fright.  I was headed there to join Dr. Ellen Perrin, a professor of pediatrics from Tufts Medical in Boston, Massachusetts, who is an internationally recognized expert in the area of child development.  Dr. Perrin was invited to be a guest lecturer on the subject of children with gender atypical behavior and she asked that I join her to speak on the same topic from a mother’s point-of-view.

As the plane landed in New York I began to question my sanity, wondering to myself how I had arrived at this moment.  Up until this point my advocacy had been in front of audiences of one, a much less stressful stage (if you can even call it that) than the platform I was about to climb onto.  But there was no going back.  As much as I wanted to board the next plane home I knew that I needed to fulfill my commitment, not only because I gave Dr. Perrin my word, but also because I believed that by sharing our story I would be helping her colleagues be better prepared to support parents and children in the same situation.

The lecture hall at Strong Memorial Hospital was large and intimidating.  We arrived early enough for me to observe people coming into the auditorium, the pace of which led me to (wishfully) believe that the audience would be small, however that was not the case.  We were presenting in front of Pediatric Grand Rounds I was told, which meant most pediatricians in residence as well as faculty would be in attendance.  Also invited were doctors from other specialties that might find the subject of interest as well as members of the hospital’s nursing staff and pediatricians from the local community. As the clock struck 8:00am, the lecture hall, which had entrances on two floors, was full, with some people even sitting on the stairs.  And as if that wasn’t enough, we were also being broadcast to remote locations for doctors who were not in the immediate area.

It was my worst public speaking nightmare come true.

Dr. Perrin led off the discussion with clinical information on gender variant children.  The audience was attentive, as I expected them to be for someone who was so accomplished and well regarded.  With each passing minute of her presentation the butterflies in my stomach multiplied as the cotton in my mouth threatened to render me mute.  And just as I was sitting there contemplating how my knocking knees could possibly transfer me to the stage, I heard her introduce me to the audience.  I had reached the point of no return.

I am not sure how I made it to the podium but before I knew it, I was standing in front of medical professionals that, to my surprise, were eager to hear what I had to say. Instead of being preoccupied (as I assumed busy doctors would be) they were actually listening, their heads nodding empathetically with each anecdote I told.  My mind – the conservative protector of my actions – took a back seat to my heart, allowing me to share intimate details of our life raising Sam.  Details that helped the audience fully appreciate the plight of these kids.  It was my heart that shared our struggle to understand Sam’s actions and feelings from a tender age.  And my heart that poured out details of our family’s frustration, sadness, hope and even joy surrounding the hand Sam had been dealt.

Speaking from the heart I reminded them that as medical professionals they might find themselves in the position of being the first person a family turns to for help, and that the tone they set with these families, who are most likely scared and confused, could have a great bearing on how they deal with the situation going forward. And I gave them a heartfelt plea to remember that for those affected it is not a phase or a choice.  It is a true disconnect between mind and body and that these people need medical care that is empathetic and supportive.  They need to be able to partner with medical care professionals who help their families and them understand that being transgender isn’t the end of the world, and most importantly, that they can go on to live happy and fulfilling lives.

With that I stepped off the podium, knowing I had accomplished what I had come there to do.  As I took my seat I recalled words of advice we had been given before Sam was born, words that took on a new meaning that morning…

                  “Your most important job is being your child’s advocate.                                                            And you will have that job the rest of your life.”

My heart spoke volumes that day and as it did, I found my voice as an advocate for Sam and people like him.  I never would have imagined that I would become an advocate with a capital letter ‘A,’ but that is what happens when you speak from the heart for those who might not yet have a strong voice.