The spice of life

I'd like to start today by giving a shout out and a big "thank you" to my readers in Russia.  There are 14 of you now, and that thrills me.  No less important are the readers in Germany, the U.K., Japan, China, India and Malaysia.  Thank you for taking the time to read my blog and I hope that it has offered you some manner of support knowing that there is some crazy American lady on the other side of the world who is trying to do her part to foster acceptance.

That word, acceptance, has become all encompassing to me.  I had nagging little thoughts of it in my twenties when my mother-in-law from my first marriage tried my patience on a regular basis.  "Just accept that she is a strange lady who can be incredibly mean because you married her son," was what I kept trying to tell myself, to no avail.  I simply could not accept her snide remarks, no matter how hard I tried.  I knew, somehow, that if I could accept her, even in her mean-ness that I would be doing myself a favor, but it was just beyond my ability back then.  And acceptance of someone else's abuse, perhaps, is ill advised anyhow.

Acceptance of each other's quirks and differences, now that is a whole other deal.  This blog has addressed that very quality many, many times largely because it's a character trait I am trying desperately to cultivate in myself, and one I hope this blog inspires in others because my daughter's life and happiness may, at least partially, depend on acceptance from the other folks who coexist on this planet.  Last night, I had the pleasure of spending many hours in the company of folks who helped me have an even deeper acceptance, nay, appreciation of our differences as people.

The ocean, or lakes, hell even a man-made pool: most of us love the water.  Maybe we don't want to swim in it, but perhaps we like to boat in the water, or simply observe the water from a stationary vantage point.  Either way, the variations depend on the time of day, the wind, the plant life growing within it, whether or not there are schools of fishing swimming beneath the surface, if it rained last night, or if there was a hurricane 500 miles away; all these factors, and more, can change its very appearance and nature on a daily, or hourly basis.  Some of us appreciate the calm, aqua blue of the Carribean, others the dark, moodiness found in New England.  There is no way in hell I'll swim in the frigid waters off the coast of California, but the balmy tides of North Caroline suit me perfectly.  I'm picking a rather trite way of explaining acceptance, but I'm proposing more than that.

We glory and revel in the spectacular variation in the waters that our Creator has sprinkled over the face of our shared home.  We don't even attempt to make broad comments about any one type of body of water because no sooner do we try to describe it when it changes, or resists our categorization.  And isn't it wondrous, truly?  I would wager that most of us can recall an image right now of a body of water that inspired awe within us.  And we would all agree that you couldn't talk me into liking your image better than I like mine no matter what. I can, however, appreciate what you like about your image, even if it's not my favorite image.

And that is what my evening at a drag show inspired in me last night.  This drag show took place at a bar that would be known to most as a "gay" bar.    This is not the first time I've frequented a gay bar and won't be my last.   I think most homosexual people are way more interesting than straight people anyway, but that's probably because I find people with challenging lives more interesting than people who have had little challenge in their lives.  Simple can sometimes be boring.  Anyway, as I waited for the show to begin, I indulged in my favorite athletic activity:  people watching.

I had the most glorious epiphany-the spectrum of human gender, sexuality and orientation is wondrous.  It's not something merely to be put up with like swallowing a very large pill so that you can get over your case of strep throat.  Some of us are middle of the road in all aspects of life, and that deserves celebration.  But others provide a variety that is not only beautiful but can teach the rest of us to rethink the definitions of masculine, feminine, straight, gay, bisexual, transgender, etc., etc., etc.  We keep trying to define it and we simply can't.  Tell my husband, on bringing flowers home to his new daughter, that mothers are primarily the tender caretakers.  Try to convince me that I am not strong as hell, fierce even, when I don my work gear and haul myself up onto a fire engine.  And if you think that I'm not feminine because I enjoy my typical "male" work, well, we can have a hot discussion about it, name the time and place.  I find the female form stunningly beautiful and on some of my worst days, I just wish I could rest my head on a warm, soft bosom, but that doesn't mean I'm a lesbian, nor does it mean a lesbian who does, or doesn't, share that sentiment isn't a lesbian.  We simply cannot adequately define what is male, or female, or gay, or bi, so let's call a truce-let's just say we stop trying to define it, even for a day, or an hour, and see how it feels.

Most of us have seen the movie, "Mrs. Doubtfire" or perhaps, "Tootsie."  In both films, there are men who dress as women to achieve a purpose, not because they felt like they were women.  In both films, the male character became a better man in observing his more womanly attributes.  And as viewers, didn't we all just love Mrs. Doubfire?  I wanted Tootsie for my best friend.  It was almost disappointing when they returned to their less dimensional male counterparts. Why is that?  Because we are our best versions of ourselves when we can be fully who we are, honoring the traditional male and female qualities no matter in whose body they dwell in or in what proportion.  In fact, in some Native American cultures, transgender people are referred to as "Two spirits" since they often are a beautiful melding of the finest of both genders. And to traffic in stereotypes for a moment, this is why I frequently am most comfortable with somewhat "effeminate"  straight or gay men, or "masculine"  women, and lesbians, because they often seem to have many of the best male and female qualities:  protectiveness,  assertiveness, forthrightness, directness, passion, tenderness, gentleness, emotional forthcomingness;  and fewer of my least favorite male and female qualities:  dominance, cattiness, aggression and subversiveness.  I am aware that I am skating on a dangerously thin line in assigning traits by gender, but my intentions are benign, and let's face it there are some differences between the genders, we just can't figure out how to label them and maybe we shouldn't even try.

I read somewhere about opposite "energies" attracting and working well in creating a healthy couple or relationship, and I decided I like that word best of all in describing people.  They are neither male, nor female, or not even homo- or heterosexual energies, just that they are opposite and therefore attract, like magnets- a natural occurrence in the natural world where there is endless variety in all species of humans, animals, plant life, sea life, weather, you name it.  And isn't it glorious?

Quoting the Beatles

So I was pondering on acceptance earlier today.  And you know what I realized?  Once again, I caught myself throwing stones at people in glass houses.  The person that has been subject to my non-acceptance is Bulldog.

Now, what the heck is that all about?  And I actually posed that question to myself in my head.  Because one would think that acceptance of a transgendered child would be infinitely more difficult than accepting one's spouse whose body and mind agree on gender, and whose only mind/body issues are comprised of high cholesterol, dyslexia and bossiness. Yet, I find life with DJ much easier than life with Bulldog on many days.  Why is that?  After all,  he's a good man so why can't I readily accept him as well as I readily accept DJ?  When I say I don't accept, I don't mean I reject him outright, rather I get readily frustrated and put out when he fails to understand me.  Or when he fails to be perfect.  Or when he fails to read my mind.  Man, Bulldog really has a lot of issues, doesn't he?  Because it can't be that I have the issues, right?

Oh for cripes sake (quoting my mother....does anyone know what "cripe" means, anyway? And is it singular or plural?  cripes or cripe's or cripes'?) we all know the answer here. The issue(s) is (are) mine.  Now, in fairness to me, Bulldog doesn't "get" me on many, many days.  He judges me occasionally, and some days it seems like he doesn't accept me, but if we use that as a defense, we can do the "I know you are, but what am I?" routine indefinitely. Besides, wasn't I the one who publicly decried, "Let peace begin with me?"  So what is my conundrum (quoting a dear friend who loves that word) anyway?

I have expectations of Bulldog, lots of 'em.  In contrast, I have a very finite number of expectations for DJ.  And the expectations I have of DJ are easy:  wake up in time for school, do your homework, clean your room occasionally.  The list of Bulldog's expectations is significantly longer, more ambiguous and more complicated.  That isn't good because:  Expectations kill.  They can kill spontaneity, love, passion, excitement, surprise and unexpectedness, practically the exact opposite of expectations.  When I catch myself having expectations, and subsequently make myself stop having expectations, even momentarily, everything about Bulldog, and my life for that matter, tickles me pink.  It's amazing actually.

And what are expectations anyway?  An example or translation of expectation could include the following thoughts:  "But I want you to be like I want you to be" or   "I want you to act like I want." or  "I want you to present in the manner that makes me comfortable."  Wow.....I, I, I.   There is an "I" in expectation, but there isn't one in acceptance.

The first time I ever went to a party with both boy and girl invitees, I was super excited. I had great expectations of having a fabulous time.  Dad encouraged me to lower the bar a bit.  My father, for the first of many times over the decades quoted his old friend Cornelius Crowley ( I swear that's his real name):  Don't have expectations, you'll only be disappointed.  Or, put another way, let it be.

The Pronoun shift

I was ruminating on the first few weeks when my husband and I, as well as DJ's aunts, brothers and grandma were all trying to make the pronoun shift, not to mention calling our new female relative by her new name.  As I lay awake in my bed before dawn today, (why the hell was I up so early after getting my butt kicked at work the day before?  Oops, that's another separate issue and violates my "one issue at a time" rule. Sorry.) I was trying to remember what led to that transition become easier.  All I can come up with is sheer repetition.

I can only liken it to muscle memory.  You know how when you do something often enough, your brain doesn't have to think about it anymore?  Your body just goes on auto pilot and does what it needs to do, responds as it needs to respond, says what it needs to say? For instance, most of us have had enough lousy days that we can no longer keep track on any of our phalanges (that would be fingers and toes for those of you who don't know and don't feel like surfing through Webster's).  And the majority of us have enough social experience to know that most people don't necessarily want to hear about our lousy day, so we can answer, by rote, "I'm doing great.  How are you?", when someone says, "Hey, how's it going?" ( I live in a small town in the south.  "Hey" is an accepted greeting, even among the educated.  And no, we don't have a piece of straw hanging out of our mouths that we must try to speak around when we say, "Hey".)

The first few months, as we were trying to use the appropriate pronoun of "she" instead of "he" it seemed like making the switch would never come readily.  Using DJ's new name wasn't too terribly difficult since it was a derivative of her given name, thank goodness.  If she'd gone from say, "Eric" to "Penelope" that would have been quite an uphill climb for my limited faculties.  But the pronouns were especially difficult because they are so blessed similar sounding and only slightly different to say; and yet, the addition, or subtraction, of the "s" to the "he" means all the difference in the world to the person to whom you are referring.

So this just popped into my head.  Almost all of us under the age of 40 have taken a keyboarding class.  Remember the first time you set eyes on a keyboard and wondered how the heck you would ever make your left index finger remember that it was responsible for typing "f", "g", "t", "r" and "b"?  Now, my body has it so memorized that I had to look at the keyboard just now to remember which letters my left index finger was able to recall, all by itself, without my thinking about it. That's muscle memory.  I'll bet within one or two months of your keyboarding class, your left index finger was able to find all of the abovementioned letters, without thinking, which even now I can't think of without having to look at the keyboard, in spite of having written about it not 30 words, or seconds ago.

That is the process that will occur when you're trying to make the pronoun shift.  And it will occur because of simple repetition. If you're worried that your transgendered loved one will be offended when you slip up, because you will slip up, don't.  If you have let the person know that you want to make the change, he or she will know that you're making your best effort;  that, in itself, is more important than anything else because it signifies your acceptance.  And there is almost nothing that a quick, but sincere apology with a rueful smile can't remedy.  If, for some reason your transgendered relative does become sensitive when you slip up, gently remind him or her that this is new for you too and that half the time you call everyone you know by the wrong name because it's part of the aging, parenting, and human process.  We've talked about having a sense of humor before.  It's integral, in this extremely fallible person's opinion.  The transgendered person must attempt to have a sense of humor, as well.  It's ok to gently and lovingly remind the person to lighten up, that you're doing your best and that you're all in this together.

Playing the hand that's dealt you

So, I've learned a couple of things this afternoon about myself, my daughter and the world. Wow-what a productive day, and it's just nearing dinnertime.

DJ and I started the day with college discussions.  She's set her sights pretty darn high and is thinking of shooting for Juilliard, of all places.  I told her we support her if she can get a scholarship, because otherwise, it may be out of our budget.  That led, in due course, to analyzing what would make her competitive with other applicants.  Her grades, standardized test scores and talent all seem pretty phenomenal to us, but we're her parents.  DJ and I talked about the advisability of mentioning her status as a transgender person, how it's affected, and even enhanced her talents, and how it makes her a unique person.  We figured, right or wrong, that it might serve as a clincher in an application process.

Fast forward a number of hours, and I'm preparing to make a phone call to the driver's ed folks (see post earlier this day) to discuss the birth certificate, legal name change paperwork that we would have to provide to enroll her in class.  The conversation went well enough:  I adopted the "breezy" tone cited in the earlier blog and told some tiny white lies meant to make him think that DJ's birth certificate was incorrect because of a medical condition that I painted to look physical (which technically it is) and mentioned that the surgery required to correct the condition would be the only way to change the birth certificate by Virginia law (which is also true).  If he wants to draw the conclusion that she was born with a congenital genital defect, strictly speaking, like some of those folks who are born with incongruous genitals, so be it.  Some people can understand that more than gender dysphoria.  I mean, after all, if a person is born with genitals that cannot be readily identified, and then is accidentally raised as the wrong gender, folks get that because the genitals gave a mixed message.  What they don't get is when the genitals give a clear, but incorrect, message.  So, I played on what I (likely correctly) assumed would be his ignorance about my kid's condition.

But, just to be sure, I decided (shamefully, mostly, but not completely) to play the MILF card.  If you don't know what a MILF is, Google it.  Now, I do not think of myself as a MILF, but a few people have convinced me that if I put plenty of time, effort and cosmetics into it, I might could be a MILF candidate, if the planets are aligned and the moon is in the seventh hour.  So, I figured if the card is in the deck, and it may help the situation, why not play it.  How would it help? Because (most straight) men are hormonally affected goobers.  If they see a woman who made a point of blow drying her hair, actually putting on make-up and high heels to make her legs look longer (and hopefully thinner) in her jeans, they are likely to do whatever the woman asks because that surge of testosterone temporarily renders them unable to think, which, at times, can be a very good thing for those people who can parlay it to their advantage.

OK-that whole, superficial, rigamorol turned out to be totally unnecessary.  Why?  Because, in the end, sometimes the almighty dollar dictates the course of action a person takes.  I don't want to steal Mr. Driver's Ed guy's thunder-maybe he just didn't care what the birth certificate said regarding gender, as long as he could prove that DJ was legally DJ.  Truthfully, he was very nonchalant about the whole affair in person, after my preparatory phone call.  Almost too nonchalant, but so what?  Maybe he's more accepting than I thought, or maybe he's a savvy enough businessman to know that $275 is $275 even if it's paid by a "one eyed episcopalion kangaroo, if that happens to be (its) kinky inclination" (stole that from the movie "Goodbye Girl").  So, kudos to the almighty dollar, in this instance.  Anyone who knows me well knows that that statement would normally never emit from my verbose mouth.  But sometimes you just gotta accept another person's motivation to do the right thing, even if it might be, technically, for the wrong reasons.  It's still the right thing.  After all, this guy is running a business in a tight economy.  He can't be choosy about his customers and whether or not they meet his idea of "normal" or "acceptable." He, too, must play the hand he's given.

And, as long as nobody gets hurt, and no laws are broken, what the hell is wrong with that?  We are not born equal.  Let me explain-we are all born equally deserving of our civil rights, but no way in hell are we born equal.  Otherwise,  why would there be people who are born smart and beautiful, while the rest of us are kind of mediocre, or worse, in one or both areas.  For instance, I was born with a decent enough figure until my 3 children ruined me, but I have godawful huge feet.  One of my sisters is  slender, with no chest whatsoever, but has cute little feet, and my other sister has a cute figure and cute feet.  Now, try to convince me we were born equal, because it ain't gonna happen.  No one told my sisters their feet were "gunboats."  So, if someone were looking for a foot model, my sisters would have the advantage, and would be smart to play their "feet" card, because, let's face it, none of us is gonna get any other modeling contract until we grow at least 6 inches in height, and even that might not convince Vogue that we would look stunning on the cover of their magazine.  I, however, would be out of luck.  But, let's say some company was looking for a person who could express every single opinion about the world, and it didn't matter how she looked or how big her feet were?  Well, naturally, I would shamelessly optimize that quality and play that card.

So, if my daughter decides to play up the fact that she was born in the wrong body, overcame that terribly unfair inequity through her own strength and perseverance and managed to still do exceedingly well in spite of, and in some ways, because of that inequity, I support her.  She's taking a risk-and when the stakes are this high, that's what card playing is all about.

Don't make it complicated

So, we are at an exceedingly awkward spot today.  This evening DJ begins her driver's education, the classroom portion.  When I spoke with the instructor he asked about her having a photo ID, or in lieu of that, a birth certificate.  Great....another conversation where I get to "educate" someone.

Don't get me wrong, I will do anything at all for DJ, but, man, do I hate these conversations.  So far, every time I've had one, it's gone well, but I still don't like it.  Part of it is my make-up as a person-I intensely dislike awkward conversations of any kind because it puts me in the driver's seat (no pun intended) for managing the conversation.  Why is that?  Well, because I tend to have the lower threshold for awkwardness, I suppose, and so I work incredibly hard to have all my feelers at the ready so that I can manipulate or guide the conversation so that it remains civil, upbeat, positive, etc.  Maybe I'm just neurotic, over-reactionary and plain old trying too hard.  But there you have it, another idiosyncratic obstacle of mine that I have to heave myself over.  But since it's for DJ, I'll do it.  Thank goodness she provides me with inspiration because otherwise I might remain in any number of my innumerable ruts forever.

When I've had these conversations, I've found what works is for me to adopt a certain tone, if you will.  I have to come across as absolutely confidant and convey to the person with whom I'm speaking that I naturally assume he or she will completely understand the situation and do his or her best to accommodate us.  It's kind of a breezy quality that I don't have in my regular, everyday life.  Maybe if I did, I'd be the president of something by now.  But, in the spirit of remaining positive, at least I can say I'm able to fake it when necessary.

I've had this talk with her primary care physician, the office manager at the dental office, her guitar instructor, the principal of her school, other health care specialists who, believe it or not, are not necessarily well versed in the transgender condition in spite of it being a disorder that is recognized by the American Medical Association.  I have a family member who is very, very educated, and even she had a thing or two to learn, by her own reckoning, not mine.  Anyway, this "breezy" quality actually works.

I didn't come up with it.  I'm neither that brilliant, nor that confidant.  However, I do like to read a lot and that was a tip I picked up from somewhere (wish I could remember where).  Oftentimes, the people with whom we share this information will subconsciously and inadvertently look to us, the speaker, the de facto educator, if you will, for cues on how to respond to our news, pronouncement, call it what you want.  If we act like it's a big hairy deal, or something to be ashamed of, or embarrassed about, they will respond accordingly.  We all tend to sort of mirror each other like that, which is one of humanity's finer qualities, in my opinion, since it is a form of empathy.  So, if I were to say, "Look, I'm really sorry, but my son is now a daughter," with a tone of exasperation, the listener may be likely to respond with a supportive-of-my-exasperation comment of, "I'm so sorry Mrs. ----.  Of course we will try to make this easier for both of you."  Which might mean that they'll be nice to me, but continue to treat her like a him.

But, when I say something like, "I know our child has been coming to guitar lessons as "JD" but he is actually a she.  She has a gender identity disorder called Gender Dysphoria-the classic girl stuck in a boy's body scenario.  So, we are supporting her and just wanted to let you know that she goes by "DJ" now and will be presenting as DJ. We don't expect people to understand her condition, only to treat her respectfully by calling her by her name and using the correct pronoun. But please don't worry if you slip up, because what DJ, or we, care about is that you try."  And the trick is to sound as if you assume they will have no problem with accommodating your request.  Either they will be happy to do so because they think of themselves as cooperative, caring and educated people and want to convey that to you, or they will react completely inappropriately, at which point you sever the relationship.

Man, I made that sound so simple.  Well, it's not easy to do, but it is truly that simple.  Now, I just need to remember that because I've got a phone call to make to the driver's ed people.  Wish me luck :)

Saving grace

I was thinking about parents who might be new to this journey this morning.  In spite of our having come so far, I don't want to lead parents into thinking this was a breeze.  Just because I tend to take a somewhat lighthearted view in this blog does not mean the trek was lighthearted in any way.  I try to be humorous to take the edge off but perhaps that is being insensitive.  Hindsight is a wonderful thing because you're coming from the perspective of "everything worked out in the end", but when you're in the middle, you really don't want to hear that.  You just want someone to say, "Yup, it's damn hard."

We want to gloss over how hard it is for us because we don't want our kids to think we have regrets.  And we don't have regrets any more than the parents whose toddler is throwing the mother of all tantrums in the middle of the grocery story.  It completely sucks being in that position, but it's not like most of us throw our hands in the air and say, "I give up.  You're going back."  Some sad parents do that, but most of us stick it out because we love our children and when our children act like little individuals with minds and wills all their own, we don't give up on them just because they're driving us nuts.  And that is certainly true with trans kids too.  We want to particularly protect them from knowing about our stresses as parents to them because they have already experienced more stress than the average kid; for one, they've had to be so closeted for a significant portion of their lives, and, after all, they are inhabiting foreign bodies.

So let's get down to the brass tacks: the first hours, days, week and months of DJ's transition were simultaneously hellish with some occasional wonderful thrown in.  Why hellish?  Well, the worry is overwhelming, for one.  It colors everything you do, everything you think about.  You become a bit furtive and paranoid because you feel more prepared to protect your kid if you assume everyone is looking cross eyed at her.  I read that sentence and realize how schizo it sounds, but there you have it, nonetheless.  That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.

The worry is all-encompassing; it made me feel physically ill.  Everything hurt-my back was killing me.  My knees hurt.  I started getting headaches.  And I felt exhausted.  It took a couple of months before I realized that I felt like I was reliving my experiences of mothering small children.  It had been so many years since my kids needed me that much, that I had become spoiled.  I had become soft once all my kids had hit puberty.  While that stage of development certainly has its own challenges, let's face it, at least we don't have to worry about helping with body functions and feeding and we can be reasonably certain that the kids won't run into the streets without looking both ways first.   Until puberty, or thereabouts, you are "on" all the time, even in your sleep.  Your mommy and daddy ears are fine tuned 24/7 for anything that sounds unusual so you can spring to the ready at a moment's notice.

Then your kid doesn't need your help in the bathroom anymore and they sleep through the night or can manage their own bad dreams without you, and, well, yeah, you definitely get "soft."  Until they come out and then you are thrust back into the stage of more active parenting again.  I didn't resent it at all, I was just not conditioned for it anymore.  I had to recondition myself but this time I was much older and it was harder getting back in the saddle.  All those physical pains were a result of my emotional stress. I felt like we had major catching up to do.

In addition to being a paramedic/firefighter, I'm an educator.  I think it's in the genes, or I just like to hear myself talk, especially when the people I'm talking to aren't allowed to shut me up.  I felt an overwhelming urge to "teach" my new daughter all that she had missed out on while being raised as a boy.  Let's face it, being a woman in this man's world isn't for the feint of heart and I had to help DJ be ready to face the world as a second class citizen.  There's a trick to it, but geez, it took me decades to figure it out and now I had to offer DJ a crash course.

And DJ needed her parents in a way that most 15 year olds don't.  We were honored and glad and wanted to be there for her, but I'd gotten "soft" in that area too.  I would have welcomed cuddling from any of my kids, it's just that once they got to about age 10, none of them were that interested.  Now, suddenly, DJ was very interested.  I think she needed it.  I'd forgotten what it was like to have your physical presence and touch be needed so much.  I'd forgotten how the act of giving can really be physically hard.

I regret or begrudge none of it.  I'm just stating a fact that it was just plain hard.  And the "hardness" of it manifested in how I felt physically, which is to say I felt like $---.  I was exhausted.  And to be honest, I'm not even sure how Bulldog felt because I was so consumed with how DJ was feeling, and how I was feeling related to how she was feeling, that checking in with how Bulldog was feeling was more than I could manage on many days.  I just didn't have enough inner resources to check his emotional pulse many days.  That's the truth of the matter-we all were stretched pretty thin.

So, if you're feeling stretched pretty thin yourself, hang in there.  It's part of the process and you will come out whole on the other side, believe it or not.  We're irreverent as hell in this house, which helped me tremendously.  If you can laugh at yourself and each other, it will help dispel some of those dark, tiring days where the worry just grinds you down.  I mean, when you and your daughter are getting caught up in the angst about how to fill out a bathing suit top properly without giving away your secrets, you have to laugh at imagining one of your "tools" popping out if you get knocked over by a wave at the beach.  What else can you do?    The situation that your child was born into and has now been thrust upon you is not going to go away.  And really, the absurdity and unfairness are so grotesque, it's almost comical because it's the stuff of ridiculous books of fiction that you can pick up at the used book store for a quarter because no one finds the story even remotely believable; except it is believable because it's your life.  And more importantly, it's her life.  So pick yourself up, dust yourself off and poke fun at yourself and the situation.  It's serious enough as it is without you making it more so.  Try to see the funny.  Some days it may be your only saving grace.

Par for the course

I am a cranky wench when I come off of my 24 hour shift.  Well, not every single time I come off of my shift, but every time we have a busy night, which is quite often.  But it was a Saturday morning and I was looking forward to crawling immediately into my bed and sleeping until Bulldog and DJ got back from her piano lesson close to lunchtime.

Until Bulldog informed me he'd made other plans.  Since I've promised myself that I will only go on one neurotic rampage at a time in this blog, we will not address Bulldog's wrongdoing here.  The poor man has heard enough from me on that subject, and since he occasionally reads this blog, I will not subject him to further shrewish kvetching.  I managed to grab a quick cat nap before DJ and I headed out for her piano lesson.

I was rueing the fact that I had acted in the aforementioned shrewish way, so in an effort to not repeat that mistake with another family member, I attempted to make small talk with DJ.  I asked a benign question about I don't even remember what, and she answered me in a snippy fashion.  I continued to attempt small talk thinking perhaps I had misinterpreted her tone, when she answered in the same manner.  I asked her what was wrong and she replied, after a whopping 2 minutes in my presence, "I don't know, you're just getting on my nerves."

OK-were I to have lost my temper here, I could only have pled temporary insanity due to lack of sleep, but to my credit, I didn't lose my temper.  I did, however, remind her that I was giving up sleep to get her where she needed to go and the last thing in the entire world I needed was to hear that I was getting on her nerves when:  a)  I'm cranky as all hell and b) I'm trying to be nice as I fight my crankiness and get her to her lesson when really I'd rather be SLEEPING, AND SHE'S BEING RUDE!

We regrouped pretty quickly, no harm, no major foul, but on thinking back on this incident, I realize this altercation was a good thing.  And yes, I've since gotten caught up on my sleep, so I'm not hallucinating when I say her snippiness (or mine, for that matter) is a good thing.  This mother/daughter tension or occasional conflict is as it's supposed to be.  When our sons were this age, they were butting heads with Bulldog, but they butt heads with me far less frequently.  Bulldog and DJ rarely butt heads either.

So why is this good?  Well, on retrospect, having nearly a year and a half of DJ gracing us with her presence (I say that with a smirk because sometimes I think she would have us call her "highness" if she seriously thought she could get away with it) I've come to realize the kid is relaxing into herself.  She's been so busy adjusting and transitioning, and was initially so excited about the process, that she was either super cuddly, because now she was free to be that way, or just so slap happy to be able to be her true self that she was HAPPY. ALL. THE. TIME for the first few months.  Not a bad thing at all, but seriously, who can be that way every waking second.  And if she were, that would be a red flag anyway.

So, I've decided that this typical teenage girl snippiness that I, primarily, am subject to is so blessed typical and, dare I say, "normal" (I don't usually dig that word) for a teenage girl, that I'm going to embrace it!!!  OK, that's crap.  I'm not going to embrace it, but I am going to look on it benignly.  Because when a teenage girl acts like a teenage girl, because she finally can, it's a good thing.