National Coming Out Day

Flags, signs and rainbows abound at the downtown Fort Myers "Coming Out for Equality" Event

A week or so ago, I had promised to use my Facebook status message to further National Coming Out Day, today. But then it occurred to me: family members read my Facebook. People I knew in my small-town high school read my Facebook. Many of these people don’t know I’m bisexual. This also led me to consider the fact that this blog is public, and its link is published on my resume whenever I apply for a writing-related position.

But then, isn’t that what Coming Out Day is for? My close friends and family have known for almost ten years now. I came out for the first time about twelve years ago, when I finally realized what denial I’d been putting myself through for so very long. There are parts of my family – my own father, even – who would be less than understanding, or perhaps just write it off as unimportant because, after all, I married a man in the end, right? *eyeroll* As for future employers, yes, it is a risk. But do I want to work for someone who would reject me for what I express here?

I did, in the end, set my status accordingly. And I went off to church, wearing my rainbow tie-dye shirt. At this point, I was still waffling as to whether or not I should attend the Coming Out For Equality event happening post-church, but I was leaning towards not going. Until, that is, one of our speakers got up and told her story. There were hints of my own history there, particularly how we kept our true selves buried for so very long, well beyond the concept of denial. I knew then, I needed to be at the protest/rally/gathering, or whatever you want to call it. Her speech cried out to me, called me to action, and inspired me to face my fears.

"The Sky Didn't Fall on New England." One of my very favorite signs from Coming Out for Equality, depicting a lesbian wedding in MA.

Those who know me well will likely be impressed by this, knowing that I went to the event without my husband and child. I don’t go places by myself, without someone I know very well. But I did, today. I caught a ride with an acquaintance from church, while O brought the Bug home for his afternoon nap.

Not only did I come out on the Internet and come out for equality, I also came out of my shell.

A Beautiful Smile to Hide the Pain

my Gramma on her 88th birthday

On Saturday, the beautiful woman pictured here turned 88 years old. It was also on Saturday that I told her about our moving plans. As is her way, she took it in stride. She asked when we were leaving, and if she would see me again before we go. (She won’t, sadly.) When we left, she told me she’d miss me, and made me promise (as if this was necessary!) to write to her, lots.

So many of the traits I value in my own personality are direct tributes to my Gramma. Like her, I have an amazing ability to be strong for other people. It isn’t until later, when I’m alone, that I break down. Until then, I am the shoulder, the rock, making sure everyone else is taken care of first.

This “ability” (because frankly, it is sometimes as much a curse as a blessing) came into play later in that same day, when I had to also say goodbye to my mom. Mom and I have a rocky history, but we’ve moved past any darkness into a place of comfort, closeness, and companionship – much like her relationship with Gramma, I like to think. Before I left Ithaca for Rochester, we would spend our days off from work together. Since 2001, our visits have been less frequent – roughly once a month or so – but we speak by phone every week. And it broke my heart to see her crying there in the parking lot as we parted. But I didn’t shed a tear until I pulled away, driving down Route 13 with my husband next to me and our son in the backseat.

I wonder if it was the same for Gramma, after we left her room that afternoon.

Separation Anxiety (Mine, That Is)

I know I can’t always be there for my son, but I didn’t necessarily expect that it would happen for the first time when he’s only 20 months old.

You see, part of this new adventure of ours is going to involve leaving Buggie with O’s parents for several days while we fly back up here, collect the remainder of the stuff that is coming with us, put the rest in storage, and make the 2-3 day drive back down to FL. Note that I’ve only ever been away from him even as long as overnight, once.

I’m worried that something will happen – he’ll get sick, or fall and hurt himself, or … something worse that I don’t even want to think about. I’m worried that in some way, he’ll need me and I won’t be there.

L on Merry-Go-Round, July 2009

L’s first playground fall, July 2009

I’m worried that he’ll suddenly decide to have separation anxiety for the first time in his life.

Or that he’ll have trouble sleeping. (Not exactly an unheard of event around here. He takes after me, that way.)

I don’t know what to do about weaning. I’d hoped he would wean himself by now, but it hasn’t worked out that way. He only nurses once a day, and only when he sees me for the first time in the morning, so I don’t think it’ll be a problem for him while we’re gone. But if he doesn’t wean between now and then, I’m not sure what to do. Will I have to refind and take my pump and bottles (after some 8 months of not using them), so I can pump while we’re apart, in case the separation doesn’t force weaning? Do I have to just force weaning myself, between now and then? I really don’t know, and I could use some advice on this one.

I’m also worried about what all this chaos (and the inevitable mild spoiling of doting grandparents) is going to do to the routines we’ve worked so hard to foster. I anticipate writing up a huge list of things, including his schedule, to give to my in-laws (and hope they don’t think I’m an overprotective mom, but I think they’ll understand – especially since their other daughter-in-law is stricter with schedules than we are, so they’re probably used to it). But even with that, we’re going to probably have a good 2-3 weeks where things are just going to be “different.” Nana and Grappa with be with us until the end of August. I don’t expect that we’ll be able to fully settle into our (temporary) new life until after they’ve gone. (And of course, we’ll get to do a lot of it all over again when we find a place of our own, particularly if we don’t stay in FL… but that’s another blog post all its own, later.)

The fact is, as my mother-in-law and I just discussed … this is likely going to be harder for me than for him. I don’t quite know how to cope with being away from him for five whole days.  (Nor, to be totally honest, how to cope with moving so far away from my mommy, but that too is it’s own separate issue.)

Coping Quiet

Buggie with his favorite "uncle"

This morning I woke up to startling news about a dear friend’s health.  It’s one of those situations which could be nothing, or could be very serious.  Only time (and likely a barrage of tests) will tell which it will be.  This man is the husband of one of my best friends, and has slowly become a friend of mine in his own right over the years.  He is also incredibly close to Buggie.

I told O about it as I was driving him to work today.  The rest of the drive passed in relative silence – a rarity around these parts, let me assure you.  When questioned, O said he was thinking about M.  It made me realize that I … mostly wasn’t.  Not because I don’t care, but because I do. That’s how I cope with things – I put them to the back of my mind until I can fully process how to cope with it.  I skip immediately into denial/distraction, moving along with life as if I hadn’t heard what I heard, until I can’t any longer.

My Gramma

This actually seems to be something of a family trait.  It’s not only a matter of self-preservation and pride, but also of strength.  There are a couple of us in the family – most notably myself and my Gramma – who have taken it upon ourselves to be The Strong Ones.  It isn’t a matter of stoicism, nor of hiding our emotions.  I’m absolutely no good at that; my face and eyes betray me, every time.  It’s just a matter of putting our own feelings on the back burner while others may need us to be strong.  For example, when my mother calls me with any kind of difficult news, I tend not to react right away.  I get through the phone call, hang up, and only then do the tears come.  She doesn’t need my pain to make hers all the worse.

Mind you, it’s not by any means a conscious decision.  Sometimes, I wish it didn’t work the way it does for me.  I would be able to heal faster, if I didn’t delay my pain.  I know this, but my brain seems to not be wired that way.  Instead, I grieve after the fact.  I panic when the danger has gone.  I cry when everyone else’s tears have dried.

“Hanging” on to Memories

Laundry seems a strange thing to be nostalgic about.  Yet there I was today, out in my backyard (by which I mean the postage-stamp-sized lot in back of the duplex in which I rent), hanging my first load(s) of laundry for this season, and remembering.

Buggie outside at 4 1/2 months

Last spring and summer when I would go outside, it took numerous trips.  I needed to get the laundry, a blanket, some toys, and then finally the baby.  I would put him on the blanket in the shade with his toys while I hung the laundry, and he would just stay there.  He would sometimes play with the toys, but he was also just content to watch the world go by around him.  He loved the change of scenery.  When the laundry was hung, the whole process was reversed – baby inside, then the blanket and toys.  (The laundry would stay put, obviously.)  In the spring, he was only just rolling over.  By summer, he could sit up, but crawling wouldn’t come for a while yet.

Me at 31 weeks pregnant

Let’s back up by another year, then.  Two summers ago, I was pregnant.  As the weather got warmer and warmer, I got bigger and bigger.  I remember the unique challenges in hanging maternity clothes because the seams don’t line up quite the same way as they do in regular clothes.  I remember the end of summer, when I received my first lot of hand-me-down baby clothes.  I washed them and hung those outside as well.  It made me smile to see those tiny garments on my clothesline.  Burpcloths, receiving blankets, and tiny, tiny little clothes.  We never had any “newborn” sizes, which was just fine.  At 8 pounds and 5 ounces and 21 inches long, Buggie would never have fit into them anyway.

Buggie at 16 months old

This year, I have neither a growing belly, nor a tiny little baby.  Now I have a toddler.  Today, he came outside with me again.  This time, we didn’t have the blanket, but we still had toys.  I didn’t have to carry him out to the backyard; he walked there himself.  I couldn’t just park him in the shade because he’s so very mobile, which meant being sure he was slathered with sunblock and wearing a hat.  Today, he kept me company as I hung up our clothes – his (which keep getting bigger!), his daddy’s, and my own.  He “helped” by taking the clothes out of the basket, and either handing them to me or (more often) dropping them on the ground next to it.  Once or  twice, he started to wander off, but mostly he stayed right nearby, finding his own amusements.

By next summer, I expect even more changes.  By then, we hope to have bought and moved into our own home.  Perhaps I’ll have returned to the workforce and Buggie will be in daycare.  Will we be expecting baby #2 then?  What changes will be shown on 2010’s clotheslines?

The Camouflage Sweatshirt

L in his camo shirt

Today, my son is wearing his camouflage sweatshirt. It was a baby shower gift; my family was smart and gave us various sizes of clothing instead of just the small sizes. My husband thinks this shirt is adorable, and was eager for Buggie to wear it the first time. I, on the other hand, was hesitant. He has only worn the shirt twice because while I agree that it is adorable on him, it also represents much more to me than just a cute baby boy.

I grew up in a hunting family. My father hunted when I was a child. I remember many conversations with him about how uncomfortable it made me, and I remember him explaining to me how hunting helps keep the deer from getting overpopulated and killing each other even more brutally. Logically, I came to understand this perspective, but emotionally it was still troubling. I’m sure this is colored by the fact that I also don’t much care for venison, so deer hunting was of little personal benefit to me. Still, these conversations are a large chunk of my childhood memories of my dad.

Eventually my father gave up hunting, but I still have uncles and cousins who seem to live for the autumn and winter months when they can set up tree-stands, dress in greens and browns (or oranges and blacks, depending whether it’s bow season or gun season, of course), and wait for a set of antlers to wander by. These are not relatives with whom I have a close relationship. There are too many things on which we will never, ever see eye-to-eye. You see, I am very liberal, and this section of my family is very … not. Our opinions on politics, homosexuality, and racial issues have led me to either bite my tongue entirely, or leave the room when these subjects get mentioned. Family gatherings have never seemed the right place to cause a scene, after all.

Please note that I am not claiming there is a direct correlation between hunting and closed-mindedness in general. This is specific only to my own experience within my own family and childhood. Having said that, the connection is very strong. Camouflage patterns trigger the memories of all I have sought to escape from my background. Mind you, I do own one or two garments in camo-print fabrics myself, and those items have never made me feel the way Buggie’s toddler-sized sweatshirt does. Perhaps it’s the difference in colors. Or maybe it’s the realization that he is inheriting the history I have left behind me, and the fear of him growing up with that kind of negativity. If it’s the latter, I suppose that’s just more impetus to educate him about diversity and about animal kindness. He will grow up to make his own decisions about the world around him. I can only hope his mind stays open.

The Definition of Family

Any pet lover will tell you the same thing – the furry (or scaly, or whatever) ones are just as much members of their family as the furless bipeds. I am a cat person, and I have always referred to my cats as my babies. When I was pregnant I even had a dream that interpreted that literally, as I was strapping my eldest cat into a baby seat in the car.

Once my son was born, though, I realized that there is a line to be drawn. Twice in the fourteen months since his birth, my husband and I have had to make the impossible choice between two members of our family. Once was over the summer, when we had to rehome one of our cats due to his unsanitary tracking habits. The other was yesterday. The following is excerpted from my personal journal:

He hid under the dining room table and hissed. And growled. At everyone. Including us. So we decided it best to shut him upstairs, where he would be able to relax, and wouldn’t scare (or God forbid) hurt anyone. (Note: before tonight, he’s never actually attacked anyone unless he was absolutely cornered, and even then it’s been rare.) So O took him upstairs, growling, hissing, etc. And he just … freaked out. O got him past the baby gate, and he broke free and barreled into the gate, knocking it down. I’m a little fuzzy on everything that happened from there, but it took at least 45 minutes… and O got attacked. As in, his hand has a ton of puncture wounds and scratches, despite having Sage wrapped in a blanket (because that was the ONLY way he could get hold of him – he tried for a LONG time before that).

Eventually Sage got closed upstairs (on the third floor), and M helped clean O up and bandage his hand. And we made the most difficult decision we’ve ever had to make as cat-owners. We had to call animal control.

The fact of the matter is, as much as we love Sage, he was a danger to us, to our friends and their children, and to Buggie. This was not the first time he had reacted that way, but it was certainly a stronger reaction than we had seen in the past. We simply could not risk it happening again.

However, Sage was my baby. O and I have had him since a month after we started dating, and he’s been a constant companion for all these years. I am nothing short of heartbroken at having lost him, and have spent the past 27 hours questioning what I could possibly have done differently over the past eight years, to have achieved a different outcome. Obviously, though, there is no way for me to know the answer to that question. Was it because of his unstable kittenhood and the multiple moves we had to make when he was small? Did someone hurt him when I was not there to see or to stop it? Or was this going to happen no matter what, and only the specific place and time uncertain?

There are countless unanswerable questions in my head, mingling with the guilt and sadness I feel. I know O and I made the best decision we could for our family. Our responsibility as parents dictated that the line be drawn to ensure our son’s safety. Does this change my definition of the word “family” to exclude the feline persuasion? No, I think that if it did, the decision would not have been so difficult, and my heart would not be so heavy.

Buggie petting Sage

Just say “no.”

"No."

Such a tiny word, “no,” and yet one of the most difficult to actually get past my lips. Sometimes, it’s a fear of disappointing someone, or a desire to be accepted/included. And still other times, I just want to be the good friend/daughter/whatever, and not be the “bad guy,” or party-pooper.

Before Christmas this year, I mentioned to my husband that I wanted some new socks in some interesting (read: not black/white) colors. He obliged and got me a three pack of various shades of brown/tan. Then on Christmas Day itself, my aunt offered me some hand-me-down socks as well, which I thought was great. Upon looking at her collection, however, I found that they were almost entirely black socks. Did I politely explain that I have a lot of black socks already? No. I took the socks home to my already-crowded drawer because I didn’t want her to think I was being difficult or fussy or ungrateful. (That said, today I discovered that one pair was the comfiest and warmest blue socks ever. But I digress…) Thinking about it, the same thing happened with the same aunt a few months ago when she and my grandmother were giving me hand-me-down earrings shortly after I’d gotten my ears pierced. In that case I did refuse some of their choices, but then agonized about it for weeks afterwards.

The same often happens when I make plans. I have a long history of agreeing to something, and then backing out at the last minute. In the past, I would often make a lame excuse – usually illness-based – to get out of it. I’m more honest these days than I was in my younger years, and also more reliable. I’m not necessarily as likely to actually cancel the plans, but more likely to fret about them, especially if I have too much going on at once. Instead of looking at a crowded calendar and bowing out, I will add that “just one more thing” to my agenda, and end up feeling overwhelmed. I got to the point a few years ago where I stopped making plans altogether, forcing my dear husband to handle all our social engagements because it was just too stressful. Only recently have I begun to rebalance the scale, but I still hate being put on the spot about such things. It’s just too uncomfortable when I have to – or worse, if I just want to – say no.

I am learning to live my life for myself, and that I cannot always be everything everyone wants me to be. At least some of the time, I am able to say “no,” but only with an explanation. Perhaps as time goes on, and as I get more accustomed to the word, I’ll be able to use it all on its own, without feeling that I need to explain.