It was one of those hot days that precedes summer, when the lingering chill of winter fades from memory, making me acutely aware of the heat. In a couple of months, I’d look back on this moment with longing as I face the sweltering days of summer. It’s reminiscent of a mother watching her toddler and wishing for them to walk or talk faster, only to later yearn for the simplicity of those early years.
The sounds of children playing outside filled the air—shouts, giggles, and the occasional shriek wafting through the open screen door, infusing our home with a lively spirit. It certainly felt like summer.
“I am not! Shut up!”
Then came an uneasy silence, followed by laughter that felt sharp and mocking, a tone that sent a shiver down my spine. I knew instinctively that whatever had transpired wasn’t going to end well.
I heard the rapid footsteps on the pavement, followed by the familiar sound of the screen door slamming shut. Soon, I was met with muffled sobs emanating from my son, who had buried his face against the table.
“What happened? What’s wrong?” I asked, my tone suggesting that I already knew the answer.
“He called me fat,” he replied, the words echoing hollowly against the wood. The impact of those words felt like stones sinking in water, each one weighed down by the pain only a child can comprehend.
Someone had called my son fat.
First came the anger. Who would do such a thing? How dare they? I thought of the parents who raised that child and wondered if they understood the weight of such words. Then, an overwhelming sense of shame washed over me. I recalled my childhood—being taunted and ridiculed with names like “Fatso” and “Pammy Pumpkin Poop.” Those scars still lingered, shaping my struggles with body image and self-worth.
I remember the pain of being chosen last for sports, feeling the weight of judgment as I sat at the lunch table with a Cheez Whiz sandwich that had been the subject of ridicule. A moment meant for joy turned into embarrassment, as laughter echoed in my ears long after the incident.
Yet, I felt a fierce protectiveness surge within me. No one should be allowed to make my child feel degraded or ashamed.
In that moment, I looked at my son and said with conviction, “You are not fat—you must know that. It’s not right for anyone to say that to another person.” He nodded, still hiding his face, but the intensity of his sobs had eased.
Then, unexpectedly, a strange feeling arose within me—a mix of joy and relief. My son had been called fat, a typical schoolyard insult, but still, it made me feel oddly pleased. Why was that?
My son, assigned female at birth, transitioned six months ago, and I had closely monitored every slight directed at him since. I had listened to his stories of bullying, the taunts of being “weird” or “creepy.” I had learned how to navigate these difficult conversations with school officials while maintaining his privacy.
I’d witnessed parents pull their children closer as we passed, as if my son were contagious, fearful that their child might ask questions that their understanding couldn’t answer. I had even heard of kids being removed from activities in which my son participated, without any reasonable explanation.
I’d scanned faces—coaches, teachers, and officials—for any sign of bias, any indication of discrimination against my son. I lived in a constant state of anxiety about the possibility of him being outed or bullied in a manner far more damaging than being called fat.
I rushed him repeatedly to the doctor, worried about his symptoms that seemed unrelenting. Each time, I faced the frustration of being told everything was normal. I longed for something concrete, something I could address directly rather than the vague fears that loomed over us.
I’ve often found myself awake at night, going through all the potential names my son could be called—terrible, hurtful labels that ignorant individuals might use. I cried at the thought of a day when he could not simply run outside and blend in with other boys, fearing the moment his body would betray him.
What would I do when the time came to confront a bully who wouldn’t just call him fat, but use a transphobic slur? The thought filled me with dread.
But in that moment, I felt a strange sense of gratitude. He was called fat, not something far more damaging. In that instant, I wanted to celebrate that he was simply called fat.
Soon, we would march outside together, seeking the apology that was rightfully his. He would return to playing with his friends as if nothing had happened. The day would close beautifully, with the sun setting and fireflies beginning to flicker.
For now, he had only been called fat. But I feared what names he would eventually face.
Conclusion
In conclusion, the complexities of parenting a transgender child come with unique challenges and fears. However, moments of unexpected joy can arise, reminding us of the resilience of our children and the importance of advocacy. As parents, we must continue to stand by our children, ensuring they feel loved and supported in a world that can often be unkind. For more information on navigating these experiences, consider visiting reputable resources such as the CDC for guidance on pregnancy and overall health.