It was that kind of sweltering day that hints at the impending summer, the sort that makes you forget just how hot it can get after a long winter. In just two months, I’d be shaking my head at my earlier sentiment. It’s like how a mom of a toddler wishes her baby would just hurry up and walk, or how a mom of a teenager reminisces about those blissfully simple toddler days. The cycle of parenting is relentless.
The sounds of children playing drifted through the open window, laughter mingling with shouts, filling our home with a vibrant energy that screams summer.
“I’m not! Be quiet!”
The laughter that followed was sharp, a mocking tone that sent a chill down my spine. I could feel the familiar instinct kick in—the kind of intuition that most mothers have. Whatever was happening outside, it was bound to end in tears.
Suddenly, I heard the unmistakable sound of sneakers pounding on pavement, followed by the screen door slamming shut, and my son’s muffled sobs as he buried himself against the table.
“What happened? What’s wrong?” I asked, my voice firm, but the insistence in it was clear: nothing should be wrong.
“He called me fat.” The words fell from his lips like stones, heavy with the weight of a pain only a seven-year-old could comprehend.
He called my child fat.
Initially, I felt a surge of anger. Who would do such a thing? Who raised that kid? Have they no understanding that calling someone fat, in any context, is simply unacceptable? Then came the shame. I remembered my own childhood taunts—names like “Chubby Cheeks” and “Pammy Pumpkin.” I still carry those scars, grappling with body image issues and self-esteem. I recall being the last picked for games, and the feeling of dread when I realized my lunch of a Cheez Whiz sandwich had been sabotaged—everyone else found it hilarious, but I was crushed.
Those mocking laughs still echo in my mind decades later. I walked to the office, Cheez Whiz staining my clothes, tears streaming down my face.
But as I experienced that rage again, it was mixed with a fierce desire to protect. No one would make my child feel that kind of shame. Not on my watch.
Yet anger doesn’t linger long for me. I remember the look of disappointment on friends’ faces when I wore something too tight, their well-meaning suggestions that I try something different. That feeling of inadequacy settled in—of not being enough. Now, my extraordinary child, who is so far from fat, was subjected to the same hurtful labels.
“You are not fat—you need to understand that,” I told him firmly. “It is absolutely wrong for anyone to say such things to another person.”
His head nodded, still hidden in his arms, but the sobs were quieter now.
Then something unexpected welled up within me, a mix of joy and relief. He called my son fat—just another typical schoolyard jab, like calling someone “four-eyes” or “big-nosed.” For a fleeting moment, I felt a strange sense of gratitude; this was not the worst thing someone could call him.
What was wrong with me?
My son was assigned female at birth and transitioned six months prior. I’ve been hyper-aware of every slight aimed at him. I’ve sat in therapy, listening to stories of bullying—kids shoving him, mocking him for being different. I’ve learned to navigate the school system to protect him without drawing attention to his struggles.
I’ve seen parents clutch their children tighter as we pass, fearful that their kids might ask questions or, worse, identify with my son. I’ve heard whispers of kids being pulled from activities he enjoys, no explanations given. I’ve scanned the faces of coaches and teachers for signs of bias or misunderstanding.
I’ve rushed my child to the doctor repeatedly, concerned about his physical pain and emotional distress, only to be told everything is normal. Yet I craved a definitive answer, something tangible to address—something like a typical childhood insult, like being called fat.
I’ve spent sleepless nights worrying about all the hurtful names my son could face throughout his life. I grieve for the day he won’t be able to play with the neighborhood kids without the fear of his identity being revealed. I dread the moment when a bully might hurl a transphobic slur instead of just calling him fat.
The names he wasn’t called filled me with unexpected happiness. He was called fat, and for that, I was relieved.
Soon, we would step outside to confront the child who hurt him. Soon, he would return to playing, as if the incident had never tainted his joy. The sun would set, fireflies would come out, and the day would end as beautifully as it had begun.
Eventually, the harsh names would come, but for today, he was just a kid who was called fat—and that was enough.
For more insights into the journey of parenting, check out this other blog post on Cervical Insemination. If you’re considering home insemination options, Make a Mom offers reliable kits to help you along the way. For comprehensive information on genetics and IVF, Genetics and IVF Institute is an excellent resource.
In summary, the journey through parenting, particularly with a transgender child, is fraught with challenges—yet moments of unexpected joy can emerge from the simplest of situations.
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