A Dad By Any Other Name

…would still smell just as sweaty after karate class.

What’s in a name? In a way, not that much. Whatever I’m called, it doesn’t change the fact that I hug my kid before she gets on the school bus each morning, that I read her bedtime stories while she snuggles up to me, that I take her to the playground and the library, I bandage her boo-boos and make sure she brushes her teeth and eats her vegetables, I go watch her dance recital and I go with her to “Daddy and Me” karate class the day before Fathers’ Day.

Wait, what?

Yes, I went to Daddy and Me class with my daughter.

And at least once during class, she called me “Mommy.”

Names mattered a whole lot at that moment.

I had ended up there kind of by surprise, or accident. When “Mommy and Me” classes happened back in May, I thought regretfully that I probably wouldn’t be able to attend the dads’ version this year. I’d be too obviously trans, or more likely, be perceived as a butch woman. I wouldn’t fit in. I’d get weird looks and embarrassing questions. It would have to wait, I thought, till next year, when I’m much more likely to be perceived as male.

And then when the date of the Daddy and Me classes was announced, I realized it was the same day as a wedding we were to attend, and I’d have to work that day as well, so we wouldn’t be able to make it anyway. I was simultaneously disappointed and relieved.

But as it turned out, the end of the week arrived and Iz had only gone to class once (she is supposed to go twice a week). So my mom and I arranged that I would take Iz to class, and my mom would pick her up so that I could go straight to work from there.

And as we were going out the door, I remembered that it was day of the Daddy and Me classes.

So knowing full well what Iz would say, I asked her if she wanted me to join her for class. After all, I started her in karate so that we could bond, and that was just what this class was for.

Her eyes lit up.

Anyway, if I could play it off as my kid’s idea, that gave me an excuse. “I know, i don’t look like most people’s idea of a daddy yet, but my kid really wanted me to take class with her, so what could I do?” *shrug, smile, keep doing what I’m doing*

As it turned out, no one said anything, not even when Iz called me mommy. Well, one of the other dads did say, “Looks like you’re experienced at this,” when I did some super fast blocking during one drill. But nothing about gender. Nothing implying  I shouldn’t be there.

I started out class a nervous wreck. And I was relieved when it was over – as much for getting through class in somewhat restrictive pants as for not getting any flak for being in the “wrong place.” But I also felt accomplished. I had made it clear – to that small group of parents and students in the dojo that morning, anyway – that I was dad, that I was male. Even though some people still look at me and think I’m Iz’s mom. Even though Iz still calls me “Mom” a lot of the time.

When it’s just between her and me, it really doesn’t matter a bit what she calls me. I am myself; I am not the label. How I treat her doesn’t change, other than that I’m embracing my masculine style of parenting more now, but that’s a result of accepting myself and my identity, and not of the label itself. I don’t even receive the right label that often when it comes to parenting, and in fact haven’t even settled on one yet. I just do my thing.

But parenting is a very gendered sport, and nothing makes this clearer than the Hallmark holidays we have for binary gendered parents. Mothers’ Day is only for female parental figures, and Fathers’ Day is one for male ones. For transgender parents, it’s a territory fraught with the mines of potential questioning and rejection or even derision or harassment, and the anxiety and dysphoria that can bring on. And for parents who identify outside the binary, neither holiday may feel right, as I brought up last month.

Ideas of who can raise children have expanded remarkably in recent years, as the awesome book Families, Families, Families! goes to show. It isn’t until page 16 of this picture book that the example “Some kids have a mom and a dad,” is given, after two dads, just mom, grandparents, and so on. But even so, the labels stay the same. Moms. Dads. You’re one or the other. There’s no allowance for being in between, whether it’s because you’re in transit from one or the other, or camping out there indefinitely.

I’m not saying we should deny mothers and fathers and refuse those names. But some flexibility would be nice. I haven’t yet figured out whether “Dad” is a name that fits, and I can’t seem to get Iz to call me anything other than “Mommy” for very long. (Yesterday she called me “Fa-fa” – short for “Father” – for a little while, but then switched back to Mommy later.) I know that some trans people make up their own parental titles (and I’ve tried that), and some feel fine sticking with the title of their previous gender (but I don’t think I like that, at least not in public, at least not at this time).

I was lucky, though. In spite of my own uncertainty, my non-cis-male appearance, and my daughter’s flagrant, public misgendering, I was able to take that karate class with my kid without any negative response, and on Fathers’ Day itself, my amazing girlfriend took me out to brunch, and I got Fathers’ Day wishes from my kid’s aunt and supportive friends. I got to have my day, even if I was among those doubting whether it really was mine.

And now, for 364 more days, I’ll continue doing my parenting thing regardless of what I’m called, sweating through summer days at the playground and Saturday morning karate classes, reading bedtime stories and bandaging boo-boos. Maybe next June it’ll be a little clearer – to me, to Iz, to the world – whether or not I’m “Dad.” For now, though, I’m just going to be me, cause as far as Iz is concerned, that’s perfect.

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Unhappy Mother’s Day; and how about All Parents’ Day instead

I had a very unhappy Mother’s Day.

I first freaked out about it about two weeks ahead of time, when the martial arts school where my kid and I take classes posted something about “bring your mom to class” the day before Mother’s Day. Oh right. That holiday. When no doubt some people are going to see me as mom, and wish me happy mother’s day or try to get me to join in activities like that – which is not only misgendering me, but reminding me of the traumatic things that happened almost seven years ago to bring my kid into this world, the very thought of which causes me nauseating waves of anxiety. That’s coming up. Yippee.

I made a post on facebook letting my friends know of my wishes regarding this holiday:

I’m just gonna put this out there, having seen something on …’s FB page that triggered it: Please DO NOT wish me a happy mother’s day two weekends from now. I know I acted as …’s mother for years, and there are probably some trans guys who appreciate having been mothers, but I am not one of them. I have never identified with that label or role and to have people associate me with it makes my stomach turn. So, just don’t. Save your congratulations for father’s day.

The responses were supportive, and one of my friends suggested coming up with my own holiday to celebrate parenthood. While I personally find it just as hurtful that to think I couldn’t or shouldn’t celebrate Father’s Day just because I’m trans, as that people might congratulate me on Mother’s Day because I used to live as a woman, I did see a need for the holiday. For those parents who don’t identify within the gender binary, who don’t see themselves as either mothers or fathers – they should have a day to celebrate as well. All Parents’ Day. It would fall halfway between Mother’s and Father’s Day. Around the time of Maryland Deathfest Memorial Day weekend.

Before that, though, Mother’s Day happened.

Not long after the Facebook post, my kid mentioned Mother’s Day, and I took the opportunity to remind her that I’m not a girl and therefore not a mother. I thought she got it. She calls me by male pronouns 100% of the time now, though I’ve given up on not being called mom.

The week before Mother’s Day, I spoke to my mom about it. When Mother’s Day came up, I said, “By the way, I don’t want any attention on Mother’s Day.”

She laughed and said, “I wasn’t planning on giving you any. You lost a holiday!”

I didn’t say anything about Father’s Day. There’d be time enough to work on that. I was just relieved she got it about Mother’s Day.

I didn’t even try with my dad. He’s rejected my gender entirely; how could I expect him to understand that I don’t want to celebrate Mother’s Day?

Funny enough though, out of those three, he was actually the only one who didn’t wound me on The Day.

I woke up on Mother’s Day to a card on my dresser. Why is there a card there?!?! I don’t get a card today. My stomach went hollow. I asked my girlfriend to open it. Of course I knew what it was; I could have just thrown it away without looking, but I had to know for sure. Who had done this to me.

It was a card with a picture of Olaf from Frozen and something about warm hugs, and my kid had scrawled something on the inside.

My kid. The only person who lives me with me who actually genders me correctly, and she had done this to me. And of course, she couldn’t have bought that card by herself, so my mom had been complicit in it too.

Gone were any hopes of blithely going through the day without most of my family calling attention to my “motherhood.” Of brushing off any remarks from my father or from strangers with a smile and a “Thanks, but no thanks. My holiday is next month.” Of letting the awkward burn in their faces and not mine, cause I know who I am, and they’re the ones making asses of themselves by making assumptions. No, now I couldn’t face any of them. I just wanted to stay in bed all day, away from everyone.

Two things changed that helped me get through the day. My girlfriend stayed with me till the afternoon. She was my shield. Had anyone in my family said anything else, I could have bitten back or made my awkward joke, because I knew at least one person knew me for who I really was. I wasn’t all alone. And then my brother arrived, and that made two people in the house who got it.

As it turned out, my father was the one who said nothing about Mother’s Day. And when I went shopping, none of the clerks did, either, even when I had my kid with me. Well trained, I bet. Making assumptions is rude and can hurt your business. Finally, at the very end of the night, as we were about to leave the restaurant where we had dinner, the waitress wished us a happy mother’s day, while looking right at me. I smiled and said nothing, and my mom said, “Thanks, and same you to. I mean, maybe…” Thanks, mom, for taking the awkwardness on yourself and away from the trans parent at the table. No, really. Thanks, mom, and I love you.

Then we went home and had cake, and the night wound down on a pleasant note. Another plus, there was not a word about Mother’s Day on my facebook wall. I guess my friends all got the memo. That was a relief.

The day started out rough, but ended up better than I expected. And better yet, it will never happen again. By this time next year, no one will mistake me for someone’s mother, and if anyone tries, I can and will laugh in their face.

Now, to start planning for Maryland Deathfest All Parents’ Day…