Casey Speaks

 

I know you should never compare your children.  Believe me as a middle child salutatorian (oldest sis was valedictorian) I know all this, but lets just say that a person were to have two children and…

 

When they were babies we used baby signs with both of them and by the time Riley was a year old he knew about 5 signs.  Shortly after that his signing vocabulary exploded.  His verbal speaking wasn’t far behind and by the time he was two he may have had some gross motor skill deficiencies, but the kid could talk!  Casey, on the other hand, thought it was hilarious to watch us sign, refuse to sign back, and use grunts and squeals to get what he wanted.  Or to use his older brother which works wonders as well.  When Casey was about a year and a half old he signed his first and only sign – he put his fingertips together to sign MORE – and then he expected everybody around him to clap.  This wasn’t just on his first occurrence.  Nope, the kid expected applause every time he signed it.   If we didn’t clap he would physically grab our hands and put them together.  After all, his effort clearly deserved a standing ovation.  He’s Advanced.  He’s Amazing.  But he isn’t as loquacious as his mammas.   In just the last few weeks his grunts and squeals have made more sense.  We’ve been able to translate more. 

 

“Bopple jew” is consistently apple juice.  “Waa waa” is water.  “chaysey” is how he says his own name.   A “Choo Choo” is a train.  A “yee haw” is a horse.  “Wammie” is his little stuffed lamb.  “Ibit” is a frog.  “Choc Chit” is chocolate.  A “Toot Nak” is a fruit snack.  “Dora La La” is his Dora music he likes to fall asleep to.  Sometimes even knowing a bit of his language can be confusing. “Eggo” is Diego, a potato or playdoh.  Just take a guess.  A “Chra Chu” is any kind of truck imaginable – a  trash truck, a dump truck, a big truck or a semi.  A “copta” is a helicopter or a tractor.  Don’t bother trying to distinguish.  They’re homonyms to this kid.

 

Casey’s gross and fine motor skills and critical thinking skills are top notch.  The kid can put together puzzles and loves to put train tracks together into advanced (for a two-year old) geometric designs.  He keeps tearing the pages of his pop up books and then cries.  He isn’t trying to be destructive.  He just wants to figure out how they work.  He’s a brilliant child.  But still he’s only two which is why sometimes Riley, Kim or I try to pull the wool over his eyes.  During the week Casey is used to taking his nap at the same time that all the other two year olds in the classroom go down to nap.  This kind of positive peer pressure has its impact and he’s developed his routine.  On the weekend we try to get Riley to lie down for a few minutes while Casey falls asleep.  Then Riley sneaks out of the room and Casey takes his nap.  This we call a “wink wink.”   It got its name because I would make a big production about it being nap time and I’d make sure that Riley saw me wink.  We usually pull this one off.

 

Tonight after dinner Riley wanted a second glass of lemonade but he knew that we wouldn’t want Casey to have another.  So he asked, “Mamma, can I have another glass of wink wink water?”  Casey indicated that he wanted the same by shoving his sippie cup into my hand.  “Oh, you want water too, Casey?” I asked.  “No Mom.” He replied while pointing to the lemonade “Chasey want wink wink waa waa.” 

I think the winking is a thing of the past.  Naptime may never be the same. 

 

Peeing Like a Princess

What a weekend.

Kim and I attended the Utah HRC Gala at Bruce Bastian’s house on Saturday. This guy made a little something called Word Perfect and now he’s the richest person I know. Not that I know him. But maybe I do. I mean, I’ve been to his house. This house mansion is amazing. We got VIP tickets which allowed us to tour the house and have a few drinks on the house. It was a beautiful and amazing event. In fact it was the kind of event that makes me really really want to be rich so I can throw a gala of my own. I’ll attach a few pictures, but first I have to just rave about the bathrooms. When I arrived, I thought it was a little tacky that there were port-a-pottties at the fancy schmantzy event, but then I got to thinking, what exactly is a person supposed to do when they host a gathering for over 800 of their closest friends? But then I got a good look and these potties were classy - running water - fresh flowers - a mirror - mints to freshen up the lots-of-vodka not-very-much cranberry breath. Royal Restrooms they were called and I highly recommend them. No this isn’t a consumer review. No, they aren’t paying me to say this. But when I find a portable pisser that’s good enough for me, I feel the need to share. Maybe Pride can rent them next year.

I’m even wearing a dress.

My friend Vee in the middle of a Kathy Najimy and Joe Solomonese sandwich.  Kathy Najimy was the keynote speaker - one of my new favorite straight people.  And Joe Solomonese is the President of the HRC.  I cornered him with my friend Joni and we chatted about HRC and ENDA and the need for an inclusive ENDA bill.  He seems like a great guy.  I mean, he didn’t go running - screaming - the other way.

It’s midnight, but we can’t seem to bring ourselves to leave the property.  The big classy gates will shut us out for another year and allow us to return only with the $300 entrance fee.  Nobody should have this much money, but since people do, I’m glad Bruce is one of them, and I am glad he’s on our side. 

What must you think of my parents?

 

If gender-bending were the root of gayness, I’d be straight.  If athletic prowess does it, then I’m just about as straight as they come.  And if people are gay as some sort of political statement, then all I can say is that is a lot of Vajayjay to prove a point commitment oh, and I’d be straight.  

 

If gayness is the product of bad parenting, I guess my parents should just feel lucky their terrible parenting produced a 75% success rate.

Think about the innuendo here. 

If it is true that bad parents make their kids gay and

It is true that Ruth is gay

Then is must be true that Ruth has bad parents.

 

And while it’s unconscionable to try to turn a kid gay, there is clearly nothing wrong with trying to make a person straight. I know, I’ve experienced it firsthand. The argument that heterosexuality is immutable but homosexuality is not simply does not hold up. 

 

But that’s not the point is it?  The point is that my son is a sissy.  And sissies aren’t valued.  And sissies are gay.  And sissies need to get their asses kicked so they can grow up and BE MEN.  Thankfully my boys have a wide-range of male role models in their life teaching them that there are all kinds of ways to be a man.

 

If putting on nail polish seals my son’s sexual fate, so be it.    

 

PS. I have deleted some comments and I will continue to delete comments that Kim asks me to delete.  It’s part of our agreement for this blog.  If she finds it hurtful, it disappears, just like that.  Abra Cadabra.

 

 PPS. I also feel compelled to clear up that the comments some of you found offensive are not from some anonymous stalker.  He doesn’t write comments to ruin your or my day. He is actually my uncle. And he’s a decent guy.  He doesn’t write in ALL CAPS to SCREAM AT ME.  I really don’t know why he does that, except that he may not be all that comfortable with the keyboard.  No, he’s not a very good speller.  But that isn’t a sign of weakened intelligence.  I really think if he were in school now-a-days he’d have a dyslexia diagnosis, but folks didn’t know too much about that when he was in school.  And despite him being a good guy, he seems to think that Riley is being turned gay because of his Mammas.  His comment was posted on the dual immersion video.  I am still not sure how learning Spanish turns a kid gay.  But then again, I don’t quite have the nail polish connection either.  I was feeling a bit of writer’s block before….but thankfully we cleared that up.  

 

 

 

 

Everything he learned in kindergarten in 44 seconds

He would be very proud if you’d notice the bow at the end.
I ended up filming this 4 different times and this is the best. The first time I had the camera on portrait. Watching the video made me feel like I should have had a V-8. The second time Casey jumped in to help out. The third time the phone rang. This take was by no means the best he could do, but my patience was wearing thin. After all, it was way past bedtime when I got the brilliant idea to to film his oral report.

The Pink Epiphany

 

Can a person be so proud that they’re exhausted?  Pride was fantastic.  We connected with old and new friends and had an amazing time.

 

I’ve been meaning to write a post that spotlights one of my best friends.  And I haven’t done that yet.  She wrote a really sweet note to me a few months ago, and instead of being moved by it, I edited it. And even though I didn’t mean to, I hurt her feelings by noticing the “their” and “your” instead of the “they’re” and “you’re.”  See, I’m a bitch that way.  But today, I’m putting all grammar aside to give a shout out to my friend V.

 

I met her 5 years ago in Alamosa Colorado and even though we shot each other dirty looks the first time we met, we were friends within the week.

 

She has an uncanny way of making me feel beautiful and desirable and special and smart and important and lucky.  Kim and I have this running joke that if we broke up, there’d be dozens of girls waiting to sweep Kim off her feet.  Dozens.  In my corner, there’d be one.  Just V.  But that would be enough.

 

Over the last several months V. has agonized over issues of gender. I don’t want to put words in her mouth about what it’s been like or what her issues are exactly.  But it boils down to this:  V. may one day choose to undergo a sex reassignment surgery.  Let me try this again.  V. will likely soon start living as a man. V. has already begun living as a man in some circles.  

 

I haven’t been very supportive.  Not because I don’t love her.  Exactly because I do love her.  And I suck for it.  See, I’ve been sitting in the corner feeling bad that I’d have to lose a stunning lesbian in my life because of her transition.  But Pride woke me up this weekend to what Pride is all about.

 

This may sound completely crazy but my phone helped me get to a clearer understanding of my friend V.  All weekend people I know commented on my new cell phone.  They commented (with judgment) on my  phone being PINK.  And somehow I felt I understood V. more than ever before.  Coming out to me was about freeing myself from expectations of what others thought I should be, what I should like, the color of phone I’d choose.  Yet sometimes it seems I’ve traded that in for another set of expectations.  Only this time the lesbian set.  And here I was, imposing this same set of expectations on my best friend. 

 

I met another person this weekend, a trans woman who is beautiful, intelligent, and authentically herself.  She joked with me about putting on her lesbian power suit and accompanying me to lobby.  And there was nothing odd or inauthentic about her or her being a lesbian or having a lesbian power suit.   In fact, she was so comfortable in her skin, that I had a hard time ever imagining her trying to live life as a man.  Yet I imagine people believed her to be a man for many years.  The place that I had been getting hung up on was that I KNEW or at least THOUGHT I KNEW V. as a lesbian, and changing my conception of her to that of a man – straight or otherwise – was troubling me. But I realized this weekend that I know V. as V.  and that’s enough for me.  

 

(If my female pronoun seems out of place in this post, let me just clarify that V. is still asking for that pronoun from me for the time being.)  I’m sure he’ll be the hottest damn Latin transman the world has ever seen.  And if Kim and I ever split, I sure hope he’ll still be in my corner.

 

On another note, I have a son who – jealous that I got a pedicure today - used his own money tonight to buy himself sparkling fingernail polish.  I love him so freakin’ much.  

The score was Tree = 4, Humans = 0

 

Riley’s last day of school was yesterday and in celebration a friend bought him a paper airplane.  And not just any airplane but an actual battery-operated high-flying fancy airplane that costs actual money.  He went to the park to fly the sucker and promptly got it stuck in a tree.  A big ass tree.  He came home sad and shared the news that he had lost his airplane forever.

 

Later, while we were getting ready for our evening walk, Riley asked if we could walk by the park to check on his airplane.  We obliged.  The entire walk to the park he talked about how he thinks the wind had blown hard enough to dislodge his airplane and he was excited to get it back.  But to his disappointment the plane was still high up in the tree.  He then tried to convince me to climb the tree to retrieve it.  But I refused.  It was a BIG ASS tree.  There were a couple of teenagers playing soccer nearby and Riley went right up to them and declared, “That’s my airplane up in that tree.  Do you think you can get it down?”  They agreed to give it a try and started throwing their soccer ball up to get the airplane down.  Eventually the ball also got stuck up in that branch right next to the plane.  So the boys, Roger and Jorge decide Roger should climb the tree to retrieve the ball and the airplane.  Riley pleads for me to bring some more balls for the boys to use.  I hurry home and bring back a branch cutter and more balls.  By this time one of the boys had climbed the tree as high as he could and was shaking the branches to no avail.  There was absolutely no way to get the branch cutter up to the boy in the tree.  The other boy is chucking our balls up in the tree.  And, you guessed it, HE GOT A THIRD BALL STUCK IN THE TREE. 

 

After many tosses of balls high into the branches the airplane falls out of the tree.  Riley promptly thanks the boys and begins walking off absolutely unconcerned with the fact that the boys’ ball and one of our own is still in the tree.  I tell Riley he is expected to help until the boys either get tired and give up or get the balls.  Riley becomes the ball retriever and the throwing continues.  EVENTUALLY they get both balls out of the tree.  Riley pays the boys $5 for their work.  (This melts my heart of course because he uses his own money.)  

 

But wait, there’s still a teenager up in the tree.  And I’m freaking out that he’s going to fall out and break every limb on his body.  I want to call the fire department but he keeps asking me to just leave him alone and he will get down. 

 

The sun was going down so we decide to walk over to the play structure and play for awhile instead of finishing our walk.  20 minutes later we walk back past the Big Ass tree and Roger is barely getting down.  He grabs his ball and they boys start to head home.  We didn’t get our walk.  They didn’t get their soccer fun.  But Riley got his airplane. 

Yet Another Knapsack…

Have you read Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack by Peggy McIntosh?  It’s classic. I love it.  It’s all about white privilege.  I’ve been grappling with a different sort of privilege lately.  I don’t know what to call it except maybe fertility privilege.

 

Seven and a half years ago when Kim and I started talking about getting pregnant and having babies, I had no idea the heartache and the expense so many folks – especially folks in the LGBT community – endure.

 

We bought an ovulation predictor kit, a new Indigo Girls CD for ambiance, an oral syringe and that was that.  A friend bought us a useful book and the total expense was around $30.  We had to buy a new pillow that almost doubled our costs - but that was a clumsy mishap that should have been avoided. I experienced one roller coaster month and then was pregnant. 

 

 I never doubted I’d be a Fertile Myrtle.  Having babies runs in my family.  And I was right.  But what I realize now is that this was just SHIT HOUSE LUCK. 

 

Starting a blog has got me interested in reading others’ blogs.  And reading others’ blogs has broken my heart.  The TTC (which I now know is trying to conceive) blogs detail the heartbreak of infertility.  The thousands of dollars.  The time.  The energy.  The stress.  The legal restrictions.  The anti-gay laws.  The roller coaster.  The new vocabulary. The success.  The failure.  The pain.  The love.  The happiness.   The money.  The money.  The money.

 

In my hateful great state, a lesbian’s only legal hope for a baby is to grow it in her own uterus.  Non-bio parents have no legal standing in this state.  Unmarried cohabitating individuals cannot adopt.  If there were a practical way to stamp my uterus with a “lesbian, do not make this place your home” sign as a warning to incoming fetuses, Utah would have done that already. 

 

My heart is with a friend this week.  A friend who has had something like 22 intra-uterine inseminations and a failed IVF attempt. She’s in the midst of a second IVF despite medical complications, having to be on bed rest, and having to take out a loan for the expense.  Talk about selfless.  I’m in awe.

 

And I am sitting with my privilege…unpacking my knapsack.

A Note to White People

Hello there White People, 

The sun is not your friend.  Please wear sunscreen.  Please require that your children wear sunscreen.

Thank you,

Qweirdutah

PS Bright blistering red does not look good on you.  Or you.  Or you. 

 

Seriously, I spent the day at a local amusement park yesterday and I noted the following:

99% of smokers stayed in the “sit and smoke” area.  (I LOVE these smokers)

The 1% of smokers who did not stay in the “sit and smoke” area tended to not wear sunscreen. (And in one case did not put sunscreen on the toddler who not only gets a head start on lung cancer thanks to Mommy and Daddy but is well on her way to skin cancer too.  I need reigned in on my judgment here because I can’t keep my opinion from overflowing.)

Is this smoking/no sunscreen occurrence a coincidence? 

Or is this a general disregard to all things cancer?

 

New Do In 1000 Words

New Do

So going to get my hair cut right this minute.

Will I get shorty bangs or will I chicken out?

Photo to come