“Are you a boy or a girl?” They snickered. They always snickered. Those kids and worse adults, who wanted my child to question who she was. Why was a young kid’s gender an issue? Was proof of genitalia required, should she wear a bikini top that could double up as two eye patches (of course not — rhetorical questions). This bare-chested sprite on the beach, at the pool, in her brother’s boardies (long shorts) loving life and offering a cheery, “Helloo!” to everyone she came across.
I think of this darling child, who woke up one morning an adolescent with a huge chip on their shoulder: a mighty grievance had formed against the expectations and constraints of life AND they were in the wrong skin.
And there I was, business as usual, willy-nilly overstepping boundaries erected like construction posts pegged down a new road and witless I laughed at her moods and teased her sullenness, in front of her friends too — yes, I was that guileless with this juvenile ticking time bomb.
Princess-like golden hair, hacked and dyed in vivid shades, then buzzed right off. The body self-mutilated with safety pins and razor blades.
I once saw her sleeping the sleep of the exhausted, the sun streaming across a topless body, both nipples glinting with safety pins. I shut the door quietly.
Adolescent to teenager, we fought. Unless she wanted something, then sweetness and lies dripped from this baby mouth that had once covered me in squishy kisses.
It was exhausting. A part of me recognised I had lost control. She needs stronger boundaries, she had said as much — You’re weak! You’re not normal. You’re pathetic. Stop crying at me! — I cried a lot.
There is a time we can’t quite talk about, it is so disquieting: the day I quit pussy-footing around and rose up, like a mother monster unleashing my fury —
The house was uncomfortably quiet, when I ballsely barged into the sanctum: the teenage bedroom — forgive my igneous intrusion through your granite rock facade — “Don’t you ever knock!” they snapped.
I was ankle deep in teenage angst — the discarded trophies of delinquency : empty wine bottles, wrappers, cups and plates and glaring cutting paraphernalia: scalpels and rolls of blood soaked bandage; cigarette filters dotted the floor like white tic tacs and empty tobacco pouches told stories.
Five drawers hung precariously on the runners, spilling out: clothes, letters, poems, drawings, trinkets, tampons, pens, lighters, CD’s, posters, pamphlets … all signs of passion my child had felt for other things.
Undeterred, under a glare that could melt icecaps, I swiped my foot in order just to stand, unwelcome, uninvited, to pledge this new order. I would rear up and show this ridiculous child who was boss. Shamefully, with a broad sweep of the arm, I sent her clutter flying from atop of the chest of drawers (how old was I now, 14?)
Time blurred, was it standing still? The air was charged with ill-feeling. She got up from where she lounged on the bed with her phone, got in my face, spat some obnoxious words I no longer remember, but I think we both know how our eyes locked in fury and my hands were around her throat — to wipe her out, to take that contempt from her face, and I said (or did I just think it) — I could kill you.
Challenging me, defiant, in an Orestes resolution to do their worst: Mother, Mother, I could kill you too … I really could. In those mere seconds, I knew this whole scene had escalated horribly — I dropped my hands swiftly, I was shoved hard into the protruding drawers she then bolted from the house.
Missing school. Absconding through the bedroom window — a trampled rose bush told that story — cutting across town in the early hours and in through the window of a girl she obsessed over, to lay with in secret, to touch and be touched.
Support was not thick on the ground: Dad was busy with his new life and the only other family nearby, Nan (my Mum) is diagnosed bipolar and (my family concur) an undiagnosed narcissist; so not a fat lot of help, unless you want crocodile tears and to hear it’s your fault your kid ran off because you stalked them on facebook.
It’s true, the contempt for me did escalate as I snuck into her socials, read messages that drew my breath in tight and I did contact other Mums’ whose girl’s were also involved in this circle of adoration, lust and self-loathing; they were all cutting (or hoping to) and talking about it.
I was the whistleblower (and we all know how popular they are): I took it to school. A meeting was set, my child arrived and took one look at her snark of a mother, sitting with a bunch of clipboards, behind which sat overworked welfare staff tick-boxing strategies and she bolted, throwing a — “Fuck this! I’m off!”— over her shoulder.
There was the doctor, the psychologist … a session here, a session there … all ineffectual. On her say-so I was banned from the new school, which we had agreed would be a fresh start. Without my knowledge, a social worker began to accompany my child to meetings at school and had the authority (read: audacity) to say, “mum does not have this child’s permission to come here.”
My child had rights. I didn’t.
It was that simple. I was banned from entering school on my child’s whim— this 15 year old had now worked the system: apparently $560 p/f was landing in her bank acc from social services; a living away from home allowance and a room in a share house.
All without so much as an interview with me. Not even checking the welfare of my other child (they would have found an entitled, happy, lazy 17 year old, who wrapped his mum around his little finger — our house used as a crash pad for his band mates and girlfriends).
Somewhere, there is a point — you know the point — where your kid has begun talking to you as if you are senile; the childhood cataracts have fallen away from their eyes and you are glaringly obviously a huge fuckin disappointment: that’s how I felt: a flawed person, a woman not even their dad wanted to be around.
This child cast in my image, was transitioning on their terms, childhood was finished, thank you very much. “You have nothing left to teach me”, they had said, before running off again and now squatting in abandoned houses, some fit for horror movies.
What wouldn’t they do? When I saw them next, I was worried by fresh scars, alongside keloid lines — a tally of emotions not welcome, a tiger’s mauling, crimson stripes on arms bared proud like a body builder’s.
And then there was the anti-social repellent they carried about them (if it was to ward off straight people, it worked) — an unwashed astringent odour like having bathed in canned soup. Ears were stretched and more cartilage pierced. More and more tattoos appeared, telling their own story — on one knee, self-inked: I’m sorry Mum.
Dropping out of school, at 16, after meshing with a rag-tag bunch of misfits, intent on disrupting big business — illegal activism campaigns took them all over Australia — challenging corporate giants in mining and logging and storming federal parliament to contest for the rights of refugees.
When I couldn’t track their antics through online sources, I asked the police for help. One time, my heart in my mouth, I went into a police station and was mocked -
“My daughter’s missing,” I said, “she is just 16 and I haven’t heard …”
“Aw, have you had a little fight … she’s probably staying with a friend … she’ll be home, as soon as she gets bored,” said a kid cop.
My kid never got that bored.
Strong memories prevail, the feel of innocence, when floppy arms and little hands with creamy soft skin looped around my neck, as she nuzzled into me and I carried her to bed and we sleepily sang —
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine …”
Once my child morphed into this maverick who disrespected me like an online troll, I came undone … this wasn’t in my parenting script.
It was lucky that I had the good sense to have two kids in case one turned out rotten. Ha! Not really a plan. But a sibling knows things and under extreme pressure No.1 Son did get on his phone to check and let me know the other one was still alive. So there was that.
One fine day, we — my son and I — were hanging out in the community gardens where he volunteer’s his time and he said a dude messaged him about bringing over some compost or something. I’m sitting on a bench enjoying watching my son be handy with vegetables, when a cheery gruff voice calls out — “Hey! How’s it going?”
Before realising, this person had bowled up right in front of me and it was my daughter — can I put a line through that — this was my changeling child and by the looks, my son’s twin: both sporting a shaved head and full beard.
Without skipping a beat, although it had been exactly two years of silence, they said, “Hey Mum, how’s it going?” I was brimful of tears, in shock — more so, that I could finally see them, than with the masculine appearance. They looked at me, like you want your child to look at you, and said, Do you want a hug? Did I ever.
We have had a lot of conversations over the past year. The importance of pronouns and the transitioning— but why? What I really wanted to know was, why did you do it without me?
2 years is a horrendously long time not to hear from your child, but that is how long it took.
Being candid, my child told me that they had cut ties with me because, in their words — “I was soooo sensitive back then.”
To be cut off by your own child hurts immensely, I do it to my Mum too and I should know better.
I did learn the hard way (is there any other in parenting) you have to give space, let go, so they can find their own way back and the kicker is — the onus is on them, not you.
To be happy in one’s own skin is a huge boost; my child has found their equilibrium as a young trans adult and the exuberance for life they were born with has returned; for this, I am so grateful.
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