(Originally posted elsewhere, May 31, 2013)
I was chatting with my daughter. She had some … awkward questions.
Now, my mini-me already knew I was bisexual. We had that discussion a while back. Tonight, her questions led to me coming out to her again… as poly. I still haven’t wrapped my post-seizure brain around it. She, on the other hand, just took it completely in stride.
Then, she came out to me. As bisexual.
I don’t have enough words. I’m… torn. I know, firsthand, how difficult that will be, with her other family. Hell, with mine. With pretty much everyone in my old hometown, where her dad, and my family, still live. And that’s just for starters. Random people she doesn’t even know already hate her. She will have to face some serious shit. I hurt for her, and I already want to kill some people who might hurt her in the future. She’s my baby.
I’m also pretty proud of her, for being okay with who she is. I’m proud of her for not being afraid of the judgment of other people. I’m happier than I can describe that she felt comfortable coming to me, and telling me this. I not only know the names and faces of the three boys she has a crush on, but her first-ever girl-crush, too.
I hesitate to say this, because I don’t want to come off the wrong way, but I’m proud of me, too. I’m proud that my child is so secure in my love for her, that she feels okay confiding something so monumental to me, at thirteen. I got to share my coming out story with her, and in doing so, to actually see that I am doing so much better than my parents. I was terrified, back then. I spent hours sitting on my bed, my stuff packed underneath, trying to mentally prepare myself for being kicked out and disowned. Of course, that didn’t happen. My dad just called me a slut.
She was a little uncertain; I could see it in her eyes. She told me anyway, though. She smiled as she told me, and blushed when she talked about her girl-crush, but she wasn’t afraid. I was the one who taught her that love was never shameful. I was the one who discussed gender issues and orientation issues and political issues and the simple fact that we are who we are, and should never be ashamed of that or afraid of it. That the small-mindedness of others was to be pitied and laughed at, rather than hated and feared.
I’m also more than a little melancholy. Wasn’t it just yesterday that she was bringing me home hand prints made into reindeer and turkeys and about a zillion other things? Wasn’t it just the day before that she was smiling at me, through a chocolate mask, swearing she didn’t eat all the Andes mints I’d hidden in a drawer? Wasn’t she just throwing Cheerios across the kitchen, cackling madly as they scattered on the floor?
le sigh
I’m a little sad that those days are gone, but I am so amazed to be able to see the transformation from infant to child, and from child to young woman. She’s grown to be a pretty awesome young lady, and I did that. She’s funny, and witty, and compassionate and loving and talented and brilliant and … she’s just so beautiful.
I lived rough, as a kid. Maybe my kids are my chance to make up for some of that. Maybe this is so that I can show that some cycles can be broken. Maybe, in spite of the st00pid brain, I’m not doing such a bad job, after all.
Momming along 