I asked this this Jewish guy I’ve been seeing “if you would be anywhere doing anything, past, present or future what would it be?” He gave me a a thoughtful answer about the environment or something like that (a genuinely important topic but not what I was expecting. Then he flipped the the script on me and asked me.
I sat with my imagination for a few minutes and responded “the fifth birthday party of one of my children.” The images filled my head and heart. I was a mom, a milf. A five foot ten glamorous goddess in heels and a full face of making lighting candles and hosting a birthday party. My child’s birthday party. Beyond the beautiful sight of this happy woman I was celebrating the milestone of the most important relationship in my life. That moment is the definition of motherhood to me.
I often close my eyes imagine myself in a bath tub soaking head rested on the edge of the tub my eyes peered down looking at my hand that rests atop my ballooned stretched out belly. Eight months pregnant I sit alone meditating me and my baby. Sitting in stillness focusing on my breaths and moving bump. I know this will never be a reality because my body in its existence betrays me.
I went through years of fearing for my figurative children. What are the repercussions of having a black trans woman as their mother? What horrors will they experience that will ultimately be my fault?
The positive that gets me through it all is knowing my child could be trans and I’d be the best person to be there for them. I realized all (well most) parents feel so sense of inferiority when it comes to raising their child no matter the identities of the parent no matter the identities of the child. My mom was not a perfect parent to me and I could spend several posts going into a rant on why she wasn’t the most profound fit for the job (but I won’t rant) she was a woman who taught me so much both directly and indirectly. While I have imagined having a different mother I find it difficult to imagine who I would be if she weren’t my mother.