Warm and breezy again, Oscar just picked out a new skirt at Target, which he is wearing with a new, beloved, Orange Crush t-shirt. The skirt has purple flowers on it, and he is wearing it with neon pink leggings I bought him at Claire’s.
I say, in my best Tim Gun voice, “I think we may have a taste issue here.”
Oscar laughs. “Dad, you haven’t got a clue.”
Oscar is now as tall as his mother. His face is getting longer, and changing, as puberty approaches; the elfin nose is no longer elfin. He has developed a degree of body modesty which is unusual in the family, but nothing anyone outside it would think twice about. He doesn’t look like a girl at all to me anymore, but, well, sometimes he does, but only when he wants to. To the outside world of course the girl cues are so strong; the hair, the clothes; the colors; that he is never taken as male.
But he has a hockey jersey now he loves, and without make-up (we don’t allow it at this age) or jewelry…sometimes, he seems to me like Just a Boy with Long Hair. Sometimes, I think, that’s what he in fact, is.
He’s got friends who are boys; and friends who are girls. With the boys, it’s all about the pokemon, the shared franchise of the moment. With the girls, it’s girl stuff, and you wouldn’t mistake him for male when he’s with them. They laugh uncontrollably at things that we, as adults, will never again understand. All well and good.
The mom of a classmate told us, that her girl comes home with stories, of Oscar’s witty comebacks to the taunts he sometimes gets, which he never, ever mentions.
He has people on his side, and some who aren’t.
When he gets off the bus he is always happy. It was the best day. It was the worst day, ever—but it’s over now. He’s glad to be home with me.
But he’s met a boy down the street, and for the first time, will scooter over by himself. The playdate without cars! We have to call to make him come home for dinner.
He’s 11, and a young 11 at that. He curls up with me, hugs me in front is his friends, swears like a sailor, and wants me to read to him at night, and I still do.
Childhood, the raw, primary colored stuff of pure selfish innocence, winnows away.
I’m glad I could l be here for him and his brother.
And I thank the universe that life has been kind to Oscar, and to us. Despite the fact that quite frankly, we’re weird as all get out.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
{ 5 comments… read them below or add one }
I freaking miss you guys.
We miss you too.
i enjoyed this very much.
Weird? Hardly! I only wish my ex would have been a tenth as accepting as you are of Oscar. He never could get passed the fact that the ponytailed child in the pretty yellow dress was still his son to be loved and cherished.
He is gone now and refuses to speak with us. One day he will realize how much he missed out on. For now I do my best with my pretty little girl-boy to make sure he is loved and accepted as much as possible.
I always enjoy your insight. Thanks for sharing with us!
Thank you for your comment, Melissa, and I hold out hope for all men who don’t yet get it. We live in a world of second, third, and fourth chances. I am a product of my environment, so I could make that leap. College professor parents; art-school; Cambridge resident. I’m much more impressed by the dads in the heart of the red states who make the leap to acceptance; many do. I’ve had these crew-cutted marine types come up and speak to me at gender conferences and chat away with me eagerly.