“Mommy, you know I’m only a boy because of my parts… right?”

How I learned I was the one who needed to “transition;” my child simply needed to evolve into who they were always meant to be

Martie Sirois

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Photo by Sharon McCutcheon on Unsplash

Before anyone asks, no, I’m not some sort of new age, millennial, hipster chic parent living in a commune, attempting to raise genderless, nameless offspring who will one day grow up and decide these things independent of their father and me. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that; it’s just not my style.) My husband and I learned all three of our kids’ sexes via ultrasound and we planned accordingly. I dressed my boys in blue, my girl in pink.

I’d always hoped to have a child of each gender. And God — in only God’s divine and humorous way — was brilliant enough to give me one of each: in 2000, a boy; in 2002, a girl; and in 2006, well… let’s just say God threw caution to the wind and decided to confuse everyone and make the ride just a little more fun!

When my third (and last) child was born, I’d gone into labor almost a week earlier than my scheduled c-section. And thank goodness he was early, because my bouncing baby boy weighed in at just under 10 lbs. (9 lbs., 15 oz., to be exact). He earned the nickname “Bubba” among the birthing center staff for being the biggest newborn in the hospital nursery that month.

We’d eventually learn that everything about Bubba was big: his smile, his cry, his physique, his imagination. He was an easy baby — loved people, easily entertained, mostly happy, never met a stranger, that sort of thing. He did everything early, from holding his head up, to walking and talking.

And man, was he was astronomically strong. I breastfed, but I also pumped so my husband could share the love, especially with middle of the night feedings. We thought it was fluke when BB could hold his own bottle of milk and basically feed himself at 8 weeks, but realized it was no fluke when he insisted on holding it, independently, every time thereafter. At 15 months, long after he’d already mastered the art of running, he could easily push his 60 lb., seven-year-old, big brother in our little red wagon from behind. Uphill.

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Martie Sirois

Covering the intersection of culture, politics & equality. Featured in Marker, HuffPost, PopSugar, Scary Mommy; heard on NPR, SiriusXM, LTYM, TIFO podcast, etc.