45 months

Dear Papi Bello,

The beginning of your 46th month was quite the adventure. We moved, to the upstairs flat in a beautiful old house in a quiet little neighbourhood. Geographically, it’s not actually all that far away from the old hood, but it feels like miles.

You like it here, which I am so glad of. You always ask if we are going home to “the New House”, and when I say yes, you let out a big cheer. The difference of this place is palpable. It is peaceful, and calm, positive energy flows through it. It feels like home.

I don’t like the new habit that the real estate folks have indoctrinated the rich, and subsequently the rest of us with: this thing of calling detached single family dwellings homes. “There are some beautiful homes in that neighbourhood”, as though a flat, or an apartment, or a room, or a city, might not truly be home to someone.

Home is a space, Papi, not a place. It is wherever the tension falls from your shoulders, you breathe in the air, and it is good, the people are somehow “your people” even if they are completely different from you (or each other). You can have several homes, without owning a single piece of property. Don’t let anyone imply otherwise.

This month, you told us you were going to be a woman when you grew up. While addressing this is uncomplicated for Señor Compa, it is less so for me: some part of me wants to encourage you to be whatever you want. A woman? Sure! A toaster? Why not?

Señor Compa told you in no uncertain terms you were going to be a man when you grew up. For all my political correctness, this is probably the best approach for a three year old, just trying to sort out categories in his head. We can let you flaunt them later. I told you that almost all little boys grow up to be men. Our (very open-minded) family friend told you you could decide to be a woman when you grew up, but it would ultimately be expensive, complicated, and quite possibly a disappointing experience.

You stared at him.

Sometimes I think I am too conscious about being a good, open-minded, queer-positive mommy. Because quite frankly, of the few boys I knew who grew up to be trans: well, you’re not like any of them. Sure, you love ballet, and babies, and prancing about in a pink leotard and fairy wings at daycare, but you’re also rambunctious, and cheerfully loud, and love getting dirty. You are an equal opportunity hugger and kisser, which is as it should be at three. You’re a pretty well adjusted little guy. You remind me a lot of X in “The Story of X”, in the book “Stories for Free Children,” right down to the haircut.

I always wanted to raise a little boy like you.

Love,
Mama