parenting

I spent the better part of two years a frazzled mess over things that ultimately didn’t matter. My child was still growing up perfectly normal, even when he didn’t follow the straight and narrow path set forth by his pediatrician. I was driving myself over the edge for nothing.

I want my child to be able to self-determine. What that means to me is that they know they have options besides the “default” one that’s plastered all over their TV screens, and that they always know that.

We had to walk through the casino. To a 2-year-old, hell is a room full of buttons you aren’t allowed to push. To the parent of a 2-year-old, hell is a room full of buttons your 2-year-old isn’t allowed to push, plus cigarette smoke.

“Oh, great!” Says the woman on the other end of the line. “Our waitlist is only about 18 months right now.” Not a typo.

Ah, kids. Strange little creatures with magical abilities to hide your stuff when you need it the most. You know, like when you’re about to walk out the door to an already late appointment and are faced with an impromptu game of ‘where’s my keys/phone/wallet’.

No matter what parents decide, what should NOT be up for debate is the importance of the decision and who gets to weigh in on it.

[CN: gender essentialism, birth] Patriarchs, love your orgasms all you like, but don’t fall for the weirdly puffed-up idea that they make babies. Penis power is solely limited to fertilizing eggs. And a fertilized egg is a fertilized egg — no less, no more.

My husband is worried about stigma, about Owen feeling different, about epilepsy being part of his identity. Those are sweet concerns, really. And I get it — I love the kid too. I’d never want to make his life harder in any way.