It’s not even that she wants to have a say in the choice or some kind of collaborative role; it’s that she hates her clothes. Her dresses, her sweaters, the shoes I used to put on her with straps and bows.
I torture myself with shame for even thinking this in the privacy of my mind, but there are moments during these fits when I feel as though maybe life was easier before Ryland had sound. Before she could hear, Ryland was a typical toddler in regards to clothing: she let me dress her how I liked; she just didn’t know any different because there were parts of her experience that she wasn’t able to express just yet. Now, though, it’s as though my daughter is a completely different child. With each passing day, Ryland’s language develops, and that leads to an increase in her confidence and her sense of self. It seems that sound has given her more tools to understand the world and in turn, express herself. She’s beginning to understand that she can have an opinion.
One day in early 2011 while we’re shopping in Kohl’s, I assume that she’s a little confused when she gravitates toward the little boys’ section. “I wan dis, Momma,” she says, pointing to a three-piece suit. Her voice is little but assertive, and she looks up at me expectantly.
“Ry, no honey, you don’t need that. Come on, let’s go home!” My urgency isn’t so much due to our rush to actually arrive at our house; it’s that I know Ryland’s sense of determination. Something about her attraction to this section makes me certain that it would be hard to tear her away.
As I think about it, it occurs to me that on Sunday mornings while I thumb through the newspaper advertisements to look for sales, Ryland often sits with me and circles what toys she would like. Recently, I’ve noticed that she pays no attention to the Hello Kitty and My Little Pony toys—instead, she’s been asking about toys that to me seem to have been made for boys. After she’s in bed, I’ve just thrown away the ad and not worried about having to actually buy the toy. But here, inside the department store, is the first time she’s ever expressed her interest in boys’ things in public. As she lingers, looking up at this suit on the rack, it worries me that we’ll face an embarrassing temper tantrum.
“Come on,” I repeat. “Let’s go home and see Daddy.”
To that, she finally agrees.
The experience stays with me for the days to follow. Nothing serious, I suppose, but still, it felt strange. A couple of weeks later, I’m searching for her in all the usual places—Ryland’s bedroom, the kitchen, even out in the front yard.
“Ryland!” I call out, beginning to panic. “Kobe, where’s Ryland?” I run back inside the house. “Ry? Ryland!” And all the way at the end of the hall, in my bedroom, I find her:
She’s hiding in the closet, wearing one of Jeff’s shirts.
“Ryland?”
She turns to me, and on her face is a smile from ear to ear. Then she takes note of what must be an alarmed reaction on my face. “Momma,” she says. “Please don’t tell anybody.”
Her shame crushes my heart, and I’m not sure who’s more confused: Ryland, or me.
This humiliation coming from innocent Ryland is completely alarming to me—a huge red flag. Please don’t tell anyone about this. Ryland is a smart kid. She’s been picking up more and more on our comments and the social cues around her. She knows that she receives praise for certain things that adults consider “cute,” but suddenly, she’s starting to recognize that other things make us feel uncomfortable.
I make a point to pay even more attention over the next few weeks, and anytime she’s gone from sight for more than a couple of minutes, I know just where to look. For a while, it’s actually kind of precious to find her trying on Jeff’s work boots, shirts, and ties. Is it that the materials of his clothes feel soft on her skin? Does she just like the scent of her daddy’s shirts? Or maybe she likes things that button up in the front, since she has to take her cochlear implant devices off before we can slip anything over her head.
I don’t see it as much other than a little girl developing “tomboy” tastes. What’s so wrong with that? I think to myself. You go, girl.
But then her fascination evolves, and she begins to test us to see what we consider acceptable. When she asks for black-and-blue Vans sneakers at the outlet store and rips off her shirt to play in the pool, I begin to wonder if there’s a little more to it than wanting to imitate the neighbor kids and the little boys she sees at her swim lessons.
And then, within a few weeks, every day as soon as we arrive home from school, she races back to Jeff’s closet and plays dress-up for as long as I’ll allow her. It’s not like we’re out in public, I reason with myself. Maybe playing dress-up is a good way for her to develop her imagination. I know that when I was a kid, I was much more interested in my mom’s lipstick and high heels, but isn’t that supposed to be one of the great lessons of parenthood—that your child isn’t going to make all the same choices for themselves as you did throughout your life?
In a way, I’m really proud of Ryland for being so low-maintenance and sporty, but when some of Jeff’s good collared shirts and trousers start to get dirty and frayed from Ry dragging herself around the house in them, I stand in the middle of his closet and think. Okay. Now, this is getting to be a problem.
Around this time, a former coworker from the dental office delivers a box of clothes that her granddaughter has outgrown. Ryland and I unpack the box of clothes in her bedroom, and among the bright-colored tops and dresses is a Burberry blouse—its famous tan, black, and red plaid magnetizing Ryland’s attention. “Dis, Momma,” Ryland points, as I’m folding the clothes into her dresser drawers.
“Do you want to try the skirt that goes with it?”
“No. Dis.”
I unfold the shirt and put it on her. The next day, she asks to wear it again, and then again, and the request continues incessantly. As the weeks and then the months go on, she fights more, and more . . . and more . . . to wear outfits similar to this. In time, I see a pattern as clear as the Burberry print: it is only in the more masculine-styled clothes that Ryland will exit the house in peace.
Following this, on the days that I dare to put her in something else, I begin to draw an association between this and her ongoing habit of wetting herself; Ryland knows that if she has an accident in a particular outfit, then I’ll take it off her, and will sometimes be forced to throw it away for good. I begin to tote not just pull-ups, baby wipes, and extra underwear in my diaper bag—an accessory that I’m not even sure is appropriate for the mother of a three-and-a-half-year-old to be hauling—but I also carry multiple outfits at a time (along, of course, with spare batteries for her ears).
The only way to solve it is to give in. I’m so overwhelmed with my task of trying to teach Ryland language that I don’t have enough patience to figure out why she’s refusing girls’ clothes. I just try to keep Ryland happy, whatever that means at any given moment. When we’re at home, she takes any opportunity she can to be shirtless. She takes a liking to plain T-shirts or shorts in solid colors of blue, beige, and white. I have a tomboy for a daughter, I say to myself with a shrug.
At moments, typically in the peace and privacy of our home, I’m thrilled that she feels so fierce in who she is and lives with such confidence, but I’d be lying to anyone if I said that managing her image—okay, our image—with others doesn’t come with some conflict. I know it sounds selfish, but every parent wants his or her child to be complimented and noticed for being adorable. Unfortunately, compliments don’t come as easily when your daughter looks like a boy with unmanaged, long, wild hair hanging down from under her Chargers ball cap. The compliments were endless when Ryland was a baby and small toddler—her dress matched her shoes and her bow. But those days are long over, and by the looks of things, I’m not sure I’ll ever be that mom with the prettily dressed little girl.
Deep down, we all care a little what others think of us. I think it’s natural to want to be seen in a positive light, whatever that might mean, and this goes for the way others s
ee our children, as well. I’ll be the first to admit: I do it, too. Whenever I see a little kid with long, dirty fingernails or dirty ears, I can’t help but think to myself, Does his or her parent not care about keeping their kid clean and groomed?
Fearing this kind of judgment from other adults, a growing part of me avoids leaving the house with Ryland. On days when Jeff is working, it’s impossible for me to talk her out of her insistence, and I’ve been caving in to let her wear boy clothes around town while I pick up a few groceries or run to the post office. I want Ryland to be happy, and I can tell being seen in public in her “dress-up clothes” makes her feel this way.
I ask myself: Whom exactly do I care to impress? The grocery clerk? The dry cleaning receptionist? Why is it okay for Ryland to express herself at home, but then be forced to change when we leave the house? What am I not teaching her about being herself in the face of others’ opinions?
Knowing that he’s aware of this to some degree but processing the whole thing in his own quiet way, I hesitate to lean on Jeff about it too heavily, but it’s in situations this significant that I need him most, and that he’s always so logical and wise. However, I also know that we both witness Ryland’s happiness when we allow her to wear the clothes that she chooses. One night, I broach the question with him carefully.
“Jeff . . . what do you think about all of this?”
“Think about what?” he replies.
Great start. “About Ryland, and how she is at home. I know that you don’t see it all the time, but the second she gets home, she runs off and changes into boy stuff.”
“I know,” he says. “I see it, and as far as I’m concerned, I don’t mind what she does when she’s at home.”
Whew, I think to myself. At least we’re on the same page with that—if I had to start enforcing anything different, I wouldn’t even want to be at home. “With the implants,” he says, “she already has so much to deal with, and she has to work so hard. If coming home and dressing like that makes her happy, then I’m okay with it.” There’s a brief pause . . . then he continues. “But . . . I still think we need to implement some discipline about her clothes when she’s out of the house. With the attention she already gets from the implants, I’m not sure I’m ready to answer questions about why she’s always dressed like a boy around town.”
“Okay,” I tell him. We agree: we’ll just let Ryland be whoever she wants at home.
We use this judiciousness when it comes to what she wears out, sometimes bribing her with toys and candy if she puts up a fight against a girly outfit. (I know it’s not A-plus parenting, but I also know every parent has done it on one occasion or another.) On Thanksgiving, Christmas, and then Easter, we still insist that she wears clothes that were made for girls. But for casual, everyday outings and school, as she turns up more and more in long-sleeved T-shirts and her trademark Vans, most everybody who knows her praises her for being herself. “She’s cool!” Jeff’s brothers say, and Jeff and I smile and go along. “She’s comfy,” I tell them, or, “At least she matches.” Some members of our family look on and turn their heads, saying very little. With a glance and a grimace toward Ryland out of the corner of her eye, my cousin Melissa says, “Yikes. Maybe she’ll outgrow it.” I feel pain inside that they can’t see the positive side of this—that I’m a mom who will do anything to see my child happy, or that I’m trying to strike a compromise with Ryland by continuing to style her hair with ponytails, braids, and bows.
It’s impossible for me to get my head around how anyone who loves Ryland would allow their judgment to cloud their opinions of us and our efforts to do what’s right for our child and keep peace in our household. I’ve been convinced that following my instincts as a mom is the right thing to do, but around certain members of our family, I find myself shrinking back inside: should I be trying to get Ryland to conform? On one occasion, Peg and Rand ask if they can take Ryland on a mini-vacation for a couple of days. When Jeff and I agree, they also ask if they can come over and pack Ryland’s bag for the trip. My heart drops. I’m surprised by this request, and it’s painfully obvious that they have concerns over Ryland’s clothing and appearance.
Of course it’s Jeff who gets the brunt of my hurt and frustration. As the scenario swells, it drives a wedge between my husband and me, and I find myself looking forward to the nights when Jeff works and Ryland and I are home alone, free to hang out and not worry about pleasing anyone else.
These family members just don’t know the daily standoffs that go on inside our home and how painful this problem is becoming for all of us. Only silently, after these relatives are out of sight, do I allow their reactions to collapse my emotions.
I start to catch Ryland looking at clothing catalogs and admiring the boys who are dressed in three-piece suits. She stares at them, mesmerized by how handsome they are in their dapper little outfits. “I don’t know where she gets this,” I tell Jeff.
“I know,” he agrees. Jeff is handsome and well dressed, but he readily admits that he rarely has reason to put on a suit. “She only ever sees me in my fire uniform,” he says. We continue to wonder why our daughter is drawn to the most masculine outfits imaginable.
I CONTINUE TO shop for clothes in the girls’ department, but I spend hours there looking for the plainest cuts and colors. Ryland will locate the tag of any piece of apparel I hold up and search it for any hint of pink or a girly logo. If she finds it, she simply states, “I don’t like that.” She pushes away all pink and purple, any dress or skirt, and even pajamas that look feminine.
During one Target outing with Ryland, it’s her joy that finally tips the scale to bring about the first instance when I ever actually buy my daughter clothes that were made for a boy. As I push our cart past the boys’ section, Ryland’s eyes light up: she’s spotted a blue, long-sleeved shirt with a collar. Seeing that it’s on the clearance rack, I approach it and lift the tag. Seven dollars. I weigh the happiness of my child against a silly seven dollars. What could it hurt? In fact, Jeff might actually thank me for saving money, since Ryland has continued to damage his clothes.
When we arrive at home, she runs immediately into her bedroom and puts it on, buttons perfectly straight, no help necessary. Instantly it’s Ryland’s favorite piece of clothing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this happy.
Wanting Ryland to grow up like every other Southern California kid, in the midst of our tomboy saga Jeff and I enroll her in swim lessons with Gianna. We go together to the first one, collaborating carefully to take off her external hearing devices and put plugs in her ears to protect her tubes, followed by a swim cap to keep everything in place. The instructor is completely cooperative about the fact that Ryland can’t communicate while swimming other than with sign language, and for half an hour we watch her from lounge chairs and we converse with other parents, who have questions about Ryland’s need for ASL. Ryland takes beautifully to the water; it’s as though it’s a quiet sanctuary for her—a secure place of peace.
I begin to take her to the lessons on my own. Most of the time, Jenn is beside me during class, and I always update her on my latest saga, which usually has to do with Ryland fighting me out of girls’ clothing—especially swimsuits. One day, I’m seated next to a swim mom whom I know only relatively well.
“It’s not that Ryland doesn’t want to swim,” I tell her. “I mean look at her—she loves the water. I don’t know,” I say with a sigh. “She fights me anytime I try to put something girly on her. I think she may be a lesbian one day.”
Only after I’ve heard the words do I realize that I’ve mused this out loud. The other mom looks at me as if I’ve just sprouted a second head, then turns her gaze to the pool, where she keeps her eyes fixed for the rest of the lesson. I can feel her judgment of me, her assumption that some kind of force could get Ryland to bend and fit what the adults around her want. I can almost hear her saying, “Get some control of your kid and put on the darn dress!” My gosh, I try to tell myself, it was just
a comment—how could I really know what Ryland’s sexual preference will be? I was sharing my parental instinct with this woman, but also, maybe without knowing it, I was testing her response. I was looking for someone, anyone, to confirm what’s going on with my child. One thing I know for sure: no matter what, I’ll always love Ryland.
At this point, unaware of what else could be happening, I automatically link Ryland’s gender expression with what her future sexual preference might be—my early assumptions with Ryland’s masculine presentation have simply been that she may grow up to be attracted to women. I’ve always believed that sexuality is determined by genetics, at least in part, so I always had an idea in the back of my head that we could have a gay child because we have that in our family. Granted, I know Ryland isn’t having any strong attractions at this age, but it’s definitely something I’ve considered. It seems a bit strange to think of a three-year-old’s sexual choices, but seeking out a label for her at this age somehow makes me feel just a little more secure about what’s been going on.
At this point, it’s very clear that I can’t confide about my questions and experiences with just anyone, and I find Jeff and myself growing a little more selective about the people we spend time with—increasingly, only people who are both loving and well-informed tend to be the most compassionate and welcoming of our daughter. If we make plans to spend extended amounts of time with anyone, it’s generally our families—and more than ever, I find myself turning to my parents for their strength and parenting wisdom. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I tiptoe out to the computer and let the tears roll down my face as I write novel-length emails to my mom in search of what she would do in the different incidents I’m facing. First thing the next morning, she always answers, telling me that she believes there is a greater plan for Ryland and that if I pray, God will hear me and strengthen me.
Raising Ryland Page 7