motherhood

Hey, So, My Son is Gay

/ Jeannine M. DeHart / 4 Comments
Photo by:  https://www.pexels.com/@martabranco

Eighteen months ago, on a brilliant fall day, the sky cerulean with nary a cloud visible, my 16-year-old son was driving, while I rode shotgun on the way to his step-sister’s softball tournament. I was still getting used to him driving with his learner’s permit while I did my best to remain calm in the passenger’s seat. Unlike my mother who had screeched and sucked in her breath sharply at every turn when I learned to drive. Suddenly, my son leaned forward and turned off the music. That was my signature car move over the years when I needed to discuss something serious with him; answering the ‘where do babies come from’ question, warning of the dangers of drugs and alcohol when he was a pre-teen, wading through the murky waters of custody and divorce from his dad. These discussions began in the car with me leaning forward to turn off the music. The enclosed, quiet privacy of the car combined with my eyes facing forward, always lent itself well to tackling tricky conversations. I knew this gesture signified he was about to say something heartfelt and important. I tried to squelch the internal panic I felt give rise in my belly. Utoh.

“Mom, I have something to tell you,” he hesitated.

I knew his hesitation wasn’t fear-based; I was confident our relationship transcended the inability to speak about difficult things. Tough conversations, while not always comfortable, came with an ease well-cultivated from a long-trusted, loving, calm, relationship between us.

“Ok,” I said trying to sound nonchalant.

“I didn’t tell you the whole story about why Meg and I broke up,” he said about his recent girlfriend of nine months.

Please, please, please don’t let her be pregnant.

“I really don’t know how to say this,” he struggled a bit.

“It’s ok, whatever it is, you know you can tell me,” I assured. Except if she’s pregnant, don’t tell me that.

A long silence ensued. I tried not to let the lull panic me.

“Mom, I think I’m gay,” he said, “No, actually, I know I’m gay,” he quickly corrected.

“Oh, ok,” I shrugged and sighed with relief. No premature grandchildren for me.

We talked more about how and when he came to the realization about his sexuality. While I had a few inklings along the way, I’m not one of those moms who can solidly say I knew my son was gay. He said I could tell a few, trusted people, and everyone else he would tell when it felt right. By the time we arrived at the softball tournament, we had covered a lot of ground about the reveal. My head was spinning, to be honest. I took a few minutes to call my best-friend-since-sixth-grade. She was on the shortlist of trusted people. I wasn’t shocked or disappointed or anything of that sort but needed to talk it over with someone close to my heart. My world suddenly felt a bit off-kilter, not because my son was gay, but because everything I thought I knew about him was suddenly different. Not different in a negative way, just different in that I thought I knew my son inside and out. It’s strange as parents how we see our children one way, but our view may not always be accurate.

As days went by, I was overcome with a bevy of emotions, but the weightiest one was pride. I am proud my son is secure enough in himself to come out. I am proud of the relationship I have built with him, which allowed him to know he would be fully embraced and loved in the same manner he’d always been. I had to do a little mental shift in thinking when it came to his future. I had long assumed the heterosexual social constructs of traditional marriage and kids would apply to him. Now, my vision for his future involves a husband instead of a wife and as a bonus, no unplanned pregnancies.

Shortly after coming out, he began seeing someone or as the teens call it ‘talking to’ someone. There was a shift in our household rules. Previously, friends of the opposite sex weren’t allowed in the teens’ rooms unless the door remained open in hopes we quelched the temptation to explore. Suddenly, guys were not allowed in my son’s room with the door closed, but when he asked if a female friend could stay over, I had to think for a minute. It was similar to my step-daughter asking to have a girlfriend sleepover, right? The waters became a little muddy in that regard, but we all adjusted fairly easily. There were other adjustments in thinking and in rules and in discussion, but nothing earthshattering or difficult to embrace.

As more time passed, a fear I didn’t anticipate began to grow just beneath my surface, almost reaching a panicked crescendo. I was a teenager in high school during the height of the AIDS epidemic when discrimination, violence, and misconceptions about the LGBTQ community often made headlines. I remember watching a gay high school classmate being shoved hard against a locker by four upperclassmen while they vehemently called him a faggot. As a society, we have come a long way from those days, yet the LGBTQ community remains marginalized. I deeply thank all the brave souls who went before my son, clearing the way for him to openly embrace his sexual orientation. He is proudly out and about among most of his family, friends, and classmates without having experienced any negative reactions. Gen Z is much more open and accepting than my Gen X was about sexual orientation, gender fluidity, and sex as a whole, which is a beautiful thing.

Since my son’s coming out, members of marginalized communities have moved from my peripheral vision into my direct line of sight. There are no longer six degrees of separation between me and any marginalized community. I am suddenly seeing things from a very different perspective. I should have been seeing things differently all along, but experience has a way of teaching us new lessons. It’s hard for me to hear off-color gay jokes. I cringe when people use the word gay in a derogatory manner. These things irritated me before, but now they hit me in a completely different way, equivalent to a gut punch. Hey, you’re talking about my SON.

Then there is the fear that someday someone may treat my son differently simply because he is gay. In my head that sounds a lot like, oh my fucking god, someone may want to hurt my son because he likes guys! As the college acceptance offers roll in, and I think of him being away from home next year with new friends and a new environment, my fear rolls in, as well, like a dense fog. When I express this fear to him, he waves me away with a hand, “Mom, it’s not like that anymore,” he says rolling his eyes. I know he is partially right, but he is also somewhat naïve at almost eighteen. There are still biases and hateful people in the world who act upon those biases. When I bring it up to my friends, they often say the same and assure me there is no need to worry. Yet, I do worry. As parents, we want nothing more than for our kids to be ok. Thinking of my son going away to college feels like putting him on the kindergarten bus for the very first time. Please world, be good to my son.

I do have confidence in my son’s ability to navigate these waters, despite my concerns and fears. He is a well-grounded, smart guy who I’m sure will make his way in this world even with a worrying mom in the background. I look forward to the day when and if he falls in love and finds a life partner and maybe decides to have kids.

As for me, I have told a handful of people my son is gay. Previously, I was selective in who I revealed this to for fear of judgment or lack of acceptance but screw that. I’ve since realized it’s important for me to come out as a gay teen’s mom in support of my son.

Lost and Found in a Pandemic

/ Jeannine M. DeHart / Leave a comment
Image for post
Photo Jens Johnsson@pixels.com

What a mother 2020 is turning out to be, huh? Pandemic, mystery seeds from China, Tik Tok controversy, presidential election, political divides, and racial tensions. I don’t know about you, but I feel like I’ve been on a roller coaster ride for the last five months and not a short-lived, fun-filled ride. More one that makes you puke when the coaster rolls into the station.

Shortly after the pandemic began, New Jersey was inundated with COVID-19 cases and I found myself unexpectedly working from home. I was excited by the prospect of having three hours of commute time to use in more productive ways than sitting in NJ highway traffic. I was excited to be the kind of present mom that working full-time had disallowed. I even wrote a couple of articles about how great all of this would be and how there was a silver lining to lockdown. I was so funny. I had grand, grand plans — I would clean the pantries, stock up on essentials in case the worst happened. I would make homemade, nutritious meals, and serve them at the proper dinner hour instead of at 8:30 pm. I would edit and polish my manuscript and shop it out to agents. I was excited about this new work from home gig.

At first, I did do many of these things. I greeted the teens with hugs and fresh eggs and toast for breakfast, or whatever their little hearts desired. A few hours later, I would make a healthy lunch for them, as well, and then start planning dinner around 3:00 pm. I promised myself I would workout every day and use the extra time to run a few more miles, too. I stoked my passion for trail running again, by getting out for lunchtime runs. I baked multi-grain bread, and homemade croissants that I had been promising to make for years, and years. I folded loads and loads of laundry. I painted and redecorated our laundry room. I cleaned feverishly to keep the germs at bay that my husband, a nurse, brought home from the hospital. I plowed full-steam ahead.

One day, I found myself getting irritated with the teen’s needy requests for breakfast, then lunch, then dinner. Really, what am I doing? I felt resentment seeping into my little, perfect, pandemic world. I mean, they’re both teenagers old enough to take care of their own meals. Next, I found it hard to sleep. All the tasks I had required of myself poked at my psyche while I tried to sleep, coupled with worries about catching the virus and what that would mean for our family. During the day, I found myself getting teary for seemingly no reason and feeling anxious. Still, I continued to pressure myself to get all the things done, ignoring the fact that I was also working a full-time job in the middle of trying to play Susie Homemaker.

I was learning how to navigate working from home with new technology, finding workarounds for easy, everyday corporate tasks, keeping in touch with those who work for me, and trying to sustain and prove my value within my new workplace environment. In addition, I don’t have dedicated office space at home, but rather shared our living room with two teenagers who were remote learning and navigating their own set of social and educational changes. At first, we managed to successfully occupy the same space all day, day after day until later in the afternoons when they were done with school and I still had work to do that required attention to detail. I found myself annoyed at every turn from normal teenage happenings. Add to the mix, my husband working on the frontlines, and I was struggling — hard.

One day, an email popped up from my gynecologist, which read something along the lines of ‘these are stressful times, and many of us may be feeling anxiety and depression. We are prepared to handle these issues via telemedicine.” Feeling exceedingly desperate, I called to make an appointment. I am hard-pressed to take an Advil for a headache, so talking this step was difficult for me, but I knew something had to change. I had been down this road seven years ago when my mom passed away, so I knew the anxious-trying-to-keep-it-altogether feeling and I knew medication had helped before. Days prior to the telemedicine appointment I felt dread, defeat, but also hope that I could find a way to manage some of what I was experiencing. My gyn discussed some options and I decided a short-term, short-acting anti-anxiety medication was worth a go. I filled my prescription, initially not even telling my husband. I was too embarrassed. I was keeping it all together, after all.

Despite my reservations about taking it, the medication certainly helped. I could finally sleep and give myself a little breather from all that was weighing me down. In this clarity, I realized I could no longer keep up the frantic, pandemic pace, and unrealistic expectations I had set for myself. I needed to make some serious changes.

First off, I fired myself as breakfast cook, and let the kids handle that unless I truly had the time and would enjoy making it. I let them fend for themselves for lunch. I stopped trying to bake homemade goodies and complicated dinners every day. I stopped vacuuming and scrubbing and disinfecting every day and somedays let the laundry pile grow large. I have a plan to carve out some dedicated office space before school starts up again, as it looks like we’ll all be home toiling away on our computers this fall. I’ve given myself permission to embrace the fact that these are uncertain, often scary times. I have allowed myself to adapt gently without feeling like I have to get everything done and get it done now. There are still days when I find myself chasing that non-existent Susie-Homemaker-Work-from-home rock star, but I try to temper the feeling with a heavy dose of reality.

If you’re struggling, like I was, don’t hesitate to reach out to friends, family, or professionals to help sort through those feeling so you can find balance again. I wish I had done it sooner. It is important to remember these are unprecedented times, and there is no right way to tackle every feeling and every new adjustment/development this pandemic is tossing at us. I lost myself for a little while in the thick of the pandemic chaos, but I also found how to take care of me.