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Tuesday, Feb 22, 2011 2:01 AM UTC2011-02-22T02:01:00Zl, M j, Y g:i A T

My son, the pink boy

Moms ask if my "feminine" son is gay. Strangers tell me I'm being too permissive. Here's what they don't understand

My son, the pink boy

A random mom on the playground, looking serious and a little bit concerned, asks me, “Do you think your son might grow up to be gay?”

It’s never crossed my mind. Really. Not since that last Random Mom asked me five minutes ago.

Watching Sam on the monkey bars, his long hair blowing in the wind, I say, “I don’t know. He’s always just liked feminine things.”

Random Mom looks at me like she knows something I don’t.

Random Moms across America think they know: My son has got to be gay. He wears khakis today but wore a dress to school from age 4 to 6; he used to do ballet and still doesn’t like sports; in preschool he was all about playing princess but now is all about Pokemon; and, in spite of the clear gender divisions in third grade, he plays with both girls and boys. I mean, what straight boy is into that kinda freaky gender mash-up?

Well, my husband, for one. And all metrosexuals, for another coupla-million-ish. My husband used to help his mother choose curtains. He now drives a motorcycle and hunts deer. He still likes curtains, which he now calls “window treatments” (How gay is that? Random Mom mutters). But really, haven’t you met a guy like this, the one you think is gay when you first met him, but then realize that his sexuality doesn’t match his gender presentation?

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  More Sarah Hoffman

Tuesday, Feb 7, 2012 1:00 AM UTC2012-02-07T01:00:00Zl, M j, Y g:i A T

My ex went to prison for sex crimes

He ruined our marriage but never my family. It took years of struggle, and a long road trip, to let go of the pain

arrest

 (Credit: iStockphoto/shakzu)

People assume the wife knows. Not really. I found out about my former husband’s descent into pedophilia at the same time the rest of the world did — on the 10 o’clock news.

My mind could not comprehend what my eyes were seeing. I studied his mug shot on TV. Here was the face of the man I had loved, the cleft in his chin, his square jaw, the soft, smooth skin just below his eyes, which I’d kissed a thousand times. Who was this broken man with the downcast eyes? Did he look away when the shutter closed because he was thinking of his children? What happened to the proud young father who cradled his newborns like fragile glass, the guy with a contagious laugh and shiny blue eyes, who owned any room he walked into?  A hometown celebrity, a respected journalist, with a good wife and four great kids — now, reduced to this. Who was this man?

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Jean Ellen Whatley is a writer in St. Louis, Missouri. This is an excerpt from her forthcoming book, "Off the Leash: A Woman, Her Dog and the Road Trip to Revival."  More Jean Ellen Whatley

Monday, Jan 30, 2012 11:55 PM UTC2012-01-30T23:55:00Zl, M j, Y g:i A T

Was I selfish to have fertility treatments?

As the mother of twins, I know people suspect I had help getting pregnant. But why am I so self-conscious about it?

babies

 (Credit: Franz Pfluegl via Shutterstock)

When I found out I was pregnant with twins, one of my first thoughts was, “Great. Now everyone’s going to wonder if I had fertility treatments.”

And they do: People ask all kinds of probing questions — from the sometimes innocent, “Do twins run in your family?” to the blatant, “Was it natural?”

And it wasn’t. Our twins were the result of ovulation stimulation drugs and an IUI (intrauterine insemination).

But the question I started asking myself was: Why should I care if people suspected or knew I needed “help” getting pregnant? Especially in an age in which so many women seek medical intervention when they have trouble conceiving. And especially at a time when twins are becoming the new normal: Recently, the CDC reported that 1 in every 30 babies born in the United States today is a twin.

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Jane Roper’s memoir of twin pregnancy, parenting and clinical depression, "Double Time," will be published in May by St. Martin’s Press. She blogs at Baby Squared on Babble, and lives in the Boston area.  More Jane Roper

Thursday, Jan 26, 2012 12:15 AM UTC2012-01-26T00:15:00Zl, M j, Y g:i A T

Stop diagnosing my son

When we adopted Jake at 7, we waited years before letting a psychologist label him. Others haven't been so kind

diagnosed_boy

 (Credit: Shutterstock)

“Sounds like your son has Asperger’s syndrome,” she said. “Have you ever thought of that?”

I looked back at my son, hanging upside down on the monkey bars. “Sounds like you have Asshole syndrome,” I said. “Have you ever thought of that?”

In my head, I said that. What I said out loud was something like, “We think he’s just Jake, and that’s good enough for us.”

“Well, he might have Asperger’s,” she pursued. “And you should have him tested.”

“Well, you might be a bitch,” I said, in my head. “Is there a test for that?”

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Debra Hanlon is a former high school English teacher and community college composition and literature instructor, now a home-school mom. She lives in northern Illinois with her husband, her son and their five German shepherds. Her occasional blog is LifeItIs.org—Insights and Incidents.  More Debra Hanlon

Tuesday, Jan 24, 2012 10:56 PM UTC2012-01-24T22:56:00Zl, M j, Y g:i A T

Losing my husband, 140 characters at a time

After Kevin got cancer, all my rage and isolation went onto Twitter. Was I embarrassing myself, or rescuing myself?

Losing my hubsand 140 characters at a time

There was a time when I kept private journals, chronicling stories of time with my husband as if words could nail down a life and build strong, warm walls around us. That was before cancer. A kind you’ve hopefully never heard of, a sure, slow killer. Once we’d slogged through a couple of years there, I logged into Twitter and didn’t grapple with whether or why. Rather than holding us together now, I was a spectacle of flying apart. Twitter unleashed my inner ranting-woman-on-the-subway. You know the one — no inhibitions, breaking the code of civilized silence.

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Lee Ann Cox is a writer whose work has appeared in the New York Times and other national publications. She is working on a memoir weaving her Tweets and excerpts from Card Blue, her late husband’s blog, into a tale of love and cancer, online and off.  More Lee Ann Cox

Saturday, Jan 21, 2012 8:00 PM UTC2012-01-21T20:00:00Zl, M j, Y g:i A T

Our successful open marriage

My husband and I may seem strange for wanting multiple partners. To my kids, this is what normal looks like

Our open marriage works

 (Credit: Dmitri Mikitenko via Shutterstock)

I spent a recent weekend up in Maine with my girlfriend and our three kids. We went on long canoe trips, made mountains of buttery waffles, and read Rainbow Fairy books aloud till the words blurred together on the page. When the kids had gone to bed and the house was quiet, we crawled into bed and had sex so hot I thought the sheets might catch fire.

When I got home, I told my husband all about it.

My marriage is open. It’s also happy and stable. After I shared our mountain adventures, he filled me in on the highlights of his weekend: a small triumph at work, some quality time with his girlfriend, a successful home repair. We curled up at the end of the night, watched some old “Dr. Who” episodes and went to sleep in each other’s arms.

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Sierra Black lives in the Boston area with her family. She is a frequent contributor to Babble, and blogs about her family life at Childwild. She and her husband will celebrate their 10th anniversary together this year.   More Sierra Black

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