This winter was our coldest, longest, iciest in my memory. Burrrrr!!
A bright spot came in the form of three fat white chickens. They appeared one day in early December and pecked in our side yard beyond the fence where small patches of earth appeared in occasional melts. We live in a rural-ish part of town.
The chickens have been a delight to watch. Our dogs have spent nearly 4 months now barking and pouncing and leaping at the “chicken show”. Sadly, over time only two chickens came back, then one, then a new, dark chicken appeared.
The dark chicken has been the only little visitor of late. She hung around our side yard for days on end with occasional forays into the front yard.
That is until yesterday. Apparently she was depressed, but not too knackered to fly over our fence and into our yard. My Olive was elated to finally play with her feathered friend.
It did not end well. I will miss that chicken.
via Daily Prompt: Knackered
Went for the low hanging fruit this morning. I’m just saying.
The sheer confidence of it all!
Never had the angst, bravado, nor enough hair to do such a thing.
But they seem to enjoy their hair to no end. I like that.
Daily Prompt: Spike
Spikes by Mike Freedman
Gracie by Jason Hargrove
Come-hither signage. Curbed lane approach. Illuminated menu.
Smell of french fries wafts and seduces and begs selection.
Static speaker. Sliding window. Bags and cups and straws.
Trappings of the drive-in.
via Daily Prompt: Fry
photo by KatKen
My third child was born into a female body.
She was a girl, a curvy woman, my daughter. Tomboy? Yes, but a girl nonetheless. She was born into a time when women could be more: More assertive, more physical, more bold. And women could be less: Less feminine. Less dependent. Less docile. And I thought that was enough.
She was midway into her 20s before she shared with us that she was lesbian. The news was not hard. The few tears shed were those of sadness for any pain she suffered in delaying the news. She met and later married a wonderful young woman who we love as our own. They compliment each other beautifully.
Several months back we learned
she is trans gendered. I won’t lie, the news was hard. Could this be true? Could my daughter actually be a boy? What is the difference between being, say, a “butch lesbian”, and being trans gendered? Fear gripped my throat. She is my little girl! Can a mother bury her daughter only to give birth to her again as a him? Is it possible to relearn everything you know about a loved one?
The data I read and hear lays flat. I have no feel for what I am taking in. It is foreign. Cisgender. Binary. Preposition of Choice. They and Them. It is a slow learning curve.
Will this ever become rote?
Note: This post is published with my child’s permission. Use of strikethrough serves as a “visual aid” in helping me to recognize the frequency that gender preposition is used in my everyday thought and language.
Photo Sony Reproductive System by John Watson
“If you want to destroy my sweater…hold this thread as I walk away”
Lyrics – “Undone” by Weezer
Photo by Jeff Egnaczyk
Via Daily Prompt: Unravel