There is something quite melancholy about being a grandparent. Yes, of course, it is a joyful experience. But it is a sharp, poignant reminder of how fast time goes by. You vividly recall your own experience as a new, naive, scared mother. You remember wanting the best for the little person you brought into the world.
Originally Published by Pitt through Substack
I have been engrossed for over eight years in my son’s transgender identity. The pain is very real for us parents. Many words have flowed from me, other parents, mental health professionals and allies who get it. Words like loss, grief, mourning, confusion, sadness, isolation, distress, etc. Like many of the parents with which I share this misery, the pain remains for years. It never goes away. It just gets commonplace in life. The heavy sadness becomes your shadow. You learn ways to numb the pain in order to function and go on with routines of life.
As I continue to struggle, I face a new act in this melodrama. I was recently blessed with grandchildren. My trans identifying son’s older siblings now have children. How will all this be handled with them? Will their uncle be referred to as their aunt? How will this be explained to their young impressionable minds? Will the gender ideology virus be passed to another generation in my family? This thought terrifies me.
This unhealthy ideology may warp the innocent minds of my grandchildren. Injecting the idea that their parents’ younger brother is to be referred to as a woman is beyond confusing for a young child. Will this trans virus be reinforced in the greater world as it has been for more than a decade now? Since youngsters naturally believe what their parents tell them in the early years, I wonder if this ideology will be imprinted on their impressionable minds? It feels as if my sweet young grandchildren are being set up for more of this nightmare. My instinct to protect them will be in direct conflict with how my children want to parent. Just introducing my son to them as their aunt will have a strong impact on how they think. It is a great affront to the natural innocence of young children. This takes an already very difficult situation to a new level.
I worry about what they will think of themselves in a few years. Little children that go to daycare or start preschool at age three are being exposed to these ideas. In addition, gender confusion is ubiquitous on the internet, children’s TV programs and story time at the local library. Will this new generation get indoctrinated at an even younger age than my kids were? How do we undo these ideas once implanted in my grandkid’s minds? It is so concerning. The trans agenda is already infecting the next generation.
How can I handle this psychologically? I now have even more eggshells to walk on. Listening to my other kids refer to their younger brother with his new legal, female name is quite distressing. Having his older sister and brother-in-law (both of whom he admires) affirm his delusion is already heartbreaking for me. But their son doing the same is even worse. Moving this mass hysteria into the next generation of my family feels almost unbearable. This is another big step in erasing my son. Certainly, it is a big step toward rewriting my family history.
I have struggled through these awful years to hang onto my son’s existence in my own mind. Despite his appearance, name change, and affirmation from those around him I have been able to hold onto a sliver of the boy I raised. I am so scared that the sliver will slip away and the hole in my life, in the shape of my son will widen. I should be able to enjoy my precious grandchildren without sadness and resentment. If they are forced by their parents to refer to my son with his trans identity then I’m in a situation where being with them becomes painful. How sad is that?
In addition to all the family dynamics around my grandchildren’s uncle there is one more complicating factor. There is something quite melancholy about being a grandparent. Yes, of course, it is a joyful experience. But it is a sharp, poignant reminder of how fast time goes by. You vividly recall your own experience as a new, naive, scared mother. You remember wanting the best for the little person you brought into the world. Well, the best hasn’t worked out for my third child. The little boy I nurtured for over two decades never grew up to accept himself. I fear this is about to be reinforced by my youngest family members.
