An Angry Rant

I’ve been angry before. Many times. But the fuming type of burn it all down rage I’m experiencing right now is possibly within the top ten angriest moments of my life. And it’s all because a facial expression and an eye roll.

I may have mentioned before in a previous post that my middle son is gender fluid. He identifies as a boy, he does many traditional “boy” things, but he’s always liked “girl” styles as far as clothes, hair, etc., and he does carry himself in what would be considered a traditionally feminine way. The important part though is that he is a happy, sweet, and so far, a well-adjusted nine-year old child. He’s popular, everyone in his school loves him, and even though we live in a small southern town in the bible belt he has gotten almost nothing but positive support as far as his differences to the norm goes.

He also has some nasty allergy problems. That’s why he had an appointment at the allergists this morning. The appointment part went fine. Checkout on the other hand did not go fine. I mean as far as my son was concerned it went fine. For me though…

We needed a Doctors note for his tardiness to school and this is usually taken care of by one of the two receptionist that sit up in the front of the clinic. This time was no different. The woman I was dealing with asked me if “she”, speaking about my son, was going back to school today. The other receptionist offhandedly corrected her by saying “he”. The first woman looked at me quizzically, I said don’t worry about it, it happens all the time, and a look of abject horror and disgust crossed this woman’s bloated face – and just so you get the proper visual, this is the bloated face that is sitting directly under her bottled blond “let me talk to your manager” haircut and drawn on eyebrows. She glances over at my son, who is lucky distracted by the lobby’s Christmas tree, looks at me, looks back at my son, rolls her eyes, shakes her head, and mutters “oh sorry” in exactly the tone you’re most likely imagining right now.

At that point I came within a gnats ass of asking her if she had an opinion that she would like to share with me but not wanting to make a scene for the sake of my son I just glared at her until we finished our business.

So now he’s in school and I’m home pounding this out on my keyboard while listening to the angriest thrash metal I can find knowing that there is nothing I can do about the rage that this judgmental conformist cunt has caused me. She technically had done nothing but let her private thoughts briefly show in her body language and I am not the thought police.

But what if my son would have seen that look? How would that have affected him? He’s just being who he is and not hurting a soul.

Wait, I take that back! My nine year-old’s very existence is obviously causing great pain to small-minded, judgmental, ignorant people all across the world, including, but not limited to, that miserable piece of shit working behind the desk at his allergists.

I could write a strongly written letter to the practice, or even go back and confront her, but I’ve seen enough humans like her to know it wouldn’t do any good. She had the air of one of those people who could be on their third unhappy marriage and whose grown children had stopped talking to them and the thought that it might have something to do with her would never cross her tiny little narrow mind.

My only hope is that she’s the way she is because she’s terribly unhappy in life. And I do feel a touch guilty about saying this, but the thought that she’s miserable does bring me a little joy in this situation.



My Children: a brief summary

I’ve got three of them. All boys. The youngest is six, the oldest is thirteen, and the middle boy is nine.

The middle one, the nine-year old, he’s only comfortable wearing what would traditionally be considered girl’s clothes; dresses, skirts, glitter, sequins, rainbows, kittens, pinks, purples, etc.. He has a beautiful head of long, thick, dark, wavy hair that makes most women jealous. He’s a fan of wearing dark purple and black lipsticks. He’ll also get super pissed if you mistake him for a girl and is willing to throw down on the playground if you talk shit. One day he’s going to be the most popular person at the drag club.

My oldest is hyper-intelligent, witty, creative, can’t tie his own shoes, and wouldn’t notice Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster getting it on next to him on the living room couch unless someone deliberately pointed it out to him. He’s been tested repeatedly to see if he’s on the spectrum but the professionals have all said no. One doctor did say that the boy might not beĀ on the spectrum but definitely has a very clear view of it from where he stands. He’ll also from time to time tell me how hot he thinks some random guy on the television is and then stare at me with a blank face to see if I react. I still haven’t decided if it’s his way of letting me know he’s gay (he’s admitted to his mother that he thinks he might be but I’m not supposed to know that) or if he’s just fucking with me for his own amusement.

My youngest is so destructive he gets fan letters from natural disasters praising him for his work. He started talking at two and hasn’t stopped once in four years. His mother and I have had strangers who have observed our interactions with him in public places come up to us and ask if he’s always like that and then comment about how exhausted we must be. Once the vice principal of his school asked him if he had a good day and he answered that yes, he had a very good day. “Oh yeah? Well I heard you spent some time in recovery today,” the vice principal said. “Yes. That is true,” he answered. “How was it a good day if you got in trouble?” she asked. “Because I had fun!” And he did, because he always has fun. So. Much. FUN. I’m personally tired of the fun.

So, yeah… those are my children. They are the greatest joys in my life and the reason I occasionally weigh the pros and cons of becoming a functioning alcoholic. You’ll be hearing a lot about them in the future.