Raising Ryland

by Hillary Whittington

  BRYNLEY ARRIVES ON March 31, 2012. Ryland, now four years and four months old, comes to the hospital to meet her in a T-shirt that says “Big Sis,” which Jenn gave her months ago, when I first found out I was pregnant. For the past three months, Jeff and I have coached and prepped Ryland on the fact that she would need to wear it the day of Brynley’s birth. I hold my breath as I hold my infant daughter, hoping that dressing Ryland wasn’t a wrestle-fest for my in-laws. When the three of them arrive in the doorway of my hospital room, Ryland seems to hold back her excitement with shyness. I can see the pink hem of the Big Sis T-shirt sticking out from underneath her favorite blue sweatshirt.

  As soon as she approaches Brynley, Ryland seems to forget about the shirt (and everything else). She is mesmerized with this new little being as she sits next to me on the hospital bed, staring over her sister. “What do you think, Ry?” I ask her. “Do you like her?”

  Ryland nods, still taking Brynley in. She touches the pink blanket where it’s swaddled around Brynley’s chest, then she looks up to Jeff and says, “Can she come watch a movie with me now?”

  From the very beginning, Ryland takes her job as an elder sibling very seriously and is thrilled finally to have a playmate. She is ever concerned about Brynley’s well-being and security, always wondering where she is or why she’s crying, and if she can hold her. I even catch Ryland crawling into Brynley’s crib on multiple occasions, just to hang out, lie with her, and tell her stories. Ryland loves having this new companion to keep her company.

  To be honest, I love it, too. Our house has taken on a slightly different atmosphere, with Brynley becoming a nice distraction for Ryland that focuses her away from her own struggles. Now equipped with a better understanding of what Ryland’s experiences and needs are, I’ve become more flexible in going along with her requests . . . certainly, having an infant to care for demands that I do whatever is necessary to find the fastest solution to any particular conflict, too.

  But as I stand by my child, I’m aware that I’m making a choice to stand alone. It’s already clear that my in-laws are struggling to come to terms with this, and I can see that Jeff is fighting internally to know what it means, too. It’s especially tricky when any friends whom we haven’t seen in a while drop by to meet Brynley. In early April 2012, Matt and Michelle—who have had their hands very full with their own two small boys—come to visit. Jeff and I set up our front patio for us all to sit and catch up. When Matt and Michelle get out of their car, they’re carrying gifts for all of us.

  “Ryland,” says Michelle, “there’s a big-sister gift for you in here! Would you like to open it now?”

  Ryland looks at me, and I nod. “Go on, you can open it.” The present is wrapped in pink paper, and Ryland takes it hesitantly. Obediently then, she opens it. Tucked beneath the delicate pink tissue paper are sunglasses and a purse, both decorated with pretty pink-and-green watermelon slices.

  Oh no.

  “Ryland, what do you say to Matt and Michelle for getting you such a nice present?”

  “Thank you,” Ryland says politely, and puts her head down in my lap.

  I want to put my head down, too—I’m so embarrassed. Here are Jeff’s longtime friends, so thoughtful and generous to bring a big-sister gift that they thought would be appropriate for a little girl. “You’re so welcome, honey,” Michelle says sweetly, glancing at Matt, then to Jeff and me. “We hoped you would like it.”

  Ryland nods forcibly, her face still nestled in the skirt of my sundress. With all that she’s trying to cope with, I know I can’t get upset at her in front of Matt and Michelle, but I don’t know what to do. I want my little girl to be appreciative of the gifts that the people we love give to her, but I’m stuck always trying to smooth things over for her. I feel like a failure because my child isn’t “normal” by everyone else’s standard. It’s like I can’t make her fit in with all of our friends’ kids, and I have to constantly make excuses for why Ryland is different. The episode with Matt and Michelle makes me realize that if I want to keep this from happening again, I’ll have to find a way to coach everyone on what Ryland likes.

  As if that won’t be awkward.

  When Matt and Michelle leave our house, I remind Ryland how important it is to be polite and to say “thank you” when anyone presents her with a gift. I tell her that if she doesn’t like what she gets, then she’s allowed to tell me so later and I will return it. Then I secretly start a collection of boys’ coloring books and small gifts to replace any girl-oriented gifts with something more fitting for a boy. As soon as the gift bearer leaves, I swap them swiftly, and Ryland is satisfied.

  With Brynley’s arrival is the further evolution of Ryland’s preferences, simply because Jeff and I have less time than ever. I’ve finally started shopping in the boys’ department for outfits I know Ryland will wear. For Easter, we all agree on a plain collared shirt, colored bright teal, to wear to the firefighter Easter egg hunt. I buy two matching bows for Ryland’s hair, just to make sure everyone knows that she’s a girl, and I tell myself that if we all had to compromise, at least I could dress her in pretty colors.

  When we arrive at the beautiful Mission Bay Park, Ryland heads right out for the hunt and I make small talk with some of the other women, but instantly an old, familiar feeling that I’ve always had when I’m with the fire wives jars me: I’m never fully comfortable in my own skin with them. Everyone seems to accept that Jeff and I have a daughter who is an extreme tomboy; however, even apart from that, I’ve always had this very strong feeling that we don’t fit in—a distance, a feeling that with Ryland’s issues, I cannot truly relate to any of them. Their husbands are all very outspokenly male; the wives are confident in both themselves and their children. I feel like their lives are so simple and carefree, and we’ve been struggling with the complexities of navigating through Ryland’s journey. As I watch Ryland hunting separately from the other children for plastic eggs filled with candy and prizes, I feel a disconnect widening between us and the families of Jeff’s colleagues. As the Easter egg hunt draws to a close, all I want is to go hide in our house, where no one can ask questions or get to know what true pain and challenges are going on inside our home.

  As I observe this among the adults, more and more I begin to see Ryland experiencing it with children, too. In the afternoons or evenings, I often push Bryn in the stroller and walk with Ryland to the local elementary school, where she loves to ride her scooter around the park. She always seeks out the group of older boys who live in our neighborhood and seems happy just to be in their presence, but I can feel how much she longs to be a part of their crowd. She’s always the outsider, on her pink scooter with her long, blond hair flying out from underneath her blue helmet. She follows them around endlessly, and endlessly, they leave her in their dust.

  I begin to decline most invitations to hang out with our neighbors because, for multiple reasons, Ryland doesn’t fit in with their kids. I feel depressed and isolated for my little girl. I know she will always be different because of her ears, but to see a child left out of the crowd already, at such a young age, absolutely deflates a mother’s heart.

  If our circle of friends has to shrink in order for me to raise Ryland in love, then so be it. In turn, I hold on intensely to the people closest to us.

  In May 2012, when Ryland is almost four and a half, my cousin Melissa graduates from nursing school. We drive up to Riverside to see her walk on graduation day. During the ceremony, while Melissa is seated with all of her classmates, her boyfriend, Andrew, tells me that he’s going to propose to her. “Will you help me plan it?” he asks me. “I really want to surprise her.”

  I agree enthusiastically, so touched be part of such a special time in the life of the relative whom I have often considered to be as close as a sister. In July, I make up a story to lure her to the park that overlooks the beautiful Pacific Beach and Mission Bay. Andrew hires a guitarist and asks Melissa to marry him, while our family stands by watching with a
video camera. After Andrew gets down on one knee and slips the ring onto her finger, Melissa cries, tells him “Yes,” and hugs him . . . then instantly she comes to hug me. “Thank you for being part of this,” she tells me.

  “I’m so happy for you,” I tell her. “Your dream is coming true.”

  I’m alongside her in the months to follow as she makes wedding plans, and thrilled when she asks me to be her matron of honor. I tease her and tell her there’s only one condition: she has to help me plan Ryland’s fifth birthday party.

  “Deal,” she says. “You know I’d do anything for Ryland.”

  Chapter Seven

  Canvas for a Cause

  In August 2012, Ryland shows up the first day of transitional kindergarten—a grade in some California schools that’s meant to bridge the preschool experience to all-day kindergarten—wearing boys’ clothes with a yellow bow in her hair. As if Ryland doesn’t already stand out enough, what makes things harder is that she’s constantly in the office for speech therapy, a potty accident, or early dismissal because of a hearing appointment. Also, the district audiologist and her assistant regularly come to Ryland’s school to check her cochlear implants. People notice her. She’s different, and she has noticeable devices that set her apart from the other children.

  The first week, her teacher, Mrs. Sayers, gives me a subtle smile when she observes my face as Ryland exits the school. My daughter has learned to cope with the fashion dilemmas we’re facing by zipping her jacket all the way up if she doesn’t feel that her outfit is masculine enough.

  That October, however, her Halloween costume is plenty masculine: Ryland wants to be Iron Man. Jenn and her in-laws host us for a trick-or-treating pre-party with chili dogs and plenty of candy. As we make our way around their neighborhood gathering treats, we meet a little boy who also is dressed as Iron Man. “What’s your name?” Ryland asks him.

  “It’s Rylan.”

  Ryland looks up at me: it’s her very same name without a “D” at the end, and it’s her realization that if she were a boy, she could still be called Ryland.

  Looking for ways to evolve Ryland’s interests in a way that stays in line with who she is, Jeff and I register her for the Purple Panthers—a little girls’ soccer team in our area. Because he and I both like the sport, and because we want to make sure Ryland learns the game from someone who is sensitive to her issues with hearing, we both also volunteer to be assistant coaches. Often, I chat with the other moms while sitting on a big beach blanket with Brynley, but when Jeff has to work a fire shift, I jump in and take his place.

  Ryland dreads the uniform with a special passion, but Jeff has a conversation with Ryland about how we cannot choose the color of the soccer uniforms, and her team may be assigned pink or purple. Ryland reluctantly accepts this possibility, and Jeff also finds a way to make her feel more on board: he says that whatever the team’s color is, he will buy a shirt to match it. As soon as the head coach informs us that the team will be called the Purple Panthers, Jeff goes to a sporting goods store and buys a purple workout shirt to wear every Saturday, which succeeds in making Ryland a little more willing.

  That December, Melissa helps me plan an over-the-top fifth birthday party with a Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory theme (which I have determined is boy-oriented enough for Ryland but will appeal to kids of both genders). Melissa and I spend our time together crafting oversize Wonka bars, and colorful balloon lollipops. She borrows her mom’s chocolate fondue fountain as the perfect finishing touch.

  By this time I’ve confided in most of our friends that Ryland is a tomboy, and I make sure that everyone we invite is someone who knows that Ryland prefers “boy things,” but, just to be safe, we arrange for Ryland to open her gifts after her guests have left. She’s thrilled to receive mostly masculine gifts, except for one girl’s shirt presented by one of our neighbors, which, all things considered, isn’t too bad at all.

  With the holiday planning, birthday party planning, wedding planning, and two little ones to take care of, when Jeff gets a weekend off in December, Melissa is the first person to offer to babysit Ryland and Brynley overnight so that Jeff and I can take a trip together. For a couple of days after she offers, I hesitate, thinking of how much Ryland needs me—not to mention the fact that Brynley is only nine months old and still nursing. I’m also not quite sure how to deal with the fact that Melissa has asked Ryland to be her flower girl in her wedding. When she brought it up one day with us, she tried to coax Ryland into saying she would wear a dress. I’m avoiding the conversation as much as possible because I know it’s a real source of anxiety for Ry.

  But I remember that my husband needs my attention, too, and how at the heart of our family is our marriage. We agree to take Melissa up on her offer, and we make a plan to travel to Las Vegas right after Christmas.

  The trip’s timing falls at a point when we particularly need to get away together: Ryland’s issues have hit the fan.

  In December 2012, I’m in our office preparing to get our holiday cards out in time for the season. Jeff is at work, Brynley is napping, and Ryland is seated beside me in the office, playing Starfall on the computer, choosing the boy-gendered character, as usual.

  She glances over to see what I’m up to as I pull the cellophane wrap off the labels and the cards, delighted that they’ve turned out so adorably. I start to make piles—cards, envelopes, labels—for an easy assembly line of signing, stuffing, and stamping.

  Ryland walks over and glances down at the Christmas card. The professional photograph on the front displays a print of Ryland and Brynley. Ryland is wearing a leopard fedora hat with a matching tie and vest, while Brynley is dressed in a matching leopard print jacket (originally a present from Macie that was intended for Ryland a few years ago).

  Then Ryland picks up one of the return address labels. “Are your hands clean, honey?” I ask her.

  “Yes,” she says. She examines one, fully interested. Lined up on the flap of the envelope are faces of our family, emulated with little cartoon characters dressed in a festive spirit that speaks to each of our personalities. There’s a man wearing a Santa hat to represent Jeff, a character with long, light brown hair and reindeer horns for me, a long-blond-haired girl with a cowboy hat for Ry, a baby with a bow on her head for Bryn, and a tan dog—Kobe. Below that appears our return address.

  “Mom,” Ryland says angrily, “how could you do that to me?!”

  I look down at my five-year-old. “Do what to you?!”

  “Make me look like that?!”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a girl!”

  I set down my pen. “Ryland—what do you mean? I gave you long blond hair because you have long blond hair, and I gave you a cowboy hat because you love cowboy hats!”

  Ryland’s eyes begin to fill with tears. I see her bottom lip get tight as she holds back her pain.

  “How should I make you look for next time?” I say, scrounging for a fix, trying to mend what is already shattered. I am so dumbfounded. What do I do or say in this moment? I know Ryland is in pain, and I’m struggling to figure out how to help my baby. It’s such a lonely feeling when you know there is something your child is struggling with but you don’t know how to help them. As parents, we all want to see our children grow and prosper as happy kids, then as well-adjusted teens and self-sufficient adults. We do our best to guide and teach our children when they’re young, so that they will learn to be self sufficient, disciplined contributors to society who know how to deal with their own unique emotions. I think of my parents, and how they could probably understand what I’m going through; how they tried so hard to help my brother with his drug addiction. They could never seem to do enough, and I know how much pain that knowledge brought them even before the final outcome, when we lost him. The thought of this overwhelms me with fear about the same for my child.

  Ryland doesn’t say much until later that night. She’s with me in my bedroom, where we usually read books and fall asl
eep together on nights when Jeff is working fire. I love to cuddle with her while Jeff is away, and I know it must be even harder for a deaf child to find comfort alone in a dark room. We remove the external portion of her implants when she sleeps, leaving her in complete silence and darkness. Knowing how frightening this may be, I have a soft spot when it comes to Ryland sleeping in our bed.

  Before we take out the external implants, she lies on her tummy while I scratch her back lightly—one of her favorite things in the world. “Mom,” she says. “When is Daddy coming home?”

  “He’ll be home tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay,” she says. “What are we doing tomorrow?”

  “You have school, and then . . .” Here, I pause. I can tell Ryland is thinking about what to say next.

  “Mom . . .” she says. She wiggles away from me and sits up. Suddenly her voice is quivering. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure, Ry. What’s wrong, honey?”

  “Mom, when the family dies . . . can I cut my hair so I can be a boy?”

  My heart drops. Time stops. I look at her, but she is staring ahead—my stoic little child—waiting for my answer. By the expression on her face, I can see that she understands the significance of what she’s just asked me. But why should we have to die for Ryland to cut her hair and feel happy, whatever that requires?

  I don’t know how to respond. I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff. This is the moment when I have to choose between Ryland’s happiness and being a “normal” family. I’ve seen and read enough to know what’s coming next: this is going to shake my marriage. While I have been reading Ryland’s behaviors very closely between the lines, Jeff has at times suggested that I’ve been “jumping to conclusions.” For him, it would be ideal if Ryland were to come out and say, “Dad, you and I need to have a talk. There’s something I need to share with you: I am transgender.” But even if they had the cognitive capacity to do so, most five-year-olds would never initiate a serious conversation about their gender identity. No matter how many signs Ryland has shown us, it’s been up to me to raise the issue.