Last night, as he was going to sleep, my son J. asked me “how do you know you want to become a girl?”

I replied “I know that I need to be girl. I’ve always wanted to be girl. Even at your age, I knew that I wanted to be girl. Some people—but not many—are born like that. Some girls are born needing to be boys, and some boys are born needing to be girls.” I paused, and then asked the obvious question: “How are you feeling about my becoming a girl, J.?”

“Not really great,” he said, rolling his head to face away from me as he spoke.

Sadness blossomed inside me. I had no idea how to respond. Don’t try to argue with is feelings, I told myself. I was lying on my side, next to him on the bed. “I’m sorry that you feel that way, honey. Do you think you can tell me why you feel that way?”

“It just feels different, that’s all,” sniffling.

“I think that might be because I’ve been sick.”

“No—it’s different. Like, when I look at Richard (his friend’s dad, asleep upstairs), or at Sean, A.’s dad, it makes me feel sad.”

“Because your Dad’s not going to be a man anymore. What about S.? He has two moms. Do you want to talk about this with him?” (S’ mom is lesbian.)

“It works different for him. He has a dad and two moms, and Jeannine is his step-mom.”

“And you don’t have a Dad anymore at all.” This is one of those moments when I’m in awe of him, for having identified the exact sort of loss he’s incurring in such stark detail.

“Right! And I’m also mad and you guys for taking so long to tell me!” By now, we’re both crying.

“J.! This is serious adult stuff! We told you as soon as we could. Your mother and I have done the best we can with this!” I could not believe I was saying this to my five year old son. This sort of frankness is reserved for older children.

“Why are you crying?” he asked, sobbing himself.

“Because I made you sad, bear!”

“Oh. Don’t worry Daddy!”

He feels guilty for making me cry. This is amazing. “J. this has been hard for everyone. For all of us. It’s ok for you to be sad about it. And’s it’s ok for me to be sad about it. But it’s going to work out. I promise you. You still want me, and your mom, as your parents, right?” He nodded, tears beading on his cheekbones.

“I promise it will work out,” I repeated, wishing I could be more sure I could deliver on that promise.

Later, after I’d stood in the bathroom sobbing for a while, I was able to put it into better perspective. In the couple of weeks since I came out to him, he has zeroed in precisely on the issues this presents, specifically for him:

- If my daddy becomes a girl, how will other people understand that?
- My father’s queerness queers my family. From now on, I’ll have no manly archetype of Daddy to guard my legitimacy.

It amazes me to see him pick out the loss of privilege so quickly. He lost the ability to refer to “Daddy” and expect others to understand the sort of person he was referring to. That’s a tangible loss that he has reason to feel sad about. On the whole, he wouldn’t have me not be me, or stop wanting to be my son, or loving me, but he’s incurring losses, and he knows it. Ouch.

Being five, he seemed to take the whole thing in stride. I woke up shattered; he was completely fine, and delighted to hang out with me. Cuddly, in fact. Within an hour or two he had forgotten that too, and was buzzing off with his friends and their Dad to go fishing.

After showering, I walked down to the dock and ended up taking a couple of casts. I wasn’t trying to be reassuring; the rod just ended up in my hand, and I found myself flinging the lure out into the air. After a couple of casts plopping into the water fifteen feet from me (a specialty of mine in the five or so times I’ve fished), I got the hang of it to some degree, and sent it out there pretty far a couple of times. J. exclaimed. I smiled to myself, and reeled the lure in and put it away before the my real fishing skills reasserted themselves. “We’re not going to catch any fish here at mid-day,” I pronounced.