Dropped my kids off at their mother's late this afternoon a fun and tiring Memorial Day weekend.  I stopped at Starbucks on the way home and sat outside with my coffee.  A rather beat-up white SUV pulled up, and out got a father and his two kids.  Dad had the look of a definite "man's man," sporting a buzzcut, a 5 o'clock shadow, the kind of guy you'd expect to see on the fire company softball team playing the outfield with a glove on one hand and a beer in the other.

His daughter was a year or so older than mine; the son looked to be a teenager.  They had just been swimming and were going in to eat.  I watched as Dad leaned over his little girl and gently brushed out her still-wet hair.  She stood patiently in the 90° degree heat as Dad took his time getting out each tangle. There was something very poignant about the whole thing to me.  I hoped they wouldn't look up and notice this rather ambiguous-looking person with blue toenails watching them.  Dad finished and the family walked towards the restaurant.  As they walked, Dad reached around his son from behind with his burly arms, and lifted him off the ground with a hug.  I finished my coffee, looked into the restaurant as I drove away, and saw the three of them sharing a laugh over dinner.

I found myself rather touched by all this, and found myself smiling.  Mostly.


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When I transitioned, there just weren't too many blogs out there written by straight, transitioned women. Well, here's one.

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