Growing up with Post-Op Parents
- Living with a FTM parent can be hard sometimes. But living with both a FTM AND a MTF parent is super duper hard! All my life someone is trying to bring me down sayin’ shit like, “Holy crap! You’ve got two trannie parents??” and “Do you think they keep their genitals cryogenically preserved just so they can fuck themselves with their old parts?” To those I respectively answer, “Yeah! So What?” and “Wouldn’t you?” Don’t judge. Don’t even go there.
Honestly, it’s not a big deal. I will always call Mom, Father-to-Mother and Dad, Mother-to-Father, no matter what. After all, you only get one mom and one dad--I consider myself blessed to get each twice. They will always by my transparents. I can’t change that. The only man who could would be Dr. Sanchez and that would require a heck of a lot of cross-generational familio-linear sexual reassignment/really good insurance.
I’m sure there’s hundreds of thousands of other people out there with dual sets of transsexual parents. Who knows? Maybe you have one or two and you just don’t realize it. What seems like your mom’s clitoris may very well be the vestigial remainderman of your pre-mom’s penis. Looks can be deceiving.
From what I’m told, I had a very happy childhood (see reference to combine incident in 7/19 entry). My mother’s genderslave name was Roberta. My father’s name was Dennis. When I was four, Roberta started to become distant and very emotional. She looked the same, but you could tell something was eating her out on the inside. Roberta knew since she was a little girl that she wanted to grow up to be a man with a big wang and not a woman with a big vag. And with each passing day, she felt like an alien in a foreign land. Looking back, her hands always felt a bit coarse and her hugs a bit bearish. I really started to notice a difference that day she came home with a mastectomy and a cosmetic hysterectomy. Never one to rest on her laurels, Roberta found a great Mexican doctor to lend a hand with the phalloplasty and pretty soon, voila!, Roberta became Robert A.
It was hard at first. Dennis didn’t really know what to do. Mother-to-father was complete. Dennis’ family didn’t understand, so they would call Robert A. names and get in big fights about it at Thanksgiving. One time cousin Debbie ran around with a turkey baster sticking through the front of her pants yelling, “Look at me! I’m Robert A.!” She would dip it in the turkey juices, suck in as much as she could with her prosthetic, and then immaturely spray it all over Robert A. when s/he wasn’t looking. But what do you expect from a 5 year old?
The emergence of Mom as an FTM post-op trannie caused major rifts in the bedroom. Dennis slowly retreated from his patriarchal duties by making up excuses. One day he was “too tired.” Another day he “had a headache.” And another, he “just didn’t feel like having his ass plowed by his TS spouse.” That caused Robert A. to burst into tears. However, Dennis still loved her-to-him and it was true that they still loved me. They found a therapist to help sail our family-ship through the rough seas. During these sessions it became apparent that Dennis wasn’t afraid to love this man that used to be the woman he married, he was afraid to love himself. The doctor recommended he try living as a MTF transvestite and what do you know? He couldn’t get enough of it. The shoes, the lip gloss!--he loved everything about being a woman. Dennis scheduled his own extensive sexual reassignment surgery with that same doctor. Unfortunately, there was a bump in the road to rid him of his ugly organ. The doctor regretfully informed him he was to be put on a really big waiting list for a vagina and boobs. He said it could take many years to get to the top of the list and that some people never live to see it.
When Dennis came home all dejected about the prospect of having to wait a long time to have his penis removed, a smile flashed across Robert A.’s face. Mother-to-Father reached under the bed and pulled out a dusty Converse shoe box. S/he took his hand in his/hers and together they opened that box. A matching donor was found.
Like the autumn leaves changing in October, Dennis became Denise.
It was difficult enough for me growing up a genius in a school district full of dummies, but life was only complicated by the changing family situation. The kids at school got wind of it because my Mother-to-father and Father-to-mother would come to open houses and soccer practice and people would look at them like they stepped off a bus from Crazyworld. Their first initiative as transgendered people was to lobby (unsuccessfully) to have the PTA name changed to the TPN’PTA--the TransParent N’ Parent Teacher Association. Parents & Teachers were unwilling to accept a 6’4’’, 250 pound man in a sundress and a diminutive woman in a fake moustache into their fascist society.
Society wasn’t ready. And each society we moved to still wasn’t ready. We ended up settling in Michigan and that went okay for a while until we woke up one morning with the word "Freakshow" burning in our frontlawn.
A lot of people ask me, "Did they ever pressure you into getting a sex change?" Absolutely not. They told me when I was very young that they would love me no matter what sex I choose to remain. "So what if you want to be boring and only have a colonizing dick your whole life? That's for you to decide," my Father-to-Mother would tell me. Even though they're dramatically different on the outside and their insides have been radically altered by years of hormone replacement, they're still sorta the same people. It's not them with the problems--I mean, they used to have problems, being born into the wrong gender and stuff. The real one with the problem is you and your hateful attitude. Get over it. Don't judge.