As a mom, I reserve the right to challenge my kids’ choices and not just take everything at face value. That said, nobody better mess with my kids. I will stand up for them; I will fight for them; I will defend them with my whole being. My desire to defend them comes into play in wanting to protect them from their own inexperience, but also to battle for them against people who are thoughtless, unkind, or downright cruel.

I’ve always been a little bit of a rebel. I don’t like to be told what to do. I like to push boundaries and question things. I’m pretty sure I passed that on to my children, both intentionally and subconsciously. So as they push the boundaries even further, part of me is proud of their fortitude. The other part is less pleased. I thought that we’d teach them to be independent thinkers, and because we (my husband and I) were pretty smart, they’d all agree with us! How silly! Now that I’ve figured out that’s not how it works, and that they will choose their own path (and have been doing so since the day they were born), I’m still ready to back them up. 

I’m pretty sure they don’t know the lengths to which I would go to stand up for them. They so often get to see the adversarial mom who wants to understand; wants to dig deep; wants to persuade them to take more time; wants to be a part of the process; wants to be asked and not told. But in the background, I speak up for them. Sometimes it’s overt, like scheduling a medical appointment and after giving all the regular pertinent details, asking the scheduler to use their preferred name. Sometimes it’s subtle, like speaking against gender stereotypes, i.e., girls like pink and boys like blue.

To be honest, I was always happy to stand against gender stereotypes. I did so when I went to summer camp in junior high. When the boys would bring a frog to frighten the girls, who ran away squealing, I would ask if I could hold the frog. Now, I didn’t particularly like frogs, but I thought the stereotype of girls being squeamish was worth trying to break down, though I doubt if it accomplished much other than assuring that I was not the girl that got asked to the banquet at the culmination of this particular summer camp. 🙂

But the preferred name thing was not a thing I have stood up for as readily. I’m adapting and learning, but it’s different now that the kids no longer live in my home. I am no longer the parent of “children,” but the parent of “adults.”

When you’re trying to guide a child, your opinion still seems pretty valid and important since you’ve been entrusted with the nurture and care of this other human being. You’re expected to be wise even when they want things that might be less than the best for them, even if they don’t like your answer at the time. Sometimes it’s hard to know when to assert parental authority, and when to let go a little and allow them to learn on their own. It’s hard to know what to protect them from and what to expose them to.

But now I no longer have any “control,” if ever that was a thing. Now I can only hope to have influence. And influence gains traction when you respect the choices of your kids, even if you disagree – tacitly or audibly. So in respect, I will encourage others to refer to them as they wish.

If they ask you to call them by a different name, or refer to them with altered pronouns, I expect that you will. The closer you are in the concentric circles that make up our lives, the more I think you might have a right to ask them about their choice, but I still expect that you’ll respect it. Their dad and I are in their most intimate circle, and their choices affect our futures as well, so I believe we have the most right to ask questions and to allow ourselves to feel the impact of their changes. Even so, I am learning to respect their choices while still honoring my own.

Bottom line, don’t mess with my kids. I may not agree with their choices, but they have the right to make them. And if you challenge them, be prepared to engage with mama bear. I’m pretty sure I know who wins that one.