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When they talked about “crushes,” it became, “Who do you like?” A slight modification, but pretty awesome and maybe, dare I say, even life-changing. They stopped assuming everyone in the world was straight. Playdates and sleepovers continued as usual-nothing changed except perhaps their language. The responses from his friends ranged from, “So?” to “Who are you gay with?” It seemed like a small way to protect him, the least we could do. They were nine years old! Their conversations were about farting and video games! But I also couldn’t imagine asking him to be anything less than his fabulous self, and it didn’t feel right to suggest he hide who he was from the people he felt closest to.Īfter some soul-searching and many late-night talks with my husband, we decided to first tell the parents of his closest friends so they could be ready to answer any questions. I worried about bullying, of course, and also that his friends might not react favourably. The protective part of me was hesitant and wanted to discourage him from coming out.
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My heart ached, and I wished I could rewind to the time when kisses and cuddles fixed absolutely everything. In a flood of words, he told me he wanted to tell his friends that he was gay-it felt like he was keeping a secret from them, and when he thought about it too much, it made him feel sick. It wasn’t until I put down the dishcloth and looked him in the eye that he started to talk. I asked what was up, but he just stood there in his cute little monster truck pyjamas. But then one night before bed, as I was washing the dishes, he silently appeared beside me. Fourth grade was wrapping up, and I knew there had been some boy- and girl-crush talk at school: “What girls do you like?” “Which girls do you think are cute?” He was his usual quiet self, maybe a bit quieter, but I wasn’t too concerned. He was that typical little boy who gets excited by trains, thinks mud is an accessory and wrestles with anyone who is willing (or half-asleep).Īnd then he turned nine. Whenever Lucas wasn’t eating or sleeping or at school, he was buried neck-deep in Lego-most of our conversations were about what part we needed to look for next. No one was avoiding it we just weren’t talking about it, in the same way you don’t talk about being straight with other seven-year-olds. His reaction: A shoulder shrug and a blasé “Yep.”Īfter that, the topic didn’t resurface for a while. My husband, a go-with-the-flow, laid-back guy who never seems to get rattled, was just as low-key as his son. I looked at my husband and said, “Wow,” expecting a full-on debrief. Will I be able to support him effectively? What do I do next? When Lucas was finally tucked in, I headed back downstairs, flopped dramatically onto the sofa and let out the biggest exhale of my life. He’ll be OK-thankfully, we live in a wonderfully diverse city. Lucas’s response: A shrug of the shoulders and an “OK.”Ĭleanup, bathtime and bedtime stories that night happened in a blur-a thousand thoughts buzzed through my brain while just as many emotions crashed over me: Could he really know at this age? Any bully is going to have to contend with me. So I looked at my husband, took a deep breath and mustered a, “We love you no matter what, and your feelings might change as you get older and that’s OK, too.” I think I also threw in something about how he could talk to us about absolutely anything and should let us know if he had questions, or was worried, uncomfortable or curious. But no such luck: There wasn’t a single expert hiding under the table. I fervently wished there was someone with more experience-or, better yet, a degree in child psychology-who I could consult before responding.
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Thankfully, my mouth was full of chicken, which gave me a few panicked seconds to conjure the kind of response that could possibly convey the feelings of overwhelming love, worry and protectiveness rushing over me. It was one of those epic parenting moments the handbook definitely does not cover. He took a bite of chicken and announced, in his matter-of-fact way, “I hope you know I’m gay.” That was the moment our seven-year-old son came out. With these two, it’s always a bit of a one-sided Ping-Pong match: I lob a question over the net, and they spike incredibly succinct answers right past me.Īfter a few such attempts, I just gave up. My husband, my son and I were sitting around the dining room table and, like usual, I was trying my hardest to draw out some juicy details about their day. The best example-to date, at least-happened on a regular weekday evening. And yet, despite years of experience, I’m still floored by my quiet, thoughtful and incredibly self-possessed son. Being a parent is an exercise in expecting the unexpected.