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If You Don’t Know Our Kids, Don’t Tell Us How to Raise Them
The hard lines I draw as an LGBTQ mom.
Let’s be real. I am so far down the road in my parenting marathon that if I did a running swan dive like Jennifer Beals in Flashdance, I could probably cross the finish line from where I am. Last month, I celebrated raising my daughter to the ripe old age of 18 without ever leaving her in a public place. I also did not freak out when she came home with a tattoo last week. I have no talking room. My tattoo artist did it.
In July, my daughter heads off to the state of Washington on a volleyball scholarship for the next phase of her life. At that point, I resign from my position as a full-time mom to be a “consultant mom” (Feel free to call any time you need me, but please try to figure this shit out on your own first.)
I applaud my own success because, apparently, as a parent, I have spent the last 18 years somehow moving between being a supreme being who is the only human in existence that could possibly know what is right for my child to someone who is a complete imbecile incapable of making any decision regarding my child’s welfare.
My competence level as a parent seems to be based solely on what state I live in, who is currently the governor, how the wind blows, the level of frenzied activity at school…
