I have wondered when or if there is a time when it is too soon to introduce homosexuality and/or transgenderism to a child. It is likely that in most school districts, there are children who are suffering in silence because their parents are gay, lesbian, or transgendered and they are afraid they will be picked on if other children find out. The reason why we even question when the time is right to talk to children about these topics is because there is still a stigma attached.

In my way of thinking, it isn’t a choice. Nobody chooses to be hated and treated like crap and I can’t think of one person in the GLBT community that has not been hated, made fun of, or treated poorly because of who they are. Honestly. Who chooses to live a hated existence? This is just part of why I believe there is no way it can be a choice. With millions of GLBT Americans out there, it’s hard to believe everyone chooses to deviate from what is considered normal. Sorry, but there just isn’t enough incentive, to choose to be gay or transgendered. It’s not a choice.

You can argue with me until the cows come home on this topic, but this doesn’t really change the fact that there are thousands of children living in GLBT households and it is only through compassion and understanding that these children are going to be accepted. I guess if you have to blame anyone, blame the parents, but don’t make the children suffer because you don’t agree with their parents. Going further, this means that children do need to learn about other cultures. Yes, children of GLBT parents live in a different cultural environment. Just like teaching children about the customs and cultures of other nations, it is imperative to be inclusive so children of GLBT parents have a place in both school and other social environments.

This brings me back to my original question. Is there a time when a child is too young to understand homosexuality or transgenderism? Children are incredibly resilient. They understand more than you can imagine and their level of compassion and understanding puts most adults to shame. I know that my son was eight when he learned that Daddy was transgendered. He didn’t fully understand what transgendered meant, but he knew that I was born like most girls were born, but I always felt different and that I always felt like a boy.

He also understood I was and had taken steps to become a boy. He was, perhaps, the most understanding of all I told. When anyone slipped and referred to me by a female name or feminine pronouns, surprisingly, he was the first to correct them. He accepted it wholeheartedly and comprehended it to the point where introducing me as his father (I have been with his mother since he was 7) was nothing he was ever ashamed of doing. Some children of GLBT parents aren’t so lucky, as they live in less accepting towns and environments.

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I am the mother of the world’s fussiest eater. It is every mother’s dream to have an exceptionally talented child, though I must confess, this is not the title I was hoping for.

My four year old is almost vegetarian. The only meat products he consumes are those that have been processed so thoroughly that he cannot recognise that there is meat in them. He eats well in the mornings. In fact, he eats pretty much half hourly from the moment he wakes until mid afternoon.

But the moment I start cooking dinner, all bets are off. “I hate that!” he exclaims, without having even checked what ‘that’ is. I have a policy against food battles. Actually, I have a lot of ‘policies’, which I am sure I will reveal eventually, but the policy on food is a big one. No food battles. I like food, perhaps a little too much. Who am I kidding? A lot too much. Anyway, I have no desire to fight with children over food. My food rules are:

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If you haven’t heard about the breast/bottle debate you have either got your head buried in the sand or you’re a childless male. I am not even going to start on the pros and cons of formula vs. breast milk. If you’ve read even one mothering magazine you’ve already covered that topic. No, I want to talk about the experience of breastfeeding, the actual nitty gritty. As a mother who has spent 58 months nursing 3 children, I feel I am a bit of an authority on this!

Many inexperienced mothers envisage breastfeeding as a cosy, snugly experience; all rocking chairs, fire places and sweetly scented little heads. Sometimes it actually is like that. More often it’s not. Even though our bodies have sustained and nurtured this little life for nine whole months, the moment that baby is placed in your arms, the responsibility of keeping him alive suddenly consolidates into a huge reality. The worrying begins.

Am I producing enough milk? For the first few days it certainly doesn’t seem like it. Around five days after they’re born, babies get very, very hungry. They nurse and nurse and nurse, to the detriment of your nipples. They are doing this for a good reason. All that vacuuming stimulates your milk production, and suddenly there will be plenty of milk, but before that comes the pain. Cracked nipples, blisters, a hideously bruised sensation all combine to make it an excruciating experience. Some books and magazines I have read recommend a glass of wine to help you relax while working through the learning curve.

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When a couple make that big decision to become parents, or have that decision thrust upon them at the whim of Mother Nature, the tendency is to picture the pleasantries of parenting; little Johnny learning to ride a bike, or Susie saying Mama for the first time, the soft sweetness of a freshly bathed infant, and the sticky kisses of an exuberant toddler. But there is one thing about parenting that none ever think of, and that we all should remember; namely, the bizarre sentences that we never imagined ourselves saying, let alone repeating more than once.

Highlights of my parenting career so far include “Please, don’t lick the cat”, “Stop drawing on your brother” and other admonitions I am unlikely to ever remember due to their obscurity. I am pretty sure there was one involving a hippopotamus that I wish I’d written down.

When I was a child and we’d ask my mother what was for dinner, her stock answer would be “Snake’s bum and biscuit”. This tickled my prepubescent fancy, particularly because my mother, as a vicar’s wife, was a very politely spoken lady, who’d never be seen to say the word “bum” in public. I realised the other day that this has been my standard answer to the whined dinner query, when this conversation took place:

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