Ah Father’s day, the great tie day.

Father’s Day has always been a mixed bag for me. My own Father and I were never really close. I was the second of seven kids. He was also working multiple jobs to feed and clothe all of us. Besides his regular job, he also worked for a neighbor creating shavings. Not sure if they were just for the neighbors farm or if they sold it, but it was a second. The other job was drumming. My Father could drum pretty well. He played for a number of bands around, playing mostly jazz, ’40’s type music, etc. That was one gift he gave me was an appreciation of music. I hopefully passed that on to my kids as I exposed them to everything from Beethoven to Alice Cooper.

I had two kids with my second wife. I found that Father’s Day wasn’t that important. Most of the time, I would end up at the ball field, because while Mother’s Day, they didn’t schedule games, Father’s Day, it seemed like they double-booked. I asked about it and was told that of course they have games on Father’s Day, all Father’s want to be at the field with their kids. Yeah, McJock, not all. I would have preferred taking my kids to ride the subway in Boston or to the Science Museum, or out in the State Forest splashing through puddles with the truck. I always loved taking them on the T. I would get us all day passes and just ride and pop up somewhere and take in the sights and then back into the subway and maybe finish the day at Quincy Market for something to eat.

Father’s Day always made me sad. In part because I wasn’t close to my Father, but mostly because I didn’t want to be the Dad. I wanted to be the Mom. Many years, I would sink into depression when Father’s Day would come around. Even after the divorce, I did manage to have my kids for Father’s Day. That helped soften the depression a bit. Having to spend it at ball fields didn’t. Once they were older and all done with sports we got to do what we wanted, but I was forced to ensure that I took them to Church. I had left the Catholic Church, but took them anyway.

Probably one of the biggest regrets, and one of the least understood by others, is that I never carried a child. Thanks to whatever force that decided I should be born a girl with boy parts, I would never be able to. I always dreamed about it. Sometimes I would puff out my belly just to pretend I was pregnant. Of course, I did this all in hiding as no one knew, not even myself, who I really was. That took years of therapy with a psychologist. Sadly, even when we finally got the diagnose of late stage Gender Identity Disorder, as it was called back then, and soon to change to Gender Dysphoria, I always had to hide who I truly was.

These days, I still have issues with Father’s Day. I still wanted to be “Mom”, but that role is already taken. I am stuck with “Dad”. People don’t get it. I am close to my daughter, thankfully, but my son and I are distanced. My daughter says he is like that with everyone. He is off in his own world. I do miss when he used to crawl into my lap when we watched movies. They do grow up. He is taller than me now, so that won’t work.

This is a personal observation. This may not apply to other transgender women. It was just an observation I wanted to share. I do hold out hope for the future. With the recent uterus transplant where the woman was able to give birth, maybe gives hope in the future to others who feel like I do. One day, with the advance of science, they may resolve the issues that prevent someone who once had male parts from having a full functioning vagina and uterus. For now, I have to settle for the vagina. That is if my endo ever gets that letter to BMC so I can be approved and move forward. They said they sent it twice, but just not getting to the right person.

I chose to hold off rather than writing this on Father’s Day. I felt it was a special day for some and didn’t want to darken it in any way. My daughter and I agreed that at home I can be Dad, but when we are in public, just call me Emma. I cannot use Mom. So it’s the best I can do.

Thank you for continuing on my journey, my heart to your heart, one heart, one spirit.

Emma Morgaine Croft