I’ve decided that I like women.
Now that may seem like a strange statement, but hear me out here.
I grew up as the only child to a single father. My mom moved out of the house just weeks after my second birthday, and never came back. She kept in touch and I visited her fairly often as long as we lived in the same state, but by the age of five, my dad and I left sunny California and headed north for rainy Washington. From that point on, to the best of my recollection, I only saw my mom for weekends once every two or three months, plus a week or so in the summer and a decent stint between Christmas and Thanksgiving.
By first grade I was BEGGING my dad to let me get a short hair cut. I refused to wear anything even remotely resembling girl clothes, including anything dress-like, anything pink, or anything with ruffles, ribbons, bows or fancy collars. By third grade I had a complete boy hair cut and actually gelled my hair to a stiff shine for school each day. I wore jeans, frumpy tee shirts and sweatshirts and even my dad’s long baggy shirts. I did not really like to play with girls too much and really and sincerely prayed a few times in my life that God would just make me a boy. I really wanted nothing to do with the world of women. As far as I was concerned, my dad was the only person in the world who mattered, and my mom was really not who I wanted to grow up to be like, so the world of men looked way more appealing to me.
Now the funny thing was I was a slight, prancy little girl with completely feminine tendencies and a girlish way about me. I loved babies and played "house" often. I had girly features and pretty hair (well, it would have been pretty had I let it get longer than my chin) and I flitted around in all my frumpy boy clothes with dainty little mannerisms. But still, I was in complete denial that I was created female.
Of course I didn’t really want to be a man either, and eventually I grew to appreciate the world of women and girls more by the time I hit middle school. I still remember a boy (a punky popular kid – the kind who can say something stupid and everyone else thinks it’s cool) asking me if I was a boy or a girl. I thought (but didn’t say out loud) “I’m wearing pink sweats, Stupid. What do you think I am?” But for the most part, I started making female friends and getting interested in boys and playing with Barbies and all that. So it worked out alright eventually.
Now that may seem like a strange statement, but hear me out here.
I grew up as the only child to a single father. My mom moved out of the house just weeks after my second birthday, and never came back. She kept in touch and I visited her fairly often as long as we lived in the same state, but by the age of five, my dad and I left sunny California and headed north for rainy Washington. From that point on, to the best of my recollection, I only saw my mom for weekends once every two or three months, plus a week or so in the summer and a decent stint between Christmas and Thanksgiving.
By first grade I was BEGGING my dad to let me get a short hair cut. I refused to wear anything even remotely resembling girl clothes, including anything dress-like, anything pink, or anything with ruffles, ribbons, bows or fancy collars. By third grade I had a complete boy hair cut and actually gelled my hair to a stiff shine for school each day. I wore jeans, frumpy tee shirts and sweatshirts and even my dad’s long baggy shirts. I did not really like to play with girls too much and really and sincerely prayed a few times in my life that God would just make me a boy. I really wanted nothing to do with the world of women. As far as I was concerned, my dad was the only person in the world who mattered, and my mom was really not who I wanted to grow up to be like, so the world of men looked way more appealing to me.
Now the funny thing was I was a slight, prancy little girl with completely feminine tendencies and a girlish way about me. I loved babies and played "house" often. I had girly features and pretty hair (well, it would have been pretty had I let it get longer than my chin) and I flitted around in all my frumpy boy clothes with dainty little mannerisms. But still, I was in complete denial that I was created female.
Of course I didn’t really want to be a man either, and eventually I grew to appreciate the world of women and girls more by the time I hit middle school. I still remember a boy (a punky popular kid – the kind who can say something stupid and everyone else thinks it’s cool) asking me if I was a boy or a girl. I thought (but didn’t say out loud) “I’m wearing pink sweats, Stupid. What do you think I am?” But for the most part, I started making female friends and getting interested in boys and playing with Barbies and all that. So it worked out alright eventually.
And thankfully, though I was fairly unaware of it the whole time, God was there all along, working His grace in my life and guiding me right where He knew I needed to go...
...To be continued (part 2 will follow soon)
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