I am no father. I am not an uncle, I am not even a man, but rather a trans man. And none of my siblings are the age where I had to care for them. But besides that fact, I had a dream where I had a child. His name was Christopher, and he was a premature baby. In my dream, I held him in my arms, in a cold and dark hospital room. He had a hemangioma on his left arm. I have one on my right chest, so I assume it is genetics that made him so beautiful.
A hemangioma is a benign tumor. They make my skin like the skin of an orange. peppered with pitholes and discolored in some places. Though, my skin is not rough and thick like that of an orange. It is like the skin on the back of one’s knees or under the eyes.
While it is normal for babies to cry, he did not. He breathed in my arms and I watched his small lips pucker to take breaths. I felt my heart swell with anxiety and love for Christopher.
And my head spins as I am swept away from the bed and sat down in a bedroom, my childhood bedroom with Christopher standing in front of me. His first steps. He started speaking before walking, so he cries out for me, the individual who birthed him, in a mushy garble as i watch with pounding anxiety as he stumbles to me. He looks like me, i realize. He has a round face and bright hazel green eyes. his hair curls across his forehead, a bright yellow blond. Red flushes the chubby sides of his face as he is young. He makes his way to me.
and i nearly cry. I am no father or uncle, and yet i feel so much compassion for a child i will realize later is not real.
I am a single parent, i realize soon after finding no one else in the house and no record of a romantic partner. I already know i am asexual.
I spend flashing days with my son, my beautiful and intelligent son. he is just like me.
“Christopher, What do you want to learn?” i ask him.
He tells me he wants to study birds and stars. He tells me he likes the way they move in the big blue air, and at night they make their own cities. He is five years old and he shows me his drawing. It is of the two of us, i suppose. I cannot tell, for it is mostly the wild intelligible scribbles of a five year old.
We spin to being in the doctors office and i watch Christopher whimper as he gets a shot. He is eight years old and i feel my skin sag and my bones ache as I get older. I feel my son turn to me and ask me if he’ll get sick or if he’ll be like a superhero. I tell him he will stay the same, loving Christopher he is.
He is my son, my own flesh and blood and it pains me to see him run off to school, and begrudgingly walk home. He spends more time in his room, and comes out for meals or a material object. His eyes dont light up anymore upon the mention of learning and i ponder if it is because of school or me.
My anxiety spirals me down a dark path of fearing i am a bad mother turned father. I do research, i take tests and i ask my friends if i am being too harsh on my pride and joy.
I wish they tell me no, but i cant read their lips as silence floods out of their mouths like waterfalls, filling the room and drowning me in doubt. I gasp for air in the top of the room, but feel the weight of my legs drag me down until the room turns into a funnel and we spin until we fall through.
I ask my own mother if i am a bad parent, if i am doing something wrong for my son by being a trans man, or wanting to teach him, or making foods i think he’ll like but he doesnt.
Utter horrifying silence fills my head as she explains to me in a thousand different languages other than my own about her experience raising me and i hope she is telling me parenting takes time.
Christopher notices how frequently i ask if he’s ok. He notices how often i cry if he gets upset, and it puts pressure on him. His seventh birthday is coming up soon and i cant be a bad parent for this. He shouldnt deal with this at his age. I wish this were a dream, i breathe out and frown at the work in my hands. My own art laughs at me from my insecurities.
My son, Christopher is my Jupiter-hopping space cadet. Saying i love you is usually hard for me, to say to friends, family and romantic partners. But for him, the words slide their way into his ears more than a few times per day, and if i could, more than a few times per hour.
I wont be like my adopted parents, i tell myself. I will hold him with compassion. I will let him figure his way and help guide him. And yet i panic as i set out the cake for his birthday. I forget for a moment the name of his favorite flavor cake, and i ask myself if im bad for forgetting.
I hate myself for spiraling down and coming to the realization that this is a dream. I hate myself for now looking upon my beaming son, now seven years of age and knowing he isnt real. the cake in his cheeks and on the pltes in my hands arent real. My mother is not beside me, celebrating her grandson along with my siblings.
And i wake up. I wake up and i gasp and clutch the air, wanting to go back to the world where my son, Christopher, is real. The world where he turns seven on his birthday, March twenty-seventh.
I am nothing more than a nineteen year old girl in a lilac room with white curtains, the color choices having existed since the house was built before i was born. I gaze upon the dead roses on my dresser- from when i was sick with a life threatening disease.
And I stare at the mirror that faces my bed. My hair is long, Branching and crawling its way down to my shoulder blades. My eyes blur as i feel my nose burn from tears. They prick my face, and they drag me out of bed to clean them up.
I miss my son. I wish to overcome my own insecurities to draw him, to make a permanent piece of work that shows the child I had. The child that lives within me.
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