This ran in my newspaper column in 2007 but I somehow never posted it here. I think it’s still relevant as we LGBTQ parents and our children navigate issues of difference and bias.
My three-and-a-half-year-old son is starting to show signs of the reptilian obsession that seems to consume most small children. He’s still in the early stages—his favorite species is the “Dinosaurus Rex”—but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before he knows forty different kinds and what they like to eat. At the moment, he’s stomping two of them along the carpet as I write. But dinosaurs scare me.
Dinosaurs represent a shift from my son’s interests as a toddler to his interests as a preschooler. Dinosaurs are fierce. They are predators or prey. We’re stepping away from the world of stuffed animals and smiling, anthropomorphic trains into something larger and more ominous. Dinosaurs are also extinct, and extinction means death—a topic no parent relishes having to discuss with a child. Dinosaurs scare me because they symbolize the host of difficult things we have to explain to our children, the revelation of a world that is sometimes harsh and where Mommy and Momma can’t always fix everything.
Discrimination and difference loom large in that world for LGBTQ families. Research has shown that by primary school, many children are already aware of stereotyped gender roles, and will use homophobic slurs even if not fully aware of what they mean. Chances are, someone will say to him in the next few years, “Everybody has a father,” or “Your moms are dykes.”
I wonder, therefore, how to prepare him but not scare him. I don’t want to put fears in his head that were not there before. Most parents would not say, “Don’t worry, there are no monsters in your closet” to a child who has never expressed any concern about monsters there. Simply mentioning them can make them seem real.
Books showing positive images of LGBTQ families and people can help create a core of confidence in our children. Some such books, however, pose a risk of revealing new monsters, as many depict children experiencing bias or people casting doubt on the validity of their families or identities. That’s not to say these can’t be good books—for children who have experienced such things, they may be vital—but as parents, we should think carefully about when to introduce them.
There’s no simple answer. Much depends on the individual child as well as circumstance. A child in daycare may hear “Where’s your mommy?” sooner than one still at home. Children who frequently see other LGBTQ families may not perceive they are in a minority. At the same time, children often pick up on things long before we suspect they have. We don’t want to leave them with too many unanswered questions.
Even if you favor waiting until your child brings up the subject, you can still read books that show LGBTQ families without stressing our difference (see the books tagged “Incidental queerness” or “Family types” in my Database). We must remember, however, to leave space in these conversations for questions and comments. We must listen to our children’s words and their silences, in order to address concerns about difference when they do arise, and bring in books dealing with situations of bias or questioning when we feel their messages will be helpful.
It’s also important to be open and positive about how we created our families, though this should be tailored for the age and maturity of the child (and there are books for that, too). Knowing how they were created, a child will have both self-understanding and an explanation when another says something like, “You have to have a dad [mom].”
Education about diversity must begin at home. At the same time, we must also educate teachers, childcare providers, coaches, librarians, and other parents about our families. How are we the same? How are we different? What happens if a child calls another’s child’s parents “lesbian” or “gay” or “queer”? What about “dyke” and “fag”? Are these slurs? Inappropriately sexual terms? Accurate descriptions? What if the child using the term is using them about their own family? Or themself? Context and tone are key (although states with “Don’t Say Gay/Trans” laws seem to find them all inappropriate).
I sometimes resent having to teach people things I find self evident. At the same time, I knew what I was signing up for when I chose to become a parent. LGBTQ parents share the same burden as those whose families differ by reason of racial/ethnic identity, religion, physical or mental abilities, or other factors—needing to explain difference and bias early on to our children, and needing to educate the wider world. It may not be how we’d prefer to spend our time, but, like changing diapers or chaperoning field trips, it’s one of those parenting duties we assume because it is for our children’s benefit.
I turn towards my son, who has the smaller dinosaur balanced on the back of the larger one. “Look,” he says to me. “The mommy is giving the baby a ride on her back.”
Together, maybe we’ll tame those dinosaurs.
(Originally published with slight variation as my Mombian newspaper column in 2007.)