Hockey Sticks and Roses
Without question, the hardest thing I ever had to do as a mother was to tell my son that his father and I were getting a divorce because I was a lesbian.
On the surface, we were a typical well-off middle-class suburban family. Josh’s father and I had good careers; he was a marine draftsman, and I was a nurse. Josh was a typical boy for his time and place. He lived and breathed hockey, and sometimes it seemed little else interested him. We lived in a nice house in a nice neighborhood, we rarely fought, and in fact, we actually got along quite well — on the surface. In reality, I had a secret.
I struggled through my teens and twenties with agonizing questions about my sexual identity. It wasn’t made easier by the fact that I didn’t fit the stereotypical lesbian image, nor did I feel anything but traditionally feminine. As I put it to myself in high school, I wasn’t “that way.” I was no more or less vulnerable to the stereotypes of the times than anyone else. I was successful in my attempts to sublimate my inner conflicts until I neared 30. At that point, I couldn’t go on lying anymore.
There was no epiphany. I didn’t have a passion-inspired sexual encounter with another woman, and suddenly realize, “Oh, I’m a lesbian! Just think, after all these years…” In fact, I never had sex with another woman until well after I came out to myself. It was a process that played out over two years, starting with admitting that I couldn’t lie to myself any longer, and culminating in the dreaded day I had to tell Josh.
In looking back, I think Josh would have been any mother’s dream child. He was a boy’s boy, enamored of all things connected to the outdoors and sports. His particular passion was hockey after his father started him in a five and six-year-old league. From there, passion became obsession, and he and his father had visions of him being the next Wayne Gretzky. By the time he was eight, he was involved in leagues that had him playing eight out of twelve months a year. It seemed my life was reduced to work and carting Josh around to dozens of rinks at all hours of the day for practices, tournaments, and individual games. I wasn’t a fan of hockey, but I figured if I was going to have to sit there in cold arenas freezing my rear-end off, I had two options: learn to appreciate the game, or suffer. Appreciating the game was easier.
Josh wasn’t especially fond of school, but he always did well. He knew playing hockey required good grades. He was never a boy to misbehave much in the first place, but if he gave me a hard time, all I had to say was, “You don’t pick up your room, I don’t bring you to hockey practice tomorrow.” He pushed his luck on that only once. He found out I wasn’t bluffing.
Unless he was on the ice, where he morphed into a beast I hardly recognized, he was very laid back and easy-going. Nothing seemed to faze him; he took everything in stride. He also had a wonderfully mature sense of humor (mature in the sense of dry, witty, and complex, as opposed to raunchy). He figured out the art of making me laugh at a young age.
There were times when he was growing up where it felt like, between Josh and his father, there was so much testosterone floating around I’d spontaneously grow a beard. He loved to do all the guy things his father liked to do: hunting, fishing, snowmobiles, ATVs and sports of all kinds. For all his love of the outdoors and hockey, he was really more Mummy’s Boy than Daddy’s Boy. If he took a particularly bad beating in a hockey game, he’d secretly come to me crying, unable to show a weakness to his father. I’d undress him, draw a tub, and help him into his pjs after his bath. He was particularly sensitive to my moods. If I was feeling especially down, he’d make me a cup of tea and bring it to me with a cookie. Or he’d climb on my lap and cuddle, knowing little affections like that always lifted my spirits.
The first steps in my coming out revolved around my inner struggle. I had to honestly admit it to myself, and then I had to come to grips with my own notions, prejudices, and expectations of what being a lesbian meant. That’s not as simple and straightforward as it sounds; at least it wasn’t for me.
None of this was helped by the fact that, without knowing it at the time, I was suffering with a deep and dark depression. Many nights, I could hear the Banshees wailing. During the darkest times, the only thing that kept me from killing myself was my son. He didn’t know then, nor does he know now (I think) that he kept me going. How could I deprive him of a mother, and in the most painful way imaginable? I couldn’t, so just by being he kept me alive.
An inevitable part of my coming out process was telling the people who needed to know. My “need to know” list was very small: My ex-husband, my parents, a few very close friends, and my son. My ex proved to be surprisingly easy. It was almost a relief for both of us. It freed us from an empty, sterile relationship that was doomed from the start. I felt tremendous guilt that I’d cost him perhaps the best years of his life, depriving him of all the things a spouse has every right to expect from a marriage. We ended up parting on excellent terms, and we remain very good friends to this day.
That left Josh. Whether my feelings and fears were rational is irrelevant. They were the fears and feelings I was dealing with, pure and simple. I was terrified he’d see my “confession” as a rejection of him, or that he’d reject me as his mother. He’d kept me alive for so long that the thought of losing him was beyond frightening – it almost certainly meant suicide.
Nevertheless, it had to be done.
It was one of those moments that’s etched in my memory with stark clarity. It was a cool, sunny fall afternoon. I’d been laying on my bed in a state of emotional anguish, trying to work up the courage to do what I had to do. My stomach was churning to the point of nausea, and oh my! there were so many excuses I could dream up to put it off a little longer. However I knew he was downstairs doing homework, and I had to do it before he took off.
He was immersed in his homework when I came down. “Hey Ma,” he said without looking up. “I brought my gear home. Can you wash it before tomorrow morning? It’s in the laundry room.”
“Jeez Josh, thanks for the heads-up. It’s a good thing I’m not working tonight.”
“Not a problem, Ma. Always happy to do my part.”
I went to the kitchen and brewed myself a cup of tea, my mind racing in a blur. Cup of tea in hand, I went back to the dining room and sat at the table across from him. The Rubicon had been crossed. Would I faint or throw up first? I took a deep breath. “Josh, I need to talk to you about something.”
He briefly looked up with his Oh-no-what-did-I-do-this-time expression. “OK, what’s up?” he said, then went back to his homework.
“Josh, it’s very important.”
“I can tell, you don’t look so good.”
I sighed deeply and buried my face in my hands, and rubbed my eyes with the heels of my palms. Just do it, I screamed at myself. I looked up. “Umm, Josh. Your father and I are… umm… getting a divorce.”
He looked up, his eyebrows raised, but looking otherwise unfazed. “Oh yeah? Why? You guys never fight.”
“Well, it has nothing to do with whether or not we get along, or have issues with each other. In fact, it doesn’t have anything at all to do with Dad. It’s because…” My stomach hitched, and for a few seconds, I thought I’d throw up on the table. “Because, I realize after years of hiding it from myself, that I’m a lesbian… that I’m gay. I can’t keep pretending I’m not.”
Josh looked at me for a minute or more, his face expressionless. Then I noticed the corners of his mouth curl ever so slightly into the merest hint of a smile. Most people wouldn’t have picked up on it, but I knew it well. He was about to say something smart-ass. He scowled. “Jeez Mom, I hope that doesn’t mean you’re gonna get a crew-cut and tats, and start wearing wife-beaters and work boots. And it darned sure better not mean your gonna stop feeding me. The tournament starts next week, and I can’t afford to starve.”
Many people will find much that’s offensive in his reaction, but I didn’t and I don’t. It was exactly what I needed to hear. It was his way of telling me, with his sly and dry sense of humor, that he was OK with it – as long as I kept him fed. I started to chuckle softly, shaking my head. “You little shit, how do you do that?” I got up and gave him a deep hug. I murmured, “No crew-cuts, tattoos, or work boots, I promise. That’s not my style. And thank you, honey. I knew there was a reason I love you.”
“Awww Mom, don’t get all mooshy on me. Just don’t stop being Mom.”
He didn’t talk about it much, or ask many questions after that. That was Josh. He did come up behind me when I was making dinner the next day, and say, “Uh Mom?”
“Uh, being, you know, a lesbian and stuff, that doesn’t mean you aren’t going like me anymore, does it?”
“Joshua!” I said, astonished. I turned to face him. “What kind of question is that? For god’s sake! I love you with every ounce of my heart!”
“Oh. Well, I don’t know anything about this kinda stuff,” he mumbled.
He was blushing fiercely. I grabbed him in a tight embrace. “You are one of a kind,” I laughed.
That nightmare over, life went about its appointed course. My ex and I got our divorce. It was, as they say, amicable. I got the house and mortgage, we each kept our retirement funds, Josh was on my health insurance, and my ex and I would split the costs of Josh’s hockey expenses evenly. My ex moved to a place a few miles away, and I stayed in the house, worrying how I was going to pay the mortgage. Somehow, I’d manage.
In all of this, I didn’t really consider a few things. I had some vague but unrealistic notion that once I was out and divorced, all my problems would be solved. Life would miraculously become wonderful and worry free. I didn’t understand that I was simply trading one set of problems for another set I wasn’t prepared to deal with. First, beyond the financial issues, was the simple fact that I didn’t know how to be a lesbian. That sounds facetious on the surface, but it isn’t. I didn’t know how to go about meeting other gay women. I’d had one brief fling with a woman from another state at a nursing symposium a year or so before. That was the sum total of my experience “being a lesbian.”
I did manage to get set up with a couple of women courtesy of sympathetic gay male co-workers. Those dates led to very brief affairs. Both would have ended up in disaster had they become serious. Ultimately, I decided to give up on meeting someone for while, and simply sit at home and feel sorry for myself. Josh took notice. One day we were driving back from an all day tournament played two hours away from home. Without looking up from his hand-held video game, he said, “Mom, you really need to get out and try to meet someone. All you do is work, haul me around, and sit around the house moping. There’s more to life than that.”
I tried to laugh it off. “Don’t worry about me. I’m just not ready yet.”
“Yeah, you’re full of it. It isn’t healthy is all I’m saying.”
How many 14-year-old boys worry about their mothers like that? Not many, but mine did. I knew he was right, but I felt paralyzed. I still heard the Banshees call for me just about every day.
There it stayed until the following summer. A brand new nurse was hired to work on my floor, so new she’d just graduated from nursing school in May, and it was now July. Her name was Amanda, and she was the most attractive woman I’d ever seen – she took my breath away. She was small, about my size, with long coppery blonde hair. As fate would have it, I was assigned as her mentor. That meant she belonged to me for her six-month probationary period.
It never occurred to me that she was gay. She was just too feminine, too pretty – there were those stereotypes again. I really enjoyed working closely with Amanda. She was friendly, and incredibly smart. I would show her something once, and she’d grasp it. It was a fact of my life that I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Fantasies of her dominated my every waking moment.
It seemed like everyone knew she was trying to flirt with me except me. I was oblivious to it. Later, I had to wonder how I could be that obtuse. She finally got sick of my blindness and decided to, as she put it, “bonk me over the head,” and take the lead. I asked her much later whether she actually expected me to be the asker rather than the askee. All she said was, “I was deferring to my elders.”
She asked me out and I was floating on a cloud. We hit it off, and after a few simple dates, it was clear it was time to move to the next level. I invited her to come to the house for dinner on a night I knew Josh would be out late. As my father would say, I was as nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Josh seemed quite amused that I had a “friend” coming over for dinner. “Can I meet her, or is it all hush-hush.”
“You can meet her as long as you don’t say anything to embarrass me. Just behave.”
I introduced them to each other when she arrived, and it was clear Josh was quite impressed. He behaved – mostly. Just as he was leaving, he got that impish smile and he said, “Should I stay at Dad’s tonight, or at least ring the doorbell when I come in?”
When it dawned on me what he meant, I blushed and yelled, “Joshua, you little wise-ass, get the hell out of here!”
He and Amanda hit it off from the beginning. She was only 10 years older than he was, and they shared the same slightly off kilter sense of humor. I suspect he had a crush on her (he denies it even today), but in time, they developed a relationship that wasn’t unlike an older sister-younger brother relationship, complete with childish arguments and picking on each other. I knew everything was going to be OK after she moved in with us and he began introducing us as, “My Mom and my Step-Mom,” to his latest girlfriend.
After our first year together, Amanda and I both happily acknowledged we were madly in love and we were in it for the long haul. She dragged me to a doctor to get my depression treated, and within six months, I saw the world in a way I hadn’t in a decade or more. She also showed me I was a far more sexual being than I’d ever dreamed.
Amanda, for all her sweetness, is not a woman who is intimidated by anyone. Most of her co-workers — doctors, nurses, and administrators — are terrified of her. Josh however was not terrified of her. In fact, he made a sport out of baiting her. She, in turn, went out of her way to make him squirm. They were like two exasperating kids, but she adored him, and he adored her. They could ride each other mercilessly, but let anyone else try it and sparks flew. When it came time to teach him to drive, it was Amanda who did the grunt work. They both had the ability to focus when it was time to do so.
We weren’t welcomed by a good many of the other hockey moms, the Harpies as we called them. Amanda and I being together in public apparently was shameful and disgusting. We weren’t invited to many of the private social events the other families held. We were subjected to nasty comments, never directly but always said just loud enough for us to hear. It took everything Amanda had to keep her cool. Josh knew about it. Hell, every kid on the team did.
One day, we were sitting behind the bench, and the snide comments were louder than usual. The team was out on the ice doing their warm-up skate-around. Suddenly, Josh came off the ice at the bench. He took his helmet off, stood up on the bench, pointed his stick right at three of the worst offenders and barked, “Those are my Moms you’re mouthing off about! Keep your frickin’ opinions to yourselves.”
The coach came skating over and grabbed him. He shook the coach off. “If I hear one more frickin’ comment about my Moms from them, blood will be spilled.”
I was embarrassed, but Amanda blew him a kiss. The Harpies must have gotten the message, because it was a few weeks before the comments were audible again.
And so it went all through high school. We’d become a comfortably happy family. It was almost sad when his senior year started, and we all could see the end of the line coming. However, the senior year is a time of profound transition, and Amanda and I (and my ex, too) began the process of letting go.
Josh’s senior year hockey season was truly bittersweet. Hockey had been so much a part of our life since he was a boy of five. Once the playoffs were done, so was his hockey career. He was a very good hockey player, just not good enough to get a college scholarship, or be drafted by a Junior League team. Nevertheless, he seemed to be taking it all in stride. He knew what he wanted from life, and it was time to put hockey away and start chasing his goal.
His team had what I always thought was an awesome tradition that predated my high school days. The final regular season home game was called The Mother’s Game. The mothers of all the senior class players would sit in the stands behind the bench, wearing replica team jerseys. The seniors would stand on the ice, in full uniform except for their skates, gloves and helmets, and face the stands. Each player held a long-stem rose. Then, one by one, their name, number, and position would be called over the PA, and a little thank you to Mom they made up would be read off. The player would then run up into the stands, hand his Mom the rose, give her a kiss and return to the ice. I always thought it was such a sweet and touching gesture, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to it.
Amanda and I sat up in the stands waiting my turn. We were given the usual dirty looks from the Harpy mothers who just could not get over the simple fact we were a couple, and we did not need their approval to attend the games together. To hell with them, I thought, glaring back. My son was down there with a rose for me, and they could kiss my butt if they didn’t like it.
It finally came to Josh, and I was as excited as I was after he scored a rare goal. “Number seven, defenseman Josh Williams, for his Mom Laura and his step-mom Amanda, Thanks guys, I couldn’t have done it without you. I love you both.”
My heart almost stopped. Amanda too? Oh my God! Did he say his step-mom Amanda? Amanda and I looked at each other, our eyes as wide as saucers. “Did he say what I think he said?” she gasped, and I saw tears well out of her eyes.
My eyes burned as my own tears rolled out and trickled down my cheek. Josh was blushing when he ran up the stairs to where we sat. We stood up, and Amanda wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered something to him. She muckled on and gave him a kiss that left a lipstick smear on his cheek. Now openly crying, she clutched her rose as if it was a talisman. Josh was blushing madly when he straightened for me. I grabbed him, and I said, “You are the most amazing kid a mother could ever hope for. Thank you for doing that. I love you!”
“I meant it Mom. Love you.”
I let him go so he could trot back down to the ice.
I would like to say he went out there and scored the winning goal, but he didn’t. He got a two-minute penalty for high sticking, and he was burned on a two-on-one breakaway. The goalie pulled his cookies from the fire with an awesome save. In other words, it was just another game.
Except for Amanda and me.