I learned a valuable lesson on consent from my TGD child today. The end of the soccer season combined with a slightly chilly and overcast spring afternoon saw the under-6 team engage in their last training session with a sense of exhaustion, excitement, and frivolity. My daughter had enjoyed soccer training, for the most part, getting to play with her friends and running around was certainly the highlight. I had grown friendships with the other parents as well. While friend-making is not an innate strength of mine, I was moved by their compassion early in the season when my daughter and I were both struggling to feel safe in the school environment. My daughter had developed and maintained joyous friendships and soccer training was a highlight of our week.
After a pre-training play at the park, collective snacking, and giggles of delight as the team played tips, the training began as usual. My daughter linked arms with her friends to ensure they were on the same team and once on the field she hastily assumed the defensive position of goalkeeper – her favourite space on the field. While I feel strongly compelled to draw parallels between her strengths as a defensive player both on and off the field, I will save that for another blog.
The whistle blew and the game was set in motion. As the team played, kicked, celebrated scored and defended goals, the other parents and I intermittently cheered from the sidelines as we engaged in other conversations as well. I couldn’t help but notice similarities between my daughter as a toddler and one of the player’s younger siblings. I remarked as such and shared a photo from my phone of my daughter as a 2-year-old. The other parent marvelled at the similarities and we both smiled enjoying a moment of pride, sentimentality, and deep love for our children. I looked up to notice my daughter watching me rather than the soccer ball. I waved, continuing to smile and she stared with a look of dread on her face. She left the game and ran over to us and before I could ask what she needed she abruptly asked, “what are you doing?”
As I explained, tears welled in her eyes, her head buried into my chest, and she inaudibly muttered with her hands over her ears. I tried to pull back to hear more clearly but she leaned in, so I cuddled her and rubbed her back whispering, “I am here, I’ve got you”. After a short while and my mind racing a million miles a minute, I asked her to tell me what was making her feel so sad. Through streaming tears and a heavy heart, she cried, “those are private, I don’t want you to show people, that’s not me anymore”. My heart sank. I held her tight and all I could think to say is, “I am so sorry, I should have asked you first”.
When we each look at a photograph, it affects us in very different ways. For me, I remember where we were, what we were doing and exactly what compelled me to take that photo. I remember the feeling of love and joy that I felt at that moment. It swells those same feelings again and I feel unrivalled happiness. When I share the photo with another mother, we are united by the same feelings in each of our children. For my daughter, it is different. She remembers being misgendered, misunderstood, and feelings of being hurt arise and are then compounded by embarrassment, shame, and fear. She is being hurt all over again by being compared to another child.
A few days later I spoke to her again about the photo share. I asked how it made her feel seeing me share the photo and she reiterated that she feels photos are private and feels hurt when I share them. She also asked why I shared them to which I responded, “they bring me so much joy and happiness and I didn’t consider sharing them would make you feel upset”. “Well…” she replied, “you really got that wrong. I can tell you that for free!” I really did get that wrong although I feel like she did pay the cost for me finding that out.
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