Operation rainbow elf: An oversize gesture to affirm my transgender son at Christmas

Last Christmas I ordered five matching Pride T-shirts for my family instead of matching pajamas.

Only months before, our fourteen-year-old told us he was transgender. In that shocking conversation, I remember panic rising in my chest as my stomach lurched and tightened. My hands and feet grew icy. His truth of being male collided with mine that screamed, “No! You’re my daughter!”

The friction of that moment felt impossible to bear. My mind raced ahead and back simultaneously scanning the horizon for danger, for clues I missed, desperately trying to create a cohesive picture to make sense of this new reality. There was armpit hair, baggier clothes and the ever-present beanie—the number of times I caught him staring at the mirror in disgust.

Later, my son told me how hurt he felt when I blurted out that we better get him enrolled in self-defense classes so he can protect himself from assault.

Yikes.

And yet, I marveled at the courage it took for him to tell us.  The moment he came out, I felt an overpowering relief that he no longer had to carry this alone and such gratefulness that he trusted us enough to tell us.

My husband and I knew immediately that we’d do anything to support and affirm our child. But there was so much we didn’t understand, and the learning curve was steep. From a new name and pronouns to the anxiety of coming out to loved ones, the emotional and mental load overwhelmed us adults. I can only imagine how my child felt. We made mistakes and tried again. Adding to the pressure were the statistics—trans children affirmed in their identity have drastically reduced rates of anxiety, depression and suicidality than their unsupported transgender peers. But what constituted good parental support was unclear. What if our well-intended missteps eroded our son’s already fragile mental health?

All of this was weighing heavily on me as the holiday season approached. This was my son’s first Christmas identifying as masculine. I wanted to do something significant to honor that. Even though I couldn’t wipe away all of the confusion and chaos of his gender transition, I could make him feel more affirmed and supported.

When I was about my son’s age, I remember seeing an After School Special about a disgruntled teen who’d run away from home. I recall a scene where he left a note in his parents’ mailbox saying, “If you want me back, leave the lamp on in the front living room so I know I’m welcome.”  As he nervously rounded the street corner on the agreed upon date, the house was ablaze. He froze in his tracks. Light poured out of every door and window. Floodlights illuminated the yard. The boy and his parents hugged and music swelled. Tears sprung to my mushy, sentimental middle school eyes, searing in the scene forever.

I wanted to give my son that same feeling—and what better time than Christmas morning.  I hatched a plan.

Our draconian rule is that if our three kids—a pre-teen and two teenagers—wake us up at dawn Christmas morning, they have to wait at the top of the stairs while my husband and I make coffee and put the monkey bread in the oven. Bleary eyed and squished together, we then make them pose for an annual “top of the stairs” photo before releasing them like hounds to run towards their gifts.

Our staircase would be the first thing my son would see Christmas morning.

That’s where I’d begin.

I dragged out luminaries hidden in the garage and lined both sides of the steps with a slender paper bag filled with sand and a battery operated candle. A pink, blue and white striped transgender flag peeked out of each bag—transforming the staircase into a sparkly, queer runway.

Next up was the big Christmas tree at the bottom of the stairs. I poked dozens of more flags onto branches already heavy with ornaments. Beneath the tree, those trans pride t-shirts waited to be unwrapped.

I couldn’t hold back my grin as I headed over to the nativity for the piece-de-resistance—tiny knit rainbow caps atop the wooden heads of Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus.

Standing back, I surveyed Operation Rainbow Elf and giggled to myself. Even for a Christmas fanatic like me, this was over the top. I could already hear the teasing from my family.

I knew that this one ridiculous gesture wouldn’t magically fix my mistakes or ease my son’s struggles navigating his gender transition. But just for today infusing this uncertain, dazzling journey with a bit more joy, well, maybe that would be enough.

Not only is my son transforming—I’m transforming too. So is our family.  We’re all growing, learning and stumbling together. When he comes down the stairs Christmas morning, I hope he’ll grin, roll his eyes and feel love—unbound and beyond measure.