I was taking a little break, checking out my Facebook, at the office today. It brought up a picture posted just over a year ago and it said, "We thought you'd like to see this memory." Except, no.

It's a picture of J, short haired and pixie faced, with his (ugh...his? her?) legs crammed in to the arm holes of a sweatshirt. He spent all evening walking on his hands that day. It was hilarious! The picture made me gasp. Then laugh. Then sigh.

The sight of that child -- the son that disappeared -- always takes my breath away when it comes up unexpectedly. Where did he go? It's a question my husband asks often. Where did he go? He just...went.

I can't share that picture, even though it's a happy memory and I would love to share it with family and friends on social media. But I can't. C doesn't like to see old pictures for the most part, she trusts us to respect that and respect the privacy surrounding her transition. So, I laugh to myself and then I'm left with nothing to do but sigh.

It's always tricky when you see old pictures, tell old stories, or think of old memories, to know how to address C. She's always been C but we just didn't know she was C yet. So, in our memories, she was he. It feels natural to tell stories about when J did this or that when talking about the past. It's natural to use male pronouns because that was the reality then. But then I feel guilty for privately thinking these thoughts. I chastise myself for using the wrong pronouns, even if no one hears me.

So anyway, there's that.