Only a few minutes ago, our two kids, Lane (13) and Ezra (11) were at each other’s throats on the first day of Christmas vacation, swinging pecan branches at each other and calling each other retard, stupid, and idiot. After breaking them up and asking them to help me with something, they settled down to their tasks. As I was getting dressed in my room, I heard the sound of playing, of make-believe. Lego spaceships and cries of “oh no, I’m hit” and “check out this cannon” filled the house, and it reminded me of earlier times with smaller kids, maybe toddlers, laughing and singing.

It was a wonderful moment listening to the kids. One of them had on a Halloween wig with tight curls designed to turn you into Napoleon Dynamite, and he took it off to make the other brother wear it, saying, “You wear it — it’s too hot.” And the other boy, not missing a beat, said, “Now you know how Joyce feels.”

They continued playing with Legos, happy, oblivious, just kids, leaving me with a host of swirling feelings.

Nothing is straightforward for me, and the joy I felt at their childhood, their clear empathy with me and my wig, and their total easiness about me and my transition and my name — all of this joy was mixed with a sense of melancholy. I recalled a house filled with small children, a house with a mother who was a woman and a father who was a man, a house populated with normal, ostensibly happy people, and I felt for the thousandth time the sense of guilt I have at having derailed this image, this story, this normalcy, even as I feel a new story being created around a new family. I feel a sadness at becoming “Joyce” more and more and “Dad” less and less, even as I rejoice that the kids have adapted so well, have accepted me as I am.

You will recall the great compromise we hammered out called the “Just Joyce” plan. It has worked so well that I sometimes fear erasure as the cost of family success. It’s a life I can live with, but it also involves negotiating among my past, present, and future selves without emplotting my life as a tragedy, a comedy, a thriller, or any other prefabricated genre, and that’s something I continue trying to figure out.