I was born with the luxury of being heterosexual.
I never had to come out to my parents, fearful of whether they would ever look at me again with the same eyes. I didn’t have to hide my partner from my grandparents. Or conceal my schoolgirl crushes from my friends. I never had to question why I couldn’t be ‘normal’, or hear politicians say that there was something wrong with me. I never contemplated suicide because I struggled to accept a part of me that was always there.
I don’t remember at what age I realised I had this luxury. I don’t know when my children will become aware of their sexuality, or if I will notice when they realise who they are attracted to. All I hope for them is that by the time that awakening occurs I have instilled in them a belief that, whatever their preference, they are normal and it is ok.
With kids six-and-under, sexuality is not a big topic of conversation in our house.
Inspired by fairytales and dress ups and seeing their parents they talk of finding their prince, or being a wife and mother.
It’s a tricky path to navigate without any examples of difference around them. There are no same sex parents at their school or on our street, so they are not exposed to the fact that families come in all shapes and sizes.
But when they talk about finding love and getting married and ask if girls marry boys or girls I tell them that there is only one rule: You can marry whomever you want, as long as you love them.
I just hope that by the time they are old enough I would have told them the truth.
Someone recently said that one day we will look back upon the ban on same sex marriage the same way we now look at segregation in America; with incredulity that it could happen. With shame that such discrimination and oppression was not only tolerated, but legislated for.