It was an average morning in the Simpsons household on a humid, June day. Summer recess loomed in the air, children anxiously counting down the days until the last day of school. Lisa sat at the breakfast table, eating a bowl of cereal while Marge contentedly flipped pancakes, humming a lighthearted tune. Maggie, the youngest child in the Simpson family, played with her dish of oatmeal, sucking on her pacifier. The sound of squeaking coming from the stairs drew the attention of Lisa and her mother, wondering who would enter the kitchen. It was Homer Simpson, fiddling his clip-on tie frustratingly.
"Good morning, Homer. I'm making pancakes for you and Bart." Marge greeted her husband warmly. His annoyance at his tie instantly faded hearing his wife speak. With a big smile on his face, he approached Marge and kissed her on the lips. "I also packed your lunch. It's in the fridge."
"Did you put in the apple slices with the caramel dipping sauce?" He asked enthusiastically.
"Of course!" Marge chuckled, placing the golden brown pancakes onto a giant saucer.
"You know me too well, Marge." He giggled as he took a seat across from his daughter.
"Don't eat them all, dad. Bart'll wrestle them out of your mouth if you do." Lisa warned, getting up from her seat to put her empty bowl into the sink. "Usually he's awake by now. The school bus should be here in ten minutes."
"What's taking him so long?" Homer grumbled, anticipating that he would be the one to drive Bart to school. "By now he—"
"AAAAAAAH!" A shrill scream echoed down the stairwell. Upon hearing her son scream bloody murder, her stomach dropped.
"Was that Bart?" Lisa gasped.
"Oh, God. I hope he didn't break his leg." Homer rubbed his temples in distress.
"I'll be right there, Bart!" Marge quickly ran up the stairs. The dining room went completely silent, save for the muffled sound of the radio and Lisa nervously tapping her saxophone case.
"...Could you pass me the syrup?" Homer asked awkwardly.
"Sure, dad."
When Marge opened the door to Bart's room, the first thing she saw was a bloodstain on her son's bedsheets and pajama pants. "Oh, honey…" she approached him slowly.
"W-why is this happening to me, mom?" His voice warbled, a look of absolute horror on his face.
"Hmm… well…" her voice trailed off, trying to figure out the best way to explain this to him. "It's a way that your body is letting you know that you're growing up."
"That's not what I'm upset about! I know what periods are because of those teen dramas that are always on television, and it's not normal to me!" The ten-year old's voice rose. "Only girls get periods. Why do I have a period when it's something only girls get?" He lashed out. Marge's blood ran cold, realizing where the direction of Bart's reasoning was going. Seeing the surprise on his mother's face after yelling at her, his lip began to quiver as he broke down in tears. He looked down at the blood-stained Krusty the Clown sheets and back at Marge.
"I'm not a real boy, aren't I?" he whispered as quietly as he could until crying hysterically in his mother's arms. Marge's heart shattered hearing those words come out of her son's mouth.
"Of course you're a real boy, Bart. You're my special little guy and nothing will ever change that." She held him tightly as she consoled him.
"I love you, mom." Bart sniffled. "I'm sorry about the mess."
"It's not your fault, sweetie. I love you, too." She gently reassured him. "I'll run a bath for you and get you some clean clothes and new sheets for your bed.
"But the bus'll be here at any minute!"
"I'm letting you skip school today. You're very upset about what happened and you need to relax." Marge picked up Bart from his bed and onto the floor. She removed his bedsheets, sighing in relief that the blood didn't get on his mattress. "Thank goodness for mattress covers!" She laughed to herself. "Go to the bathroom. I'll be there in just a minute—I'm going to go put this in the washing machine." Bart nodded his head, jetting to the bathroom.
Marge walked back downstairs holding the balled-up sheets, passing through the kitchen. "Did Lisa get on the bus?" She asked Homer.
"Yup. I made sure she didn't forget her saxomapho—wait a minute, why do you have Bart's sheets?" He asked suspiciously. "Did he have an accident? Is that why I gotta drag his butt to school?"
"Homer, this is no laughing matter!" She scolded. "Your son got his period and is feeling incredibly distraught. He feels like he's not a real boy and is ashamed because of what happened." Flabbergasted, Homer blinked, his hand concealing his mouth. "After I give him a bath, I need you to stay here and have a talk with him while I'm at the supermarket getting him some pads." She exited the kitchen as she resumed her trip to the laundry room.
"Why can't you talk to him, Marge? I'm gonna be late for work!" He called out. Marge stopped walking and turned her head around to face her husband.
"He needs you, Homer. He's becoming a young man and is terrified for what his future holds, and he needs your comfort and validation while he adapts to this turbulent era in his life." She walked away as Homer looked at his shoes sullenly, upset that not only his son was going through a difficult time, but terrified of not being able to help him. He was never the best at giving advice to his children, let alone being one-hundred percent knowledgeable on how to raise a transgender child. He did the best that he could, and he hoped that Bart knew he was trying. He sat down and looked at Maggie, still happily suckling her pacifier, and pondered heavily about what he could say to his son.
"Aaaand there! That's how you put on a pad." Marge announced. Bart lifted his pants as he got off the toilet seat.
"Man, I feel like I'm wearing a diaper." He complained bitterly.
"I felt the same way when I wore a pad for the first time, Bart." She ruffled his short, spiky hair with a towel, drying the excess water.
"So I gotta deal with this for one week every month?"
"For now, yes." She explained. "You'll have to change your pad every few hours. If you leave it on for too long it might start to leak." Bart nodded in understanding. "I have to go to the store to buy a new box of pads. Homer is downstairs if you need him. I also changed your sheets to new, clean ones."
"Alright." While Bart did feel a little better after getting cleaned up and learning more about periods from his mother, he still felt bad about himself and his body. He hugged his mom before walking back to his room, his upset and frustration about the whole situation truly setting in. He hated wearing a pad, and he hated having periods, to begin with. All it did was make him feel broken. In the back of his mind, he was convinced that nobody truly saw him as a boy. Not even his classmates, not even his teachers, not even his sisters, and not even his own parents. He hopped onto his bed and curled up into a fetal position, silently weeping. In his place of rest and refuge, it felt like everything around him was crumbling at the seams, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
"I'm off to the store now," Marge scooped Maggie up from her high chair. "I'll see you later, Homie." She kissed him on the cheek as she grabbed the car keys and exited the Simpson household.
Homer felt his heart rate increase tenfold, his clammy hands intertwining his tie. He shook his head and regained composure, making his pilgrimage to the second floor of the house. With every step, the stairs creaked loudly, causing Homer to wince. As he approached the door to Bart's room, he looked at the sign that was always plastered on his front door: NO PARENTS ALLOWED. While he and Marge ignored this message whenever they needed Bart to do chores or was in trouble, he felt a pang of guilt rush through his body. He felt like the sign was what was separating him from his son in need. He didn't want to intrude out of respect but was tired of Bart closing himself off from his family. Sucking in a deep breath through his teeth, he gently knocked on the door.
"Bart?" He asked softly. Homer's son jumped in surprise. He stood motionless as he tried to plan a way to make himself look 'fine.'
"Uhhh, just give me a second." He sniffled, running to his cluttered closet and pulling out a Radioactive Man comic book. He looked at his bed and jumped back on, rearranging his pillows to look like he was already lounging. He heard the door knock again.
"Please let me in. You aren't in trouble and I'm not mad at you for missing the bus. I just… want to talk to you." Homer's voice was layered with sadness.
Bart wiped the wet tears on his face with his shirt sleeve and sat up, legs crossed, flipping open to a random page in his comic book. "Okay, you can come in now." Sighing in relief, Homer slowly opened the door.
"What's up, boy?" He asked, taking a seat on his son's bed.
"Nothing really. I got to a really good moment in Radioactive Man." He lied.
"Is that why you told me not to come in right away?"
Bart looked up from his book, becoming queasy out of shame for lying to his father. His eyes were puffy and his nose was pink and inflamed. "...Yeah."
"Well, if I'm being honest, it looks like something's troubling you. You sound like you were crying."
Bart couldn't stomach playing a charade for any longer. He chucked the comic book to the floor and balled his hands into fists, glaring at Homer.
"I've been crying since I got up, Homer. I feel like crap." He sniffed, his fists slightly trembling. "I woke up with blood on my clothes and bed." Homer blinked in confusion. "In English: I got my period," Bart said, annoyed at his dim-witted father.
While Homer did remember that Marge told him Bart got his period, it genuinely was completely new to him! All he knew was that if a period was missed, it meant pregnancy. "Why are you upset, boy?" He asked, gingerly patting the area next to him in hopes Bart would sit beside him.
"I'm not a real boy, Homer. I'm just a phony." He began, completely ignoring Homer's gesture. He quickly made eye contact with his dad, his bottom lip starting to quiver. "...And I know deep down inside you, Mom, Lisa, and even Maggie think so, too."
The nuclear technician felt devastated by Bart's allegation. There was nothing more painful than hearing his son express his feelings of alienation from his own family. "Why do you feel like you're a phony?" After asking Bart, he suddenly remembered what Dr. Hibbert said when he and Marge took Bart to the doctor's after he came out as transgender to his family.
"Your child's unhappiness associated with wearing feminine clothing, having long hair put in braids and bows, and being referred to as a girl causes them to feel dysphoric." Dr. Hibbert said calmly to the nervous parents.
"What's that, Dr. Hibbert? Is it fatal?" Marge asked worriedly.
"Gender dysphoria is when someone feels disconnected with their gender identity and their assigned gender at birth. It's common in transgender youth, although some kids realize they're transgender when they experience gender euphoria, which is when they feel validated and comforted by seeing themselves as their opposite assigned gender at birth. It's important your child feels comfortable with who they are, so as long as your child is accepted and has a strong support network, they should feel happy overall."
"Yeah, but I just wanna know what we can do to help!" Homer gave the healthcare worker an attitude.
"What can be done to alleviate your child's dysphoria is to cut their hair, have them wear more masculine clothing, and refer to them as a boy. I should also add that when they become a teenager, they'll be around the time of adolescence, and as you may know that means the menstrual cycle. When your child gets their first period, I want you to make an appointment to see me as soon as possible."
Homer nodded slowly as his flashback phased out.
"You're not even listening to me!" Bart cried out in annoyance, slamming his head into his pillow.
"Of course I'm listening to you, Bart. I was just thinking of something to say! Honest!" Bart slowly moved his head from his pillow.
"I'm sorry for lashing out at you. I'm just upset because I feel like I'm not a real boy." He scooted himself next to his father, who placed a sympathetic arm around his side. "Real boys don't get periods. If the kids at school find out, they'll laugh at me and taunt me and call me a girl! I don't even think anyone at school sees me as a boy." Homer frowned.
"So getting your period makes you feel… uh…" His mind went to a complete blank. He tapped his foot as he searched deep in the confines of his brain to find the word that was on the tip of his tongue. "Damn it, what's that word that starts with a 'd?' Dyspepsia?"
"Close enough, dad." Bart chuckled heartily, appreciative of his dad's good intentions. "It's dysphoria, and you're right—my period does make me feel dysphoric."
"Your mother told me about what happened before she left to go to the store. It makes me really sad that you feel this way, Bart." He took Bart's hand and held it securely. "And I just want you to know that as your father, I believe that you're a real boy." Hearing his dad validate his identity lifted one of the many weights off his shoulders.
"You getting periods doesn't make you any less of a man. In fact, some women don't even get periods at all! And that doesn't make them any less of a woman, right?" Homer reasoned, holding his breath to see if his comparison worked.
"You're right," Bart murmured. Homer gasped for air, relieved that he didn't make his son feel worse. Bart was slightly comforted by Homer's words, as he was reminded that transgender girls his age were out there and likely had similar woes to him. But this was Homer who was giving him advice! He probably meant older women dealing with menopause, but the sentiment was still there nonetheless. Despite his father's efforts, his feelings of malaise unfortunately lingered. "But what if the school bullies mock me?"
"You don't have to tell them squat about what goes on with your body," Homer advised. "It's nobody's business except your own." His eyes darted up to his forehead, trying to recall who else that needed to know. "And your doctor's. I'll have to tell Marge to make an appointment for you to see Dr. Hibbert soon." Bart bobbed his head.
"And if I'm being honest here, who cares if you have a different you-know-what than the other guys?" Homer got up from Bart's bed and stood in front of him. "You're still a boy through and through. Anybody that tells you otherwise," His voice was filled with determination and sincerity. "whether they're an adult, an old hag, or even someone the same age as you, is not a good person at all. If anyone tries to harm you solely because of who YOU are," He pointed directly to Bart. "they're gonna have to get through me first."
"R–really, dad?" Bart queried, wide-eyed.
"Of course, boy! Y'know, I've been called many things," he placed his hand on Bart's shoulder. "A fool, an idiot, a baboon even! But even if those are true, that doesn't mean I'm ignorant. You wanna know something else?" Bart nodded his head vigorously.
"The the day you came out was one of the best days of my life." He planted a hand on the ten-year-old's shoulder. Marge and I were blessed with a wonderful son, and your sisters were blessed with a big brother." Bart leaped into his father's arms, his dysphoric feelings quashed.
"Thanks, dad." He said, crying tears of joy. "I feel a lot better now."
"I love you very much, and I can't wait to see you grow up into a handsome young man." He patted his son on the back and extended his arms out as he held him. "Now dry up those tears, boy. How about I take you out fishing at the lake this weekend, just you and me?"
Bart's eyes lit up in joy. "Totally!" Right as Homer was about to put Bart back on his bed, the doorbell rang.
"It's Marge! I'll be right back." He told Bart, exiting his room, completely indifferent to his tardy arrival at work.
Marge entered the front door holding a paper grocery bag in one hand and Maggie in the other. She had a nervous look on her face, desperate to know if her son was okay. Seeing her husband in the corner of her eye, she dropped the bag with a light thud and immediately embraced Homer.
"Did you talk to Bart?" She questioned with bated breath, her free arm tensely clasped around Homer's waist. He lovingly stroked Marge's face, whose skittish demeanor relaxed into a contented one.
"No need to worry, Marge," he cooed. "It's all good."
"Homer's taking me fishing this weekend!" Bart proudly stood at the top of the staircase. Witnessing her son smile from ear to ear, Marge handed Maggie over to Homer, who had a subtle pout on his face hearing Bart refer to him on a first-name basis. She sprinted to the stairs and scooped Bart into her arms, proudly holding him in the air.
"Oh, Bart…" She sighed in relief. "I'm so glad you're feeling better!"
"Alright, you can put me down." Bart groaned, wiggling his body to break free from his mother's hug.
"Ah crap, I'm gonna be late to work!" Homer whined loudly.
"Just say you had a family emergency. Technically, you're not lying…" Bart advised slyly. While Marge mumbled, uncertain if Bart's plan was feasible, her husband and son erupted into guffaws. To Homer, it was otherworldly that despite how he was quite a distance away from Bart, he had a secure feeling within his heart that his relationship with his son was better than ever.
It was moments like these that made Homer proud to be a father; a never-ending chase to make memories never to be forgotten.