They / Them

He was the kid who could make fantastic things from Legos, who couldn’t watch movies with dogs in them unless I assured him that no, the dog does not die in the end. The kid who wanted to be a 13 century samurai warrior for Halloween. A little hot glue, spray paint, a hard hat, some car floor mats and voila! A 9 year old Toshiro Mifune. 

Creative type A.

A hopeless romantic to the point of hopelessness after his high school heart was ripped out and stomped on by a girl who, I said, didn't deserve him. I told him he’d be okay. We’ve all been there. He had doubts. 

Soon. Son. Soon. 

He called me from college while I was grocery shopping. Was he crying? The campus was too big. Everything was overwhelming. He couldn’t navigate. 

Don’t they have maps?

 He didn’t mean like literally.

Oh, sorry.

 He said it felt like he was staring down the barrel of a gun. Of course I asked. He assured me this was a metaphor. But, still.

I put down the bunch of bananas. Walked away from the cart of groceries. Drove 90 miles into the past when I was the one who walked those same streets wearing bell bottoms and tie dye (what ever happened to my suede jacket with the fringe?) when everyday was like that taking-an-exam-but-didn’t-go-to-class nightmare. Was this an apple / tree situation?

He’s sitting on the curb in front of a bar. I was embarrassed to admit I had been a regular. I drive him home, and suggest a medicinal frozen custard. We dig in and question why it tastes better when you eat it with a red plastic spoon? One of life’s mysteries. 

Over a long weekend, the storm clouds pass and the sun comes out. He says he’s better and I believe him because I want to but, in a few weeks, he calls during a key plot twist on Lost and I make another drive and he returns to his boyhood bed. 

A degree isn’t in the cards. No shame in that. Home is where…something about they have to take you in? We keep our end of the bargain but, at some point I worry I’ll be ‘that mother’ who can’t let go, and he’ll end up killing me and collecting my social security checks. Of course it’ll be my fault. It’s always the mother. His father is just as flummoxed but confesses this is something I’m better at. I take this as a compliment, like him admitting I’m better at picking out paint colors, parallel parking and knowing when to leave a party.

So, I accept my role as the go-to parent in times of emotional turmoil. Yay?

What’s my option? Figure it out, pal, is what I want to say to my son but I don’t because he can’t and what kind of a mother would I be then? 

Lose. Lose. 

Tie. Draw. Forfeit.

 He lives at home for what seems like a year but is only two months. He gets a job. Finds an apartment. Okay, maybe he’s turned a corner? Maybe he just needed someone to save him from his high expectations he put on himself?

I don’t take it personally when he says he doesn’t like living at home. Go. Please. Take the towels. The coffee maker? Sure. We don’t use it. He cleans out my canned goods. Helps himself to the Tide laundry pods.

 He’s dating. Well, now! The girl, according to him, is a real catch. I get it. I mean, she’s got this cute, punk girl vibe but there’s something else about her…I can’t put my finger on…kind of an Eddie Haskell vibe. She says all the right things but…eh, I’m not buying what she’s selling. But, he likes her so I try to. 

 They are Facebook happy, all selfie smiles until cryptic posts about non-binary-ness and gender fluidity. Excuse me? Say what? Whose? There are no specifics as to the ins and outs. Do I really want to know? And then Covid. The relationship is on life support. It does not survive. 

He returns home without towels. He spends his days in bed, sobbing, parsing past arguments – she said this, he said that, if only he’d have done x, y, been more, been less, he thought he was being supportive, she said he wasn’t, he gave, she took, he lost himself, she said, he wasn’t who she thought he was. Who did she think he was? He doesn’t know who he is or even why he should exist. He is broken. We have to put the pieces back together. Will they fit? Do we have them all?

If I were a practicing believer, I would ask forgiveness for wanting to punch this girl in the throat and remove her vital organs, but I’m not, so I don’t. I commiserate with my posse – mothers who have adult sons who have been wronged by callous lovers. We drink. We come up with Rube Goldberg plans for revenge. What’s said on the patio, stays on the patio. 

Time will heal all wounds. Sounds good. This is a two steps forward, three steps backwards kind of thing and when he steps back, he falls into a deep, dark, bottomless hole.

Okay. This is getting serious. This is more than just a ‘bad break up.’ This isn’t just mope around, hang out with friends who have his back. That’s the other thing. He lost his friends. She couldn’t handle him having friends. I know, I know. Red flag. But he didn’t see it. We did.   

I call the suicide hotline. He talks. I pretend to make dinner. According to the Mother By Laws, eavesdropping in this case is allowable. I can only hear one side of the convo but it sounds like the person on the other end is saying the same things I’ve been saying to him. I feel very validated. He’s on the phone for 3 hours. He emerges looking like he just ran an Iron Man competition. I tell him a year from now things will be better. I have to believe it, so he will. 

There is one last thing to do and I am the one to do it. I go and get his stuff from the apartment. He can’t deal. Okay. 5 flights up. No elevator. Boxes of books, that are heavy and I cope with the strain on my back by telling myself at least he still reads. Bins of clothes. Shoes. Crates full of vinyl. Art. Several bikes. I forget to grab the cast iron cookware his sister bought him that one Christmas. The coffee maker looks like a science project. She can have it. I’ll get him a new one. No, I didn’t see a Game of Thrones board game. I think the power cord for the video game is in the bin. It isn’t? Sorry.  

Let’s just take a breath. Where are we in this board Game of Life? Have they rebooted that game? If you roll the dice and spin the thing-y and choose to go to college, do you have crippling student loan debt? If you get married and have a kid, is postpartum depression involved? Maybe you get pregnant and become a single parent? Maybe there should be a route where you have issues with substance abuse? Is there a fork in the road and you have to define your gender identity? Just spitballing.

In the spring, he came out as a trans femme. A what now? I saw it on his Instagram. He posted a long screed about his journey and how he arrived at this point. I have questions. So. Many. Questions. 

Go ahead, they say. 

I don’t want to sound stupid. 

Just ask, they say. 

Anything?

Sure.

I dunk my tea bag into my cup of hot water repeatedly, like a nervous tic. I use my spoon to squeeze the excess water from the bag. The server tells us the lunch specials. Chili sounds good but I go with a burger. I clear my throat. 

Um…so…like…um…is this…like…are you…um…do I have to…when did this…does this mean you’re…but…it’s not…or is it…I mean…what’s going on down there? I never noticed…anything.

They’re drinking a Pelegrino. They have been going to AA. Just got their 6 month token. 

You go to AA? Why?

They’re an alcoholic.

But, this is Wisconsin. Drinking is baked into the cake. 

Did I just say that? Oh. My. God.

We are presented with our food. The server asks if we’d like anything else? Uh, sure. I’d like to be able to go back in time, see where I went wrong? No? Okay then, we’re fine.

I am told by my youngest child sitting across the table from me, that I should look at it this way, they’re going through a rebranding. I can’t quite wrap my head around ‘they’ as a singular pronoun. 

They say that they’re going to be changing the packaging. 

But, I liked the old packaging. What was wrong with it? 

It needs to be upgraded and the formula has to change too.

I should not have ordered food.

What about the applicator? It was a pump and now it’s going to be a spray? How’s that going to work?

The applicator will stay the same. They want to know if they can have some of my fries.

Sure. Go ahead. I want to ask about…other things like partners but I just can’t. Nope. Not going there. I leave that on the table for the next time. I’m pretty full of things to process. 

But then comes dessert in the form of a different name. 

Wait. What? A new name? What happens to the old name? Does it just get tossed aside?

I agonized for months. I picked it because of the Viking blood in our veins.

Yeah. It is a cool name, they say, it’s just not the right one. 

They pay the check, I leave a generous tip. We hug. I haven’t seen them smile with their whole face like that since those Lego days. 

I walk to my car. I fumble around for my key. I get in. Sit there. Staring at nothing. I hope no one is waiting for this space. I begin to sob. Shoulder shaking, snot producing sobs. I feel like someone died, or maybe worse, like they're not dead, just lost forever. There’s a tap on my window. A woman. My age. I roll it down. She asks if I’m okay. I want to say, does it look like I’m okay? Read the room! But I don’t. I say, yeah. I’m fine. Just having a day, you know? 

She says she knows. Been there. 

No, she doesn’t. She hasn’t. 

I did not sign up for this. I signed up for…a boy, then a man, then he’d meet a nice girl, they’d (plural) procreate, I’d have a grandchild, everyone would come over for Sunday dinners, football. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do. Nothing?

I always said that it didn’t matter what he…er…they did, as long as they were happy. I stand by that. It doesn’t look like what I thought their happiness would look like but, they’re still my kid and underneath that blouse beats the heart of a Samurai warrior.