Jeremy walked into my room to show me his new solar panel robot we got at Dollarama yesterday.
“I’ll read you the blog post I just wrote,” I told him as I flipped through our stats page. “I think you’ll only be the seventh to read it, not including me… unless some of the people who started on the home page also read it. But you’ll be no less than the seventh.”
Jeremy rolled his eyes and sat down. “Okay, fine, you can read it now,” he said once he was settled. I read him the blog.
“It was fine,” he said when I finished. “Good.”
Which is what he says in response to every blog post I’ve ever written. If I’m reading him a chapter I’ve just written, his answer changes slightly to “Fine” and “Good conversations.”
“Lenny suggested maybe creating a list of the good things and bad things about being trans and seeing if that would help you sort things out. Do you think it would be a help?”
He smiled. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
“Okay… so what would some good things be about being trans?”
He shrugged and stayed silent. I listened to the metaphorical crickets chirp for a few seconds.
“Okay… how about the bad things then?” I figured if he got some bad things out, we could work our way back to some good things.
Another shrug and more crickets.
“Hon, I’m getting the feeling you’re not trying,” I commented.
“Mom. I am thinking. You don’t know what’s in my head.”
“And yet you came up with nothing for either list. C’mon, not even bathrooms?” Considering how often he’s brought them up before, I figured that one would be a given. Once again he shrugged.
“I’m guessing when you said you’d be interested in doing that list, you didn’t mean right this second,” I said and Jeremy nodded.
I leaned over and rested my hand on his chest. “Jeremy, right here, right in your heart… deep down inside… when you listen to yourself, do you feel like a man?”
“I don’t know,” he replied.
“Okay… do you feel like a woman?”
“I don’t know,” he repeated.
I thought for a second. “Maybe you just don’t feel like either gender,” I mused.
“I don’t know,” he said sounding frustrated.
“You know what. I bet deep down inside you feel like… a cat.”
“Which is fine but if you start licking yourself, I’m expecting you to start using the kitty litter.”
“And I’m out of here,” he said after rolling his eyes.
This would be how we spend our Saturday nights. It’s barely 8pm here and we’re both in our pyjamas. Also, Jeremy just walked by dragging a glowing green Xbox controller by its cord, kind of like you’d walk a toy dog. Because it’s broken and because walking broken game controllers around the apartment is what everyone does.
So nothing’s been sorted out but I’m reasonably certain Jeremy is not a cat.