‘Which mom is your biological mom?’
The question hung in the air from one of my kids’ friends to my kid, who hesitated before answering.
We were at a local restaurant to celebrate my kid’s birthday. I was sitting in a booth across the aisle.
My stomach clenched. How would this conversation unfold?
‘______ is my biological mom.’
‘Who’s your dad?’
The knot in my stomach got tighter.
I resisted the urge to butt in; it wasn’t my conversation. I also wanted to know how my kid would answer.
The questioner was the same semi-clueless, spoiled, and entitled kid who dropped, ‘I didn’t know you had two moms,’ in loud, shocked surprise on my kid in class last year when my ex and I both attended a school play.
‘I don’t have a dad.’
The kid’s brain seized up at that and they screwed up their face. My kid oiled their gears.
‘My dad became a woman.’
The kid’s eyeballs nearly popped out. They glanced nervously my way. I pretended to be very interested in my pizza.
‘You mean they had surgery and stuff?’
There you have it. Nine year-olds now know transgender people can have surgery. I didn’t even know transgender people existed when I was nine.
‘No, you don’t need surgery for that. They took medicine.’
I was pleasantly surprised. Either they remembered the conversation we had a few years ago or they’ve been studying. My kid glanced at me for reassurance. I smiled back.
‘Whoa.’ The other kid still looked unsettled and nervous.
Their conversation shifted. My thoughts shifted to being resigned that yet another parent will know I’m trans.
Such is life.
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