>Oh, Boy.
>Does a five-year-old boy’s desire to dress like a girl for Halloween make him gay?
That’s been a big question on the Internet lately, but as any mother of boys knows, it’s nothing new.
I was warmly welcomed into the Is My Son A Gay Guy Yet? Club (I. M. S.A.G.G.Y. for short) back in 2007, when my son was just nine weeks old. As I wrote back then, almost from the moment he was born I learned that assessing a son’s potential gayness based on whether he played with dolls, wore fingernail polish, or wanted to dress as a princess was a very popular topic among moms.
And I quickly decided that I wasn’t going to worry about it.
For one thing, with three sisters and a house full of maribou, makeup, glitter and lace, I figured it was almost a given that my little Bruiser was going to find some of that stuff appealing. For another, I knew that I’d love him the same no matter his sexual orientation– and so I resolved to remain neutral and let him choose his own way without trying to influence him one way or another.
As it turned out, though, my thoughts on the matter… didn’t matter. Because if all of us fall somewhere on a male-female continuum, with ‘one’ being female and ‘ten’ being male…
Bruiser goes to eleven.
As a baby, he screamed louder and longer than any of his sisters. He was full of aggression, energy, and raucous, messy affection. And even at only a few months old, he’d push past the pink rattles and cloth dolls and wrap his tiny fingers around the one toy car we had on hand. None of Punky’s dainty pastel baby toys got a second glance.
It wasn’t long before I found myself in search of my toddler son’s sensitive side. I’d tenderly hand him a baby doll in a blanket. He’d take it gamely, give it a smooch on its cheek, then fling it against the wall, laughing. I’d offer to let him join in when Punky and I pulled out her box of Barbies and he’d eagerly participate- by finding his biggest plastic dinosaur and using it to terrorize the poor blond dolls.
“Power Rangers!” he shouts in a gruff voice when he sees other boys on the playground. “Operation overdrive! Eagle fire!” He frenziedly jabs at the air, resembling a drunken Kung Fu instructor.
“I just want to punch, punch, punch, PUNCH!” he often tells me exuberantly, which can be a little embarrassing when we’re out at the grocery or at church.
“I don’t even know where that comes from,” I say, laughing weakly. “We don’t punch at our house. We really don’t.”
In fact, I can think of only one incident when he made an attempt to connect with his feminine side. It happened about a year ago, after he watched Punky put on one of her princess dresses and begin dancing around their bedroom. “Put one on me too, mommy,” Bruiser said to me. “I want a princess dress, too.” I smiled and chose Belle’s dress, thinking the rich gold satin would look good with his skin tone. He stepped into it excitedly, but as I fastened up the back, he grew very still. Awkwardly holding his arms out like a stubby mannequin, he stood frozen for a moment, staring down at the sparkly tulle skirt.
“Get. It. Off,” he said quietly in a growly voice.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“GET IT OFF!” he shouted, pulling at it until it lay in a heap on the floor.
Now three and-a-half, my little chest-beating gorilla has turned me into a regular Dian Fossey, testing his inherent identification with all things masculine at every opportunity.
“Do you want to take ballet, Bruiser?” I asked him last week, after Punky’s recital. “Because you could take it next year if you want.”
“I do not want,” he said gruffly.
“Why not?”
“Because ballet for girls.“
When toy catalogs arrive in the mail, he eagerly pores over every Transformer, superhero action figure, and race car. But when he reaches a page with pink kitchenettes and Polly Pockets, he turns it dismissively. “Girl toys,” he mutters, skipping through the book. “Girl toys, girl toys, girl toys… AHHHH! BOY TOYS!!”
What does all this mean to me? Not much except for an attic full of unusable hand-me-downs. But a few weeks ago, I finally found a way to put Bruiser’s girl aversion to good use.
He’s been potty training and while he’s had only a couple of accidents since he began, he continues to insist that he prefers diapers. And why not? Diapers allow him the freedom to do whatever he wants without stopping to take annoying bathroom breaks.
“I hate these big boy underwears,” he says menacingly each time I make him step into a pair. “I spit on them.” He makes spitting sound effects in their general direction. “I like my diapers.”
After a week of this behavior, I’d had enough. The next time I went to the grocery, I brought home a suprise.
“Sorry, Bruiser,” I said. “They wouldn’t sell me boy diapers. They said they knew who you were, and you were too big to be wearing diapers now. All they would give me are these girl diapers.”
Bruiser looked dubiously at the package I had pulled out from my shopping bag, which was festooned with hearts and flowers and featured a smiling four-year-old girl.
“No,” he declared. “I need my boy diapers.”
“That’s what I told them,” I said. “And they said, ‘Absolutely not! We will only sell you girl diapers from now on!'” I sighed defeatedly and ripped into the plastic wrapper, pulling out a flower-covered diaper. “So let’s put these on you.”
Bruiser bit his lip. “I no like those diapers,” he said slowly. “I…. I….” Even at the tender age of three, my tiny general was loath to admit defeat. “Ack-shully, I want big boy underwear.”
And that was that. Bye-bye diapers.
Now I’m thinking I’ll ride this wave as far as it takes me. Want a skateboard, son? Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure we’ll only be able to afford a Barbie one. Join the Pee Wee League Football Team? No problem… but the sporting goods store only carries pink helmets in your size. Aching for a car when you turn sixteen? How about a Volkswagen Beetle covered in fuchsia polka dots?
My strategy really gives new meaning to the term ‘girl power,’ don’t you think?
