So about six months ago, my granddaughter, Evie, started correcting me. Like big time. We were at the park, navigating one of those Swiss Family Robinson jungle gyms when she scrambled up the inside of a rope tunnel, hooked her little feet over the top and proceeded to dangle upside down, squealing “Lookit me Nini! Lookit me Nini! Lookit lookit lookit lookit me!!”
Natch, my heart bursted with pride – which means little when you’re the type of granny who throws house parties the first time your g-babe makes a poo in the potty. Oh yes. I did that. Twice.
So as I’m watching her swing to and fro by her toes, praying she doesn’t slip and fall on her face (but positioning myself under her in case she does) I blurted “What a brave little girl you are!”
And she says “I’m a boy, Nini. A brave little boy.“
Hmm. Okay. Evie’s a boy. What ever. Moving on.
Since then, Evie has corrected, reprimanded and reminded me countless times that she is a boy. This little three year old has got me feeling like the biggest dumbass in her universe, you know? And that SUCKS. Not that she sees herself as a boy – but that I can’t seem to get my head around referring to her as a boy – if that makes sense.
Which it clearly does not because ya’ll, I am the biggest, most accepting, non judgmental person on the planet. Or thought I was, anyway. I don’t care if you’re black/white/green/spotted/gay/straight/fluid/trans/fat/slim/tall/short and if I’ve left anything out I apologize. All that matters to me is content of character – that’s how I’ve always been, you know? I can accept that Evie sees herself as a boy – the problem isn’t Evie, it’s me. Why can’t I make the reference? What’s wrong with me????
Because she is only three years old, does she really know if she’s a boy or girl? Or is she simply pretending to be a boy because her two best friends, are boys? When do you, like, know know? Cause ya’ll when I was three I wanted to be a Kangaroo. Hopped all over the place like a Kangaroo. But I hopped around knowing I was girl Kangaroo. Even when I had an early physical relationship with another girl, I knew I was a girl. I have never not known that.
Evie has always been a rough & tumble, mud stomping, tree climbing, thrill seeking, outdoorsy kinda kid. Her broken arm didn’t stop her from sledding down a snowy hill on Christmas, or somersaulting across our living room floor. She’s fearless. She’s a badass. It’s not a stretch to imagine her someday backflipping off an ATV with a chainsaw. I mean seriously – she’s that extreme.
So the other day when I was with her, we played a little game. I wanted to see if she knew the difference between boys and girls. It went like this:
Me “Is Mommy a boy or a girl?”
Evie “A girl”.
Me “Is Daddy a boy or a girl?”
Evie “Daddy’s a really big boy” (He’s 6′ 6″)
Me “Is Sissy a boy or a girl?”
Evie “She’s a girly girl”.
Me “Is baby Cora a girl or a boy?”
Evie “She’s a girl and I’m her big brother. Just like I’m Sissy’s little brother AND your very brave grandson”.
So today I have a grandson. Next week might be a Kangaroo. Who knows? Who cares? She’s free to be who ever she want’s to be and I’m just gonna let her be, you know?