I’ve got three of them. All boys. The youngest is six, the oldest is thirteen, and the middle boy is nine.
The middle one, the nine-year old, he’s only comfortable wearing what would traditionally be considered girl’s clothes; dresses, skirts, glitter, sequins, rainbows, kittens, pinks, purples, etc.. He has a beautiful head of long, thick, dark, wavy hair that makes most women jealous. He’s a fan of wearing dark purple and black lipsticks. He’ll also get super pissed if you mistake him for a girl and is willing to throw down on the playground if you talk shit. One day he’s going to be the most popular person at the drag club.
My oldest is hyper-intelligent, witty, creative, can’t tie his own shoes, and wouldn’t notice Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster getting it on next to him on the living room couch unless someone deliberately pointed it out to him. He’s been tested repeatedly to see if he’s on the spectrum but the professionals have all said no. One doctor did say that the boy might not be on the spectrum but definitely has a very clear view of it from where he stands. He’ll also from time to time tell me how hot he thinks some random guy on the television is and then stare at me with a blank face to see if I react. I still haven’t decided if it’s his way of letting me know he’s gay (he’s admitted to his mother that he thinks he might be but I’m not supposed to know that) or if he’s just fucking with me for his own amusement.
My youngest is so destructive he gets fan letters from natural disasters praising him for his work. He started talking at two and hasn’t stopped once in four years. His mother and I have had strangers who have observed our interactions with him in public places come up to us and ask if he’s always like that and then comment about how exhausted we must be. Once the vice principal of his school asked him if he had a good day and he answered that yes, he had a very good day. “Oh yeah? Well I heard you spent some time in recovery today,” the vice principal said. “Yes. That is true,” he answered. “How was it a good day if you got in trouble?” she asked. “Because I had fun!” And he did, because he always has fun. So. Much. FUN. I’m personally tired of the fun.
So, yeah… those are my children. They are the greatest joys in my life and the reason I occasionally weigh the pros and cons of becoming a functioning alcoholic. You’ll be hearing a lot about them in the future.