Sometimes a mother's wishes can come true...

It could happen....

Being the smallest boy in my class, I felt I had to be "Mister Macho" to be accepted. From the first day of my first grade, I was the class rowdy. I was the first to fight. I was not one to choose flight. I had to prove I was just as able, just as tough, and just as male as any boy in school. Sometime during my second year in fourth grade, after Mom had her fill of being called to retrieve me from the Principal's office for another misdemeanor. Either that or she simply got tired of my room always in a mess. Then again, maybe she got fed up with me being 'the man of the house,' because I wouldn't help with the 'woman's work' around the home she provided me. A typical boy, I was always trying to get out of doing chores.

One day Mom remarked, "God, Billy, I wish you were a girl," she sighed following another round of discussion concerning my room's 'deplorable' condition.

"Why?" I asked in honest innocence.

"Because girls don't fight, girls keep their rooms tidy, and girls help around the house."

Again, it boiled down to those three key issues. It seemed we were always at odds over them. Even at the tender age of ten, I was a handful. I think I may have chuckled, but said nothing more and allowed her words of criticism to go 'in one ear and out the other' as she was always accusing, and simply forgot all about it.

She began to stare intently at me.

"What?" The expression on her face was scary.

"Oh, I was just imagining what you would look like in a dress."

"That'll never happen!"

"Maybe it won't. Maybe it will."

"Not in this lifetime!"

"Don't be too sure, Billy."

"Never happen."

"It could happen." Mom went out of my room with a smile, a weird little smirk, on her face. I sensed she was going to attempt something to change my disposition again. But I couldn't work out what it was and, when nothing too drastic happened in the next few days, I forgot all about it. She decided to turn me into a girl, to convert me from a rough, tough, street-wise little punk into a gentle, soft, frilly frock-wearing little girl.

One morning, while we were doing some early pumpkin carving for Halloween, she asked me if I'd like a cup of tea or cocoa in the morning-she wouldn't allow me coffee. I told her I would like a cocoa. She started serving me a cup every morning. I appreciated it. It made getting up for another day at school a bit more agreeable. Around Easter, I noticed my few guy friends were developing, but I wasn't. Because of my behavior and lackadaisical study habits, I failed the fourth. At the end of my fifth, my buddies all advanced to junior high a year before me. While I was still in the sixth, my chum's voices were breaking; hair was growing on their legs, under their arms, and on their upper lips. But I was still the same. Impatiently, I began to look for the signs of my own maturity to appear.

My only real change in those three years was that Mom finally gave up on forcing me to the barber. By Christmas of my sixth, I was wearing it pulled back in a loose ponytail. I noticed that my skin seemed softer and smoother than other boys. My eyes seemed to sparkle and shimmer a lot. My lips filled out. I finally developed pubic hair, but it was soft and fine and the color of ripe peaches.

The first suspicions of Mom's plans to feminize me asserted themselves about a year and a half after she had started the morning cocoa ritual, probably sometime during the middle of the fifth. I looked in my drawer one morning and found two pair of soft cotton underpants there. They were simple briefs, no lace or anything. Nice colors too, navy blue and burgundy. In truth, they weren't too different from my regular underpants, just that they did not have the normal opening in the front.

When questioned, Mom just said that she had gone to buy me some new underpants and was told these were the newest style and all the rage with the RAVE set, so she bought them for me. These were the best she could get with the money she had to spend on my clothes.

"Mom, they're colored!"

"And boys don't wear colors?" she asked, and held out another package. It was plainly marked as Boy's Briefs. Inside the package was a pair identical to those in my drawer, except these were red...bright fire engine red!

Though I was still a little unsure, I said I didn't mind and thanked her for buying them for me. It did thrill me that she cared.

"Nobody will be able to see them," she said, then asked, "Will they, dear?" in that gentle way all mothers have of suggesting their child had better not be showing off their unders to others, or else.

"No ma'am. No one else will ever see them, Momma."

Actually, and this occurred to me only a bit later, these new unders were really quite comfortable, a lot more so than my regular underpants, which had begun to wad up and rub me raw between the legs, maybe because I didn't fill out the pocket built to contain the male very well. Within a couple of months, all my old 'out of style' underpants disappeared, replaced with the RAVE colored underpants. Some were in what I considered very girly colors, pink, baby blue or pastel green. Some even had trims, contrasting colors or white, around the legs. Some were even made from nylon or some other soft, silky material; I discovered I rather liked the feel of these on my smooth skin.

I had spent my second year as a fourth grader lonely and miserable, as my chums were advanced and placed in different classes. Because of this, we'd drifted apart. While they formed new cliques, I discovered they, as fifth graders, wanted nothing to do with a lowly fourth grader. The kids who had advanced from third and were my new classmates considered me something akin to a leper - "Yuh gotta be a real dummy to fail fourth grade" was often said behind me - and would have nothing to do with me from the first day. Once again, I wound up in the principal's office on several occasions and Momma came in to bail me out. It was not my best year. With no distractions in the form of buddies, I actually listened in class and did my homework, such as it was for a fourth grader. Somehow I managed, and actually brought my GPA up a point and advanced to the fifth.
Because of boredom, I started talking to mom more often and even began helping her with household chores, just because it was easier to talk while doing things together.

Other new style clothes followed: a pair of white joggers, then white ankle socks instead of the over-the-calf style I preferred, and several pair of new blue jeans. But, just like the panties-by then I recognized the underpants for what they truly were-there was no too-overtly feminine characteristic about them. The new joggers were similar to my old ones, and the socks and jeans I wore without argument because they fit me better than any other jeans I had ever worn. It also occurred to me that I rather liked knowing that mom was taking an interest in what I wore and was buying me new "In" things.

By then, the pattern was set and I was again a loner. Once more, I discovered myself more attentive in class and doing my homework. Rather than fight, I became almost a recluse. I discovered it easier to talk to girls than to boys. It occurred to me on several occasions, usually after hearing a loud belch or other rude noise made by a boy, that boys were truly disgusting. Because I dressed in a unisex manner, I was often mistaken for a girl.

The summer following my fifth grade, I went to spend most of the summer with my grandmother. Somehow, and to my surprise, enjoying it, I spent most of the time at her place learning to do housework and to do the cooking. To my further surprise, and my grandmother's delight, I discovered I had a rather quick mind and grasped the knack of cooking rather easily. I had two cousins living nearby, both girls, and somehow seemed to fit right in with them and their crowd of gigglers. Most of them could not believe I was actually a boy, and we had fun terrorizing their local mall more than a couple of times on wild-eyed shopping sprees.

When I returned home, I discovered my room had been made over. Though it was not done in pinks and satins, I knew that done over, completely in Early American, it was no longer a boy's bedroom. A state of the art computer with 24/7 online capabilities now dominated a spacious corner desk between the windows. Next to the desk, on window-seat bookshelves under the windows, where once had been shelved boyish mementos, a very impressive entertainment center now sat.

The moment I pushed open the door and saw all those ruffles and flower patterns in the curtains, I paused and tears filled my eyes. I think that is when I finally understood there were to be changes made in my lifestyle. Though I did not yet admit to myself that I liked the changes taking place, I no longer resisted them. I simply accepted them.
Momma presented me with a tall stack of CDs and tapes to listen to on the super sound system now dominating my old toy shelf. Some of the CDs were in plain wrappers, but the groups were great and music good. Somehow I seemed driven to listen to those more than others, even leaving them on to play as I slept.

About the time I entered sixth grade, some two years and nine months after mom had begun her serving me breakfast cocoa, I noticed that I was actually growing girl's breasts. Mom did not seem to take it too seriously and her lack of concern convinced me to put it down as normal. Because she didn't seem to be worried, I wasn't worried; but Mom did start to buy me loose fitting heavy sweaters and shirts for school. Out of school, I began to wear baggy sweatshirts and nobody seemed to notice anything different about me. But, I noticed. My waist was now becoming thinner, my butt more rounded while my shoulder length auburn hair was thick, soft and shiny. I noticed I was looking more and more like a girl, instead of a boy almost twelve years old.

Though I drew strange looks, no one at school said anything. Perhaps they were being kind. Perhaps they didn't notice. Perhaps they didn't care. At home, Mom didn't say anything, but she began to treat me in ways I imagined girls in other homes were being treated. I turned twelve and graduated the sixth grade with a four-point-oh grade point average.

The elementary grades were behind me, summer vacation upon me. That I was excited was understatement, because mom had rented a bungalow for us to live on the beach below Galveston for the summer. And I was almost a teenager!

Over supper the day school let out for the summer, Mom told me that she'd bought new clothes for me for our beach vacation. When I questioned about them, Mom told me our things were packed and that the suitcases were in the back of the new Jeep Wagoneer she had bought. The next morning, I woke in a state of excitement; we were due to leave for the beach. Over breakfast, while still in my sleeper, Mom told me that she'd laid some of my new clothes out for me on my bed. Finished with breakfast, I rushed upstairs to find out what she'd gotten for me.

Spread atop the flowered spread now covering my bed, was a pair of bright pink, too-feminine-to-be-denied girls' panties, a pink unicorn t-shirt, and a pair of khaki shorts. With a small, rueful shrug, I stripped out of my pajamas and slipped into the panties, which fitted perfectly. Then I pulled on the shorts, which surprised me with their side zipper. They were very loose-legged-they were what I later discovered were called culottes. The t-shirt was much tighter than what I'd been used to and it didn't hide the contours of my expanding chest. In fact, the shirt rather well displayed now undeniable girl's breasts. It was at that moment I realized I was more girl than boy, and that Momma knew it! More shocking was that I accepted this revelation without a whimper.

Looking in the mirror, many things, which had puzzled me for years, were suddenly very clear. Momma loved me, but hadn't wanted me as a rowdy boy. Staring at my reflection I saw looking back, with long, shiny hair, with breasts; only slightly protuberant, with long almost hairless legs; and in shorts that were shaped just like a skirt, what appeared completely a girl. I wanted to protest when Momma came into the room, but something deep within prevented me saying a word. Instead, I smiled and performed a thoroughly girlish pirouette. Suddenly I loved my mother and, if she wanted a girl, I would be the very best girl she could ever ask for!

"Oh Misty, how sweet you look."

My mouth fell open in a classic expression of surprise.

"But really, I do think you need something to prevent those adorable kissable lips of yours from chapping." She took some soft pink lip-gloss from a small clutch purse she carried-somehow I just knew that darling little pearl-beaded purse was for me-and carefully outlined, then filled in the area surrounding my still-open mouth; I could still say nothing in protest. And then, again retrieving the item from the little purse, she gently brushed pale blue eye shadow onto my eyelids. "Always remember, Misty, a little bit is more than enough. Yes, that will complement the color of your eyes and that pearl pink matches your top perfectly," she said. "This summer is going to be so much fun. Just you wait and see. Are you ready?"

"Yes, Momma."

"Then, let' go! We're wasting daylight," she said in her best Duke imitation.

****Fade to****

While we drove south toward Galveston, Momma explained everything and she told me she loved the way I had turned out, assured me that I would love being a girl. Later I discovered I was avidly reading the magazines Mom bought me when we stopped at a local Safeway for a few things to munch on as we drove. They were the typical girls' magazines, and I discovered I was more than a little concerned about clothes, pop groups, make-up, and boys. Suddenly it occurred to me that I since I looked like a girl, and boys liked girls, would I have to...?

"Momma," - I'd been calling her Momma ever since I'd gotten dressed and looked in the mirror - "What would happen if..."

"Boys, Misty?" Momma had been calling me Misty ever since breakfast and I had made not a single note of protest. It seemed every time I thought of a protest; it simply slipped from my mind before I could voice it.

Unable to deny it even in my own mind, I looked at her and nodded vigorously. What was happening to me? I was looking forward to my first boy.

"Honey, boys are a big part of being a girl."

"But Momma, boys only want one thing from girls." Incredibly, I was saying things as a girl. I was thinking thoughts only a girl could think. I wanted to do things with boys only girls could do with boys.

"Yes, Misty, I know they do, but it is up to us girls to give that one thing only to boys we truly want to share ourselves with in love."

Putting further thought of what that could mean in the back of my mind was for some reason very difficult, and more so after we stopped at a service station for gas where a boy my age actually whistled. While I stood the blushing furiously, Momma said that I'd have to go with her into the ladies'. Only in a small part of my rapidly diminishing male mind was I even a little embarrassed now. Instead, I felt a twinge of feminine pride that a boy thought I was pretty enough to whistle at.

That tiny spark of masculinity still could not understand, could not fully accept, what was happening. I could no longer pretend that I was a boy. Sitting to pee, somehow today a reflex action, was a totally new experience, but one I sensed I would have to get used to doing. 'Girls sit to pee' flickered through my mind again and again.

Across the street from the service station was a small strip mall. When Momma saw it housed a junior miss boutique, she smiled a wide joy-filled smile. Giggling, she looked at me then back at the shop, and then said, "Let's go shopping, Misty!"

Impossibly the idea of shopping, and shopping with Momma, excited me. Some ten minutes later, I was browsing jeans and shorts when Momma handed me an item saying, "Misty, go try this on."

Entering a dressing cubicle, I locked the door and looked at the garment Momma had given me. It was a blue denim mini-skirt. Gad, the last vestige of masculinity was about to freak out when I eagerly slipped off my shorts and pulled on the too-short skirt. I did it up after a brief struggle with the zip in back. I finally spun the skirt around, zipped it closed and spun it back into proper place. With a girlish grin, I put the shorts in a small shopping bag that was hanging conveniently on the inside of the door. The too short skirt felt fine. Not as bad as I had thought. But, I told myself, I would have to be careful and not bend over, or sit without crossing my legs, or somebody might see my bright blue panties.

I left the cubicle. Mom was waiting for me. "Oh, Misty," she said, "that skirt looks lovely."

"Yes, Momma, I think it fits me perfectly," I said and hugged her close. "Are you going to miss Billy sometimes?"

"Honey, I think we will both miss him occasionally."

"Yes, it could happen, I suppose." Still, somehow, I didn't think I would miss that rowdy little boy much at all.