****I just hope the photos download this time****

I really do love my mom. It wasn’t my fault that the lucky (or in my case unlucky) egg turned out to be XY and not XX. Nor could I be blamed for the birth complications that caused mom to need a hysterectomy soon after either. Stating that, my life although strange and somewhat “different” to most children until I was in my teens and finally old enough and smart enough to know what had happened (but completely powerless to stop it) was much better than most. My dad had died in an auto crash shortly after I was born with a US$40 million life policy. This allowed mom to do whatever pleased her.

From very early in my life I was only ever allowed to experience or know a feminine environment with other people.

My first vivid memory which was captured for all to see through family album circulations among relatives was mom dressing me up as Snow White for my first birthday where all the other children came dressed up as their favorite character

My early and favourite memories of Halloween are being escorted in a group of mothers with daughters and knocking on doors and screaming out “trick or treat”, then when it was 4 0’clock and been driven home by mom, spending a frantic hour or so attempting to eat more candy than my digestive system could ever possibly handle and paying for it with countless nappy changes for the foster mother mom had already hired.

Since I was only ever called Jean as my birth certificate had been changed from Gene David Hampton (M) to Jean Dale Hampton (F) and was home schooled by female tutors, I was only ever allowed to wear girl’s underwear under my dresses or skirts and slept in nighties every night The thought I wasn’t a girl never entered my mind.

From the commencement of toilet training, I had to sit to wee before then wiping. I always took bubble baths that required my hair be covered unless it was being washed. My mom never allowed my foster mother to ever trim my hair.

I was forever being reminded about feminine deportment such as how to dress properly, how to sit, how to speak, how to girlie sulk, how to eat properly (mouse bites), how to god only knows what else, there were so many rules to follow. And every Halloween mom would go shopping for the “perfect” costume for me to wear so as to outshine her friend’s daughter’s costumes……….

One year I wore a snow princess outfit

Then there was the Belly Dancer outfit I enjoyed wearing although that year mom didn’t try to wear a matching costume (which she usually did as did her friends looking like their own daughters except as adults).

How seriously mom seemed to take Halloween dressing up was the year we did Snow White when I was a lot older than on my first birthday. Mom of course wore a matching outfit and even arranged for a photo to be taken with a women dressed as the wicked queen.

Another year saw me as Mary Poppins. Mom even had a portrait done of me at a merry go round (after we’d both gone to OUR beautician and had my hair dyed darker)

By the time I was 8, my well cared for facial skin along with my incredibly long hair (fed by a ton of oestrogen tablets) revealed a pretty girl to anyone. The problem was though that my body was changing much sooner than perhaps mom had planned for as my chest was actually budding. By the time I’d turned “9” I was the proud owner of a pair of small B cup bosom’s that were both my mom’s and my pride and joy. I did Snow White again but this time proudly showing a bust and eating an apple (sexily for the camera honey)

By the time I was 12 it was as a Swiss maid that I touted for candy

I hated the year a Manga character was mom’s idea because she had no idea what Manga actually was. I was simply handed “that” costume to wear along with a cheap yellow long haired wig while my own mane had to be heavily tucked under it out of sight.

Doing Halloween strolls got a bit lame by the time I was 14. By then my body was completely flooded in oestrogen, my male genitals had shrunken to inconceivably nothing and I now looked at boys as something my body needed to physically have.

My Uncle Barry who used to secretly slide his finger on the back of my panties near my bum when I was a lot younger, was barred by mom after she saw me grind my pelvis down into his lap during a happy snap photo on my 16th birthday.

I’m grown up now and don’t do Halloween. Tonight I’ll do my husband!