The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2137 by Angharad Copyright © 2013 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

“How much do I want to do as a girl?” she repeated to herself. “I don’t understand the question, Mummy.”

“Okay, sweetheart, what d’you want to do? Tell me as honestly as you can, I won’t judge you for it, but I have to know to help you.”

“I don’t know,” she said and then began to cry.

I held out my arms and she came to me and we hugged.

“I don’t know what I want anymore,” she sobbed into my chest. “I thought I was a normal boy then when Peter showed me his dresses they looked so nice.”

I continued hugging gently, “Sometimes things affect us in ways we don’t expect,” I said quietly to her.

“I couldn’t believe how nice they felt when he got me to try one.”

“So you liked the feeling of the clothes?”

“I s’pose I did, I also felt a bit silly, I mean wearing dress but he was as well and he had all the undies on as well, he had boobs an’ I didn’t, so he got me to wear a bra too. It felt strange with some foam things in it, but the dress looked better an’ apart from a boy’s head sticking out of the top, I looked like a girl.”

I took a deep breath. I wondered if he’d told Stephanie all this, probably had weeks ago. I wasn’t sure what I was feeling apart from concerned. This child had until a couple of weeks ago seemed to be a normal boy, played sports and was quite good; had the odd fight but never got really hurt and seemed attracted to girls. Then I though back for a moment. When I was a kid, they’d have all thought I was attracted to girls because I studied them–I wanted to be them so badly, it hurt. I practised what I saw them do when no one was looking. Perhaps he was doing the same–but, there is no way that he wants to be a girl, surely? The odds of it are so phenomenally against–we already have a statistical spike for the occurrence of gender dysphoria/transsexual syndrome compared to the rest of the world. It just didn’t compute.

“What happened next?” I asked trying to draw out this child what he/she was feeling.

“We tried some makeup–we were rubbish.”

“It takes a bit of practice.”

“That’s what I did, I pinched some of Julie’s stuff–she’s got so much an’ practiced an’ I looked in one of the books she has about makeup and it showed you how to do eyeliner and mascara an’ things, an’ the internet–there’s loads on the internet about using makeup to disguise you’re a boy.”

“You told me you were upstairs reading.”

“I was–how to do makeup.”

“So the next time you went to Peter’s, you had some idea of what to do?”

“Yeah, an’ he had a spare wig. I was pleased. He was calling himself a girl, ’cause he’s like got no goolies, an’ I was a boy but I looked better than he did.” Danielle was no longer crying, she was still in my arms, her eyes closed as she remembered what had happened and she was smiling, almost a look of triumph.

“You liked what you saw?”

The look changed for a moment as if her answer would cause me to think badly of her. I kept quiet, I asked a reasonable question and I didn’t want to influence the answer, other than to appear loving and supportive.

She nodded. After perhaps half a minute she said, “I realised that I’d been wrong about girls.”

“How were you wrong?”

“It’s fun making yourself look pretty and wearing pretty clothes. That’s what girls do, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes, but not all girls do it, some prefer plain things and no makeup or fussy hairstyles and yet they feel just as much girls as the frilly, fussy ones.”

“What sort were you, Mummy?”

I think some sort of improvisation is called for here, not having had much of a girlhood, so to speak. “A bit frilly at times, but not all the time, like I am now. Sometimes I like to dress up and look nice and other times I like to be comfortable. The smart, dressy clothes aren’t always the most comfortable, especially shoes. What sort of girl are you, Danielle?”

“I like the pretty things.”

“I thought you might. So how did you feel when you realised you looked prettier than Peter?”

“Good. I looked like a girl, he looked–well he looked pretty awful.”

“Then what?”

“He said I looked like a girl, and asked me to help him do his makeup–so I did. He looked better, but I didn’t do it as good as mine.”

“So he wouldn’t look as pretty?”

“Yeah–not quite, I’d practised on me hadn’t I? I hadn’t done it on someone else before and it’s different.”

“Yes it is. The next time we dressed up, I did a better job on him.”

“And on yourself?”

“Yeah, I s’pose I did.”

“Did you feel good again?”

“Yes–it’s wrong isn’t it?”

“What is, sweetheart?”

“Feeling good about looking pretty–when you’re a dumb boy.” The tears started again.

“There is nothing wrong with feeling good because you look pretty.”

“But I’m a boy.”

“Yes, a very good looking one.”

“Am I?”

“I think so, but I’m only a girl, so what do I know?”

“I didn’t think I was good looking–as a boy, I mean. After–you know...”

“I know, sweetheart,” I hugged her a little tighter.

“They all started calling me a fairy or a girl–and then, playing with the makeup and the dresses at Peter’s, I wondered if it was true.”

“If what was true?”

“That I’m gay.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because I sometimes like wearing a dress and makeup.”

“You know that Jim is gay?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Can you see him in a dress and high heels?”

“Not really,” she laughed. “He doesn’t does he?”

“Not as far as I know, but that would be his business anyway. Gay men come in all shapes and sizes, some are very masculine and some are very feminine, but the same can be said for straight men, like women are all sorts too. So just because you like to wear a dress and makeup, doesn’t make you gay anymore than it makes you female.”

“Oh.” There was a pause as if the last thing I’d said made her stop. “So, you don’t think I’m a girl when I’m like this?”

“I’m prepared to treat you as one if that’s what you want me to do, but I just think of you as one of my children whom I love very much–and I love you just as much when you’re in boy mode.”

“D’you love me more as a boy, Mummy?”

There’s the sixty four dollar question. I hope I get the answer right. “I love you for you, not for what you’re wearing–that’s just clothes or makeup, or sometimes mud. I love you for you, Danielle or Dan, you are precious to me, and to your dad and the rest of the family, we all love you–very much.”

“Would you still love me if I said I wanted to stay a girl?”

I was itching to ask if that was what we were approaching although I part dreaded the answer, instead I answered honestly. “Yes, darling, I would–is that what you want to do?”

“Mummy, are you going to Alice’s funeral?”

“I’d like to, why?”

“Can I come with you–as Danielle?”

“I’d have to get you some time off school, but I suppose it’s possible. I take it you’d like to go?”

“Yes. I’d like to stay as Danielle until then.”

“Assuming I’m able to let you stay in girl mode and take you back up to Scotland, what happens after? What are we going to do about school?”

“I don’t know. I’ll probably go back to being a boy again–that’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“Why d’you keep asking me that?”

“Because I think it’s what you want me to do.”

“Danielle, I have already told you, I love you for who you are, boy or girl.”

“That isn’t what you want though, is it?”

Now it was me who was holding back the tears, “What I want, really want, is for you to be happy.”

“I love you, Mummy,” she said and I couldn’t hold back the wet stuff any longer.