When I was a nanny, the older boy in the family spent some time identifying as a girl. He was three and luckily his mom thought it was great. His favorite getup was a hot pink towel wrapped around his head, a hot pink feather boa wrapped around his neck, white nose picker pointy high heel shoes on his feet and nothing else. He once waltzed out to say good night during a dinner his parents were hosting in said duds. To the unruffled and genuine delight of his amazing mother and the awesome embarrassment of his well-intentioned father, the boy girl appeared in birthday suit, plus plush accoutrements. I watched the many emotions play themselves out over a butter lettuce salad and a beautiful piece of fish. I gave a small sigh. You just can’t encourage gender bending at a business dinner without a justified fear of the family meeting.
The next morning, at the same table, I advocated in favor of toddler transvestitism using the following argument, “If you don’t let him do it now, he’ll be doing it when he’s thirty.
