Girlie Glam

I'll confess, I wanted daughters. Actually, it's not much of a confession. Anyone and everyone who knows me knows my longing for a daughter. Not instead of my sons, mind you, but in addition to. (Well, ok, it is true that I have proposed a straightforward swap to my sister Cheryl on numerous occasions--"I'll trade you Hugh for either Elizabeth or Allie"--but that's only because both of her girls seem like they really should be mine, and Hugh really wants a mom who wears high heels, drives a cool car, and has granite countertops.) Nonetheless, I have found raising sons fascinating.

Particularly the gender-bending. By the time Owen was three, I waded daily through imaginary pools of blood and climbed over piles and piles of fantasy bodies--the pretend corpses of the Bad Guys slain by Sir Owen, Owen the Cowboy Kid, Pirate Owen, and Owen the Red Power Ranger. And yet, when we pulled up to the McDonald's drive-in window, he would ask for the girl's Happy Meal, because he preferred the mini-Barbies to the Matchbox cars.

With Hugh, the gender bending intensified. Unlike Owen, Hugh had no interest in Romance or History. With Owen, bedtime reading brought us to Narnia, to Prydain, to the Shire and Mordor. Hugh, however, preferred to read about shark habitats and the nocturnal habits of ants. When I traveled on imaginary excursions with Owen, we trekked to Camelot or Sherwood Forest, to the Alamo or to Perelandra. With Hugh, we drove to Shreveport. The point is, Owen found that sparkle and glamour, the sense of glory, the breach in the boundaries of space and time--all of which is so essential to make it through the agonies of childhood--from his rich fantasy life. Hugh had to find it elsewhere.

And when he was little, he found it in cross-dressing. Let's face it, boy's clothes are pretty boring. But walk on over to the girls' department, well, it's the stuff of fantasy: Glitter, lace, sequins, silk, velvet. Camis and slips. Shawls, feathery boas, capes. Nail polish. Eye shadow, eyebrow pencil, blush, lipstick. Earrings, necklaces, bracelets, rings, scarves, belts. High-heeled booties, strappy sandals, spiky-heeled and toeless pumps. Barrettes, braids, ribbons, tiaras, headbands. Who can blame a little boy in search of glamour and glory for plunging in? And so he did. At his request, I regularly painted his toenails (that way, he could hide the color when he felt it necessary and flaunt it when he found it safe). He saved up his weekly allowance to buy sparkly high heels from the Girlie Dress-Up aisle in Walmart's toy section. He adapted whatever was at hand (dish towels, my negligee's, aprons) to fashion evening gowns.

Then we moved to England, and on one school holiday took a trip to Scotland. And there were men in skirts. Men. In public. In skirts. Within 24 hours of our crossing the Scottish border, Hugh had a kilt. Which he proudly wore for the next two years--with his beloved cowboy boots.