More Trauma From My Little Girl

I've said it before and I'll say it again. He's killing me. Just killing me.

You've seen the dress, you've seen the skirt, probably the shoes as well. I'm fine with the pink, I really am. You all know me, I'm not macho, I have no "hang-ups" about male identity. If Jack likes the color pink, that's fine. Though I reserve the right to make fun. Honestly, if he'll wear something other than the pee-jays, that's fantastic. He outgrew them a year-and-a-half ago. That's a long time, and a testament to the quality of imported goods. I'd tell you where they're from but he made us take out the tag ages ago. Literally, ages.

The color and the frills are fine. He's even gotten over a bit of his penis hyper-awareness. Still pulls it out on occasion, but doesn't talk about it constantly. We have covered the difference between boys and girls many, many times. I'm pretty sure he understands it because the other day he told me he was going to eat his penis so he could be a girl. I explained it didn't work that way. That you had to be born a girl. That seemed to settle the question, for now at least.

I'm torn between horror at some of the things he says, and outright laughter. Sometimes it's a fight to keep a straight face. God forbid I laugh or I'll never hear the end of some things. With this latest exchange, I had cover my mouth so he couldn't see the grin. But I'm crying on the inside, wish he could see that.