By Missy Crystal
All Dolled Up - Part III

Jamie wants his mother to buy him a doll for a birthday present. She does and a journey of discovery begins for both of them.

After I regained my composure, I looked at the clock. My talk with Karen had taken over half an hour. I wondered what Jamie was doing, so I went upstairs and quietly looked in my room. He wasn't there. I had changed my mind and given him permission to play in his room, so I went to the doorway. There he was, in his dress, holding his doll and talking to her. He had his back to me. As I watched, he pointed to different toys. If I had to guess, he was telling her about them, the way a mother might tell her child about her own treasured possessions. It was really sweet or it would have been if he was a girl. I turned and went back downstairs, so he wouldn't know I had been watching him.

"Jamie, Sweetie," I called up to him. "I've finished cleaning up. Do you want to come down and watch a video with me?"

He appeared at the top of the stairs, carrying the doll. As he started down, his unfamiliarity with managing a skirt with a full crinoline was apparent as it bobbed up and down providing little glimpses of his panties from the bottom of the steps. A girl would have known about the potential for embarrassment and used her free hand to hold the skirt down. Not that it mattered. We went into the den and I turned on the TV.

"Which video, Honey?"

He chose Cinderella. I found the video and slipped it into the VCR. Towards the end, when she changes from a raggedy servant girl to a glamorous princess, I watched him and wondered if he identified with her because her fairy godmother dresses her up in a beautiful gown? Or was I reading too much into it? Not that that mattered either. Hopefully, Karen would get me the name of someone who could sort it out. When the video was over, we went upstairs and I got him ready for bed. As I had promised him, he slept with the doll and I kept the dress and everything else in his room.

Even though I had approved of his wearing the dress, I decided I would still try to distract him, so I found as many excuses as possible for us to be out of the house. I did a lot of grocery shopping and took him along with me, because he couldn't stay home alone. We went to the park. I took him to a cartoon movie. I took him out for lunch to a kiddy restaurant, where he could swim in a pool of plastic balls, climb through a play structure, and ride on a carrousel. Twenty dollars worth of tokens later, we were both exhausted. I thought about trying to make a play date for him with one of the other boys in the neighborhood, but it was too risky. He might naively mention something about his doll or wearing a dress, even though I had cautioned him not to and he had promised he wouldn't. Six year olds aren't that reliable when it comes to keeping secrets.

I kept waiting to hear from Karen but it wasn't until the morning of the third day that she called me back. It was about ten o'clock when the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Ginny, hi. Sorry to take so long, but I wanted to be sure that I found you the right person, so I had to do some checking. There was only one name that was consistently recommended, Dr. Jenny Mitchell. She's a psychiatrist. I read some of the work she's published, Ginny. It's very impressive. She's recognized as an authority on gender disorders and better yet, she practices at City Hospital.

"I appreciate your efforts, Karen, but really, I don't see why Jamie needs to see a psychiatrist, especially since you weren't sure if he is," it took me a few seconds to recall the unfamiliar word, "transgendered," I protested.

"Ginny, psychiatrists treat all forms of emotional and behavioral problems. Think about it. If Jamie is not transgendered, then who better to say so than someone who is an authority on the subject?" Karen paused and then added, "And who better to help you with him, if he is? I don't know the answers, Ginny. If anybody does, it's Dr. Mitchell. If you'd like, I can call her and make an introduction. Sometimes specialists like her have a full practice or at least a very long waiting list for an appointment. I'd be happy to see what I can do."

"I'm not sure if I want to see her, Karen. There's too much, well, I just, I, I don't want to tell my life story to a stranger, no matter how qualified she is. I can't and, Karen, Karen, I'm, I'm, terrified. What if she doesn't approve of what I've done? What if, oh my God, what if she reports me and they take Jamie away. What if they take Jamie away from me? I'd die, Karen. No, I can't, I won't. I'm sorry, I can't take the chance."

By now I had worked myself into hysteria. What had I done? I was frantic.

"Ginny, Ginny, please, please, Sis, get hold of yourself. You haven't done anything wrong and nobody is going to take Jamie away from you. I promise you. Calm down. Take a deep breath. Take another. And another. Now, listen to me. Whatever is going on with Jamie is of his own doing, not yours. You didn't force him to play with a doll or wear a dress, they were his own choices. Placating a child is not abuse. Put that thought out of your head." Karen went on calmly, "Ginny, the biggest, the biggest mistake you can make is ignoring the problem, because the longer you wait, the more difficult it will be to deal with it. I'm already more involved in this than I should be, but there is no way to avoid it. You and Jamie need counseling.

"All right, Karen, you win, as usual," I conceded reluctantly. "Go ahead and talk to Dr. Mitchell. I'll wait to hear from you, but I'm not promising anything. I need to think about it."

"Ginny, this isn't a game that someone wins," Karen admonished me. "This is Jamie's life and the sooner you get over your self-doubt and start dealing with his behavior, the better for both of you. I will make the call, but I am not going to intervene, Ginny. If you procrastinate, it is likely you won't get to see her. Please give it serious consideration," she appealed

"I know, Karen, and I will. I promise."

"I love you, Ginny."

"I love you too, Karen."

"I'll talk to you soon."

"Okay. Bye."

"Bye."

My hand was shaking as I hung up the phone. I wanted only good things for Jamie and instead I had managed to make things worse. What would I say to him about seeing a psychiatrist? Why didn't I just tell him no when he wanted the doll. Karen was right. It's not his fault or my fault or her fault. It's Jim's fault. If he hadn't died, then this wouldn't have happen. Like she had said, I never would have let him have a doll, if his father were around. Damn him. How could he do this to us? I started to cry uncontrollable. Then I looked up and saw Jamie watching me. I pulled myself together and dabbed my eyes with a dishtowel.

"Nothing like a good cry to make a mother feel better," I told him, trying to sound convincing. "Do you want to do something? How about if we go to the toy store?"

Damn, why did I say that? It's the last place I want to go with him, to get more doll stuff, if that's what he picks out. Damn the toy store and damn the stupid gift certificate. That's where this all started. Ginny, you're losing it, I warned myself. No, wait. That's it!

Children are always giving up one toy for another one. What was that story that always made you cry when you were growing up? Something about a rabbit that becomes real. What was it called? Oh, The Velveteen Rabbit. The little boy used to love the rabbit, then he got a new toy and it ended up in the dustbin. That name always sounded funny to you. The trash basket we call it. Yes, a new toy for Jamie and off to the dustbin with the stupid doll. But what? Think. A car! Boys love to pretend they are driving a car. One that he can actually ride in. A Jeep. He can ride it around the backyard. He can't wear the dress outside and the doll can't leave the house, that's the rule. Brilliant, Ginny. You don't need to waste your time with psychiatrists. Okay, let's get going.

"Jamie, Honey, let me get you dressed in your own clothes. We can pick out a new toy for you. Come on, let's get going."

Twenty minutes later I had Jamie ready. We got in the car and drove to the toy store. Once we were inside, I made sure to keep him away from the girls section.

"Over here, Jamie," I guided him, "as we went past the rows of trikes and bikes and came to the ride on cars. Luckily, he was small for his age, so he would still fit in one. "How about this one, Jamie. See, it's a Jeep. You can ride it in the backyard. Get in and try it."

He looked at me and shook his head.

"What about this one, Jamie. It's a fire engine with ladders and everything. You can play fireman. No? What about the dump truck. You can carry stuff in it and dump it out, just like a real dump truck. Do you want to try it? No? Well Jamie, I want to buy one of these for you. Which one?"

He continued down the line of play vehicles until the very last one. I followed him.

"This one, Mommy," he pointed.

No, no, no, damn it. It wasn't possible. It was a bright pink convertible. A Barbie car. He didn't know anything about Barbies, but he picked the only one of the ride on toys that was for girls. How could this happen? You had it planned so carefully. Now what, Ginny? You told him you would buy him one. He's all excited. Lie to him. Tell him that one is too expensive or out of stock or not for sale, whatever, so you don't have to buy it for him. Don't you dare, I debated with myself. That is dishonest and cowardly. I sighed. How could my plan have gone so wrong?

Well, maybe it wasn't that bad, I consoled myself. Yes, it was a pink Barbie car for girls, but he still had to use it outside and that means he has to wear his boy's clothes and leave the doll in the house. Out of sight out of mind. What would the neighbors say if they saw him? I could say we borrowed it from his cousin. Did I care? Not really. Okay, anything that replaces the doll is a good thing, pink or not.

"You're sure you want this one, Jamie. A fire engine or dump truck would be more fun to play with, wouldn't it?"

He shook his head.

"This one, Mommy, please," he asked politely.

"Okay, Honey, this one. You're sure?" I asked him one final time, hoping he would change his mind at the last minute.

He nodded and then caught my disapproving look. I was frowning because I really did not want to buy him the Barbie car. He took it as a reprimand for his manners.

"Yes Mommy, I'm sure," he corrected himself.

"Very well, then."

We took the inventory slip up to the checkout counter and I handed it to the clerk. She looked at it, then at me.

"You know that these cars can only operate on smooth surfaces?"

Excuse me?"

"People buy these thinking that their kinds can whiz around the backyard on them, then they bring them back saying they're defective. The Jeeps and some of the other ride-on toys have bigger tires and more powerful motors, so they can go over uneven ground and get traction on grass or dirt, but the cars can't."

"Then why do you sell them?" I argued.

"They're very popular. The kids love them, but it's an expensive item and we don't want it back," she said pleasantly. "The store wants us to warn people, so they're not disappointed. It's not good PR and we don't get stuck with an expensive used toy we can't resell on top of it. To be honest, Ma'am, the other consideration is that these cars can go pretty fast. Five miles per hour at top speed. Little kids aren't that careful and we also caution parents to supervise their children, if they let them ride them on the sidewalk or on a driveway that goes into a busy street. An injured child is not good PR either. I'm sorry. We do sell lots of them, but we'd rather be safe than sued."

"I see. Thank you. Jamie, would you like to pick out a different type of car that you can ride in the backyard?"

"No, I want this one."

"Jamie, I'm sorry," I said with relief, since now I had an excuse for which I did not have to take the blame. How about the Jeep or the dump truck instead?"

"Uh uh," he shook his head.

"Jamie!"

"No, Mommy, I want this one. Please," he added.

"You can't have this one," I insisted. "Either pick a different one or we can find another toy instead."

I had no idea what it would be. We already had most of the games for children his age. There was no use in buying him sporting goods. He wasn't interested in sports and the only ones I knew anything about were field hockey and figure skating. Not that I was any good at either. I stunk as an athlete. Of course, Karen was a cheerleader. What did that have to do with anything? Getting Jamie to play boys' sports was supposed to have been Jim's job. What did that leave? Some type of building toy? He never played with the big set of Legos my parents got him for Christmas. Or maybe one of those educational computer games that taught reading or math. He had never shown any interest in them either. Could I get him interested? Probably not. Brilliant, Ginny, I criticized myself. Just brilliant. Then Jamie solved the problem, although not the way I had planned.

"Mommy, can we buy Jamie a new dress?"

"Thank you for your advice," I told the woman. "We don't want the car."

I quickly took Jamie aside, so she wouldn't hear the conversation.

"You want a new dress?" I asked with dismay.

Things were going from bad to worse.

"No, Mommy, Jamie."

"Oh, Jamie your doll," I said with relief.

"Uh huh. Yes, please," he quickly added.

I thought about it. Maybe we could find some clothes that were more like boys' clothes. Pants and a top. That's the practical way girls dress most of the time. If I could get him away from the party dress and more towards unisex clothes, that would at least be a start. He asked for a dress, though. Could I get him to accept pants? Was his request based on his preference for dresses or on his misunderstanding that dresses were what made the difference between boys and girls? He had no understanding of anatomy or biology, only appearance; that girls somehow looked and acted differently than boys. Well, in for a penny in for a pound. I really would have to kill my father for putting that stupid expression in my head. It didn't even make sense.

"Okay, Jamie. We can look for something else for your doll to wear. But Jamie, Honey," I cautioned him, "if we do buy your doll a new outfit, that doesn't mean you get one too. Do you understand what I'm saying, Jamie? You and the doll can't always look alike."

"Yes, mommy."

"Yes, you understand that new clothes for the doll doesn't mean new girl's clothes for you?" I repeated to be doubly sure.

"Yes."

"Okay, let's see what we can find."

I took his hand and we went to the doll aisle. I found the shelf with similar dolls and checked their size, eighteen inches, just to be sure that we got clothes that would fit her. Then we went further down the aisle and found a whole boutique. The majority of the outfits were for Barbies and her playmates. Maybe I could get him interested in a Ken doll, I kidded myself. They went up in sizes and at the end were the clothes for the larger dolls, like his. I looked down and Jamie seemed to expect me to pick something out for him, so I did.

"How about this, Honey," I asked, handing him a pair of pink slacks and a matching pink peasant blouse top with a gathered scooped neck, gathered short sleeves and a flounce at the bottom. It was feminine and in his preferred pink, but closer to boys' clothes. "You have pants and pullover tops too, so you could still kind of match," I encouraged him. "See, we could get her sneakers too, like yours," so she could play with you. Party dresses are pretty, but they're not comfortable. Girls only wear them for a little while, then they change into their regular clothes, like these," I encouraged him.

He looked at the outfit. I am guessing that he liked the pink, but pants didn't correspond to his image of how girls dressed. I could see that he was hesitant. Finally, he shook his head.

"No, Mommy, a dress. Please."

Another plan gone wrong. Was there a divine conspiracy to turn my son into my girl? Did God take away my husband and give me a daughter in exchange? Ginny, stop it, I scolded myself. Take responsibility for your own choices. Karen was right, you don’t know what you're doing and every time you try to make it better you make it worse. She warned you not to do anything more, until you got professional help, but you wouldn't listen. You thought you knew better and you proved her point.

I continued to look through the dolls clothes to find something innocuous. There was a packaged set with a pair of red bib overalls, close enough to pink, I hoped, a white t-shirt with a flower blooming on the front, a floppy straw hat, a miniature watering can, small hand spade and a little packet of flower seeds. It was a really cute gardening outfit. I would have loved to play with it when I was Jamie's age. It was also expensive, $14.95, but price was no object, if I could convince him to get something less feminine and do something more masculine, like playing in dirt, even if it was gardening with a doll.

"Jamie, how about this?" I encouraged him. "Look, you and the doll can plant the seeds and watch them grow into pretty flowers. She'd like that," I suggested enthusiastically.

He studied the package for a while and then shook his head.

"No, a dress please. Jamie likes dresses."

Okay, Ginny, lets get this over with. I was curious if his idea of a dress was something fancy or it was just the idea of having a skirt, instead of legs. What about a skirt? He's never mentioned that. Does he know the difference? Does it make a difference? I decided to test him. Searching through the rack some more, I found a 50's pink felt poodle skirt, long and very full with an attached net crinoline under it, and showed it to him.

"How about this, it’s a skirt, put it's very pretty? See, there's even a poodle doggie on it. I had one just like it when I was a girl," I exaggerated. Actually, I borrowed it from one of Mom's friends for a Halloween costume. "We can get a pretty blouse to wear with it."

As before, Jamie studied it. I could see that he was conflicted. It was like a dress, but it wasn't a dress and he only knew about dresses, because that was what his doll had on when we bought her and that was what I bought for him.

"It's not a dress," he concluded.

"Not exactly, but it's like a dress. Actually, Jamie, girls wear skirts more than dresses. I did when I was a girl," trying to make it more personal. "So did you Aunt Karen. She loved to wear skirts and had a closet full of them," which was true and I had no choice as she outgrew them. Focus, Ginny. "They're more, umm," not practical, Ginny, he doesn't care about that, "umm, they're more fun to dress up in, because you can wear different tops with them, blouses and sweaters or pullovers. We can even buy a couple of different tops to go with it, so you can change the doll's outfit. Wouldn't that be fun?"

"It's not a dress," he repeated.

"No, it's not a dress," I agreed.

I went back to find something else. There was a powder blue A-line corduroy jumper. I showed it to him.

"This one is pretty."

"No, that one."

He pointed to a pastel pink dress with a white stitched smocked bodice and puffy sleeves. Actually, he had good taste or he would have, if he was a girl. Was he just picking randomly or was he prompted by some intuition that guided him? I suppose that is something that Dr. Mitchell might determine when we see her. If we see her. No, Ginny, when we see her. You've proven that you are totally incapable of dealing with this on your own. Well, that's settled, I agreed with myself. Now let's get this done. I took down the dress he pointed to.

"This one?"

"Yes, please."

Well, at least I had succeeded in improving his social skills. He'd be the politest little boy who ever wore a dress, I observed humorously.

I took his hand and we went to the front of the store. I was hoping that the clerk who talked me out of buying Jamie the car was not there. Buying him doll's clothes instead would not make a lot of sense to her. Luckily, there was a different clerk. I handed her the dress, which came on a little hanger, paid for it with me credit card, took the bag and left. Returning to the car, I buckled Jamie in. I put on the radio and we drove home without talking.

When we got into the kitchen, I removed the dress from the hanger, checked to see that it didn't have any pins and handed it to him.

"Jamie, do you know how to dress your doll? Do you want me to show you?"

Dresses were different to put on than pants and it was not a skill I expected him to have.

"I can do it."

"Are you sure?"

"Uh huh. Yes, Mommy."

He didn't want me involved. Well, that was his choice and I wouldn't force the issue.

"Okay, Honey," I agreed, handing him the dress. "Please be careful undoing the buttons on the back and with your doll's party dress. It has a zipper. Open it all the way, before you take it off of her and put it away neatly, so it doesn't get wrinkled," I instructed him. "If you need help, just ask me."

He scampered off and went upstairs. I made myself a cup of tea and picked up the mail.

About twenty minutes later, I went upstairs to see how Jamie was doing. He was in his room, on the floor, reading the doll a book. At least showing her the pictures and it sounded like he was making up a story or repeating what he remembered of it, because he could only recognize a few words. I noticed that he had gotten the doll dressed correctly and, at least from what I could see, that her party dress was placed neatly on the bed.

I turned and left him to his play. Then it dawned in me. Doh, Ginny. He was still wearing his boy's clothes! He hadn't asked you to dress him up as a girl. Your plan did work, I congratulated myself, but not in the way you had thought it would. The doll didn't go in the dust bin, but the dress stayed in the closet. No need for a psychiatrist. Who cared if he played with a doll, as long as he played with it as a boy? I gave a sigh of relief and went downstairs to celebrate with a second cup of tea. I thought about calling Karen and telling her the good news, but decided to wait for her call, so I would know how she made out with Dr. Mitchell and whether I needed to cancel the appointment.

About half way through my cup of tea, while I was thumbing through the "People" magazine that was in the day's mail, Jamie came into the kitchen, holding his doll.

"Hi, Sweetie," I greeted him happily. "Having fun?"

"Yes. Mommy?"

"What, Honey?"

"Can I put on my other dress?"

"What!" I exclaimed, startling him. "What other dress Jamie? You don't have another dress, just the party dress. It's different than the one we bought for your doll," I emphasized, as an additional deterrent."

"No, my other dress," he repeated.

"There is no other dress, Jamie," I insisted.

"Yes, Mommy. The first one. Yours."

Mine? What was he talking about? I never gave him a dress of mine. Oh no! I did. I let him try on my old tank top, to see if he was serious about wearing a dress.

"Jamie, that doesn't match what your doll is wearing. It isn't even a dress, really. It's just a tank top that I let you try on to see how it felt."

"Jamie and I don't have to look alike. You said so," he reminded me.

Why did he have to listen to me and remember what I said when I didn't want him to and I had to repeat everything else ten times?

"I'm not even sure where it is Jamie," I stalled.

"In your room, Mommy. You put it in your drawer. I remember."

Great, the kid's an elephant when it comes to dresses. So much for congratulating yourself prematurely. It's a good thing you didn't call Karen and call the counseling off. You'd confirm her suspicion that her little sister is an idiot. There's some good news, I consoled myself.

"Okay, Jamie. Let's go upstairs and I'll see if I can find the tank top for you."

I started upstairs and he followed me with the doll. We went into my room and he pointed to drawer.

"That one, Mommy."

"Thank you, Jamie."

I opened the drawer and, sure enough, there was the tank top, neatly folded in with my other t's and tops. I have no idea why, since it had shrunk and was too small for me to wear. If I was smart, I would have thrown it out and solved the problem before it became one. I took it out and held it up.

"Okay, get undressed and I'll put it on you."

"Wait, Mommy."

Before I could say anything, he and the doll disappeared. I remained puzzled until he returned a couple of minutes later in his pink cotton boy's underpants and undershirt that I had told him were for girls when we went to buy the party dress. I'm sure he didn't understand that he didn't need the undershirt, but then the tank top was pretty skimpy on top and I had seen little girls wearing t-shirts under revealing party dresses. Did he put on the undershirt, because he wore a cammie with his party dress or was this more of his intuition about being a girl?

After he went through all that trouble, I couldn't deny him, and I had been so accepting about his wearing a dress up to know. In for a penny, in for a pound. Okay, Dad's dead.

"Arms up, Jamie," I instructed him.

He lifted his arms and I slipped the makeshift dress over his head. It was still to short for him to wear outside without something underneath it, but it didn't matter, since not going out dressed up as a girl was the one rule I had consistently required him to follow. I resisted my urge to fool with his hair and sent him off.

This whole dress business was beginning to get out of hand. I wanted to discourage him from dressing as a girl. Instead, my plan had backfired and he now had two dresses. Ginny, I rebuked myself, you have to get some help before you completely mess up your son. I went to the phone and picked it up. If Karen had spoken to Dr. Mitchell, she would have called me immediately, which means she hasn't, which means there is no point in calling her. I put the phone down. As soon as I did, it rang, which startled me.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Ginny."

"Karen, I was hoping you'd call," which was true. I've given it some thought and I agree that seeing Dr. Mitchell would be good for Jamie, if you were able to arrange it," which was not true. Jamie was fine. I was the one who needed help.

"I'm glad, Sis, and I did speak with Dr. Mitchell. I was as impressed with her in person, well, in person on the telephone, as I was reading her publications. I think you'll like her, Ginny. I didn't give her any specifics and I didn't mention that we were related. I just told her that I had been consulted by a mother about her six year old boy acting like a girl and that it was beyond my area of expertise. She was intrigued and asked me to have the woman, you, call her secretary, Kelly, to make an appointment. Get a pencil and paper and I'll give you the number."

I wrote down the name and number.

"Thanks, Karen. I really will call her as soon as I get off the phone with you. I hope she can help Jamie. He's a really good kid." I hesitated and then added nervously, "Ginny, you're sure that nothing bad will happen. Please, Sis, tell me that I'm not going to get in trouble, once Dr. Mitchell hears what's been going on. Please."

"Ginny, I promise you, as your sister, that this is for the best. Nobody is going to criticize you or punish you. That is not how it works. Therapists work positively, not negatively. Trust me."

"I do trust you, Karen, with my life, because if something happened and I lost Jamie, I would end it."

"Ginny! If you talk like that to Dr. Mitchell, it won't be Jamie who gets taken away, it will be you, for observation in a locked ward. Do you understand me, Ginny? Stay calm and be rational."

"I'm sorry. I got too emotional. This has been a strain on me. I want to be a good mother and so far I have done everything wrong."

"Ginny, I told you, sometimes the smart thing is not the right thing. You have a good heart. I may be the brainy one, at least by doctoral degree, but you've always been the sensitive one. If you only knew how many times I wished I could stop thinking and start feeling. Do you remember, Sis? My friends came to me for advice. Your friends came to you for support."

"That's the nicest thing you've every said to me, Karen," I acknowledged tearfully. "Thank you."

"I should have told you long ago, Ginny. There just, well, you know, sibling rivalry and all. You're not just my sister, you’re my best friend. I love you."

"I love you too."

"Let me know how you make out with Dr. Mitchell, Ginny."

"I will."

"Bye."

"Bye."

I hung up the phone and waited a few minutes to compose myself. I wanted to be calm and rational, as Karen had warned me, when I spoke with Dr. Mitchell's secretary. When I felt ready, I picked up the phone and dialed the number. A pleasant voice answered after two rings.

"Dr. Mitchell's office, Kelly speaking. How may I help you?"

"Hello, this is Mrs. Virginia McCarthy," I began formally. "I believe Dr. Karen Dalton spoke with Dr. Mitchell about an appointment."

"Yes, Ms. McCarthy. Dr. Mitchell told me to expect a call from you. She can see you at eight o'clock on Monday morning. Is that convenient?"

"Yes, I can be there at eight o'clock."

"This is about your son, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Dr. Mitchell would like to meet with you first. A trip to the hospital to see a doctor can be upsetting for a child, so she likes to make sure that there is a need for her involvement, before she has them come in. Do you have someplace to leave your son?"

"Actually, no, I don't."

"Yes, well, that happens. It's not a problem. You can bring him and he can stay in our daycare center while you meet with the doctor. He doesn't have to know you here about him. It's a very lovely environment. And free," she added. We all use it when we run into childcare problems." She laughed. "The hospital would rather have us come to work with our kids, then stay home with them. Shall I notify the center that your son will be coming on Monday?"

"Yes, please?"

"How old is your son?"

"He just turned six."

"And what's his name?"

"Jamie."

"Okay. After you come into the lobby, ask at the information desk for the daycare center. It opens at seven am. They'll be expecting Jamie. Leave yourself a little time, because you have to fill out some forms. You know, the usual, allergies, health problems, dietary restrictions, etc. and how to find you, if you decide to take off and stick us with him." She gave another little laugh. "Any questions?"

"No. Eight o'clock Monday morning, I'll be there.

"Do I need to bring anything with me?"

"Doh, I am such a ditz," she accused herself. "It's a wonder Dr. Mitchell puts up with me. Yes, you need to complete a questionnaire. You know, the usual." She gave another laugh. "Well, not the usual, usual. We need some social and family history too. It saves time if you do it at home and bring it in. Other than that, no." There was a pause. "Oh, of course, I need your address to send it to you. Please don't tell Dr. Mitchell what a ditz I am," she said softly, although I'm sure she was kidding. "I think I need another cup of coffee for sure."

"It's our secret, Kelly," I assured her.

"You're a doll, Ms. McCarthy."

"I winced at the word which was the cause of all my problems with Jamie."

"Thank you, Kelly," I said politely.

"You're welcome, Ms. McCarthy. See you Monday Morning. Doh, no I won't. I don't get in until eight thirty. Dr. Mitchell is coming in early to fit you in ahead of her regular patients. She'll leave the office door open. If her door is closed, just knock when you arrive. It's okay. She's expecting you to let her know when you get there. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Bye."

"Goodbye, Kelly."

I hung up the phone. That went relatively well, I complimented myself. I promised Karen that I would let her know what happened and she had done me a favor by getting Dr. Mitchell to see me on short notice, so I called and got her voice mail.

"Hi, Karen. It's Ginny." Not that she wouldn't know her sister's voice. Force of habit in talking to machines. "I spoke to Kelly and we, well I, she, Dr. Mitchell, doesn't want to see Jamie until we've talked, have an appointment next Monday morning. They said, Kelly, her secretary, said that Jamie can come with me and stay in their daycare center during my appointment. Thanks again. Love you, Bye." Not exactly coherent, but she got the basic idea that I was going to see Dr. Mitchell on Monday morning without Jamie.

The form arrived the next day and I spent the evening filling it out. It was very detailed and took a lot of time. I had to look up some of the information in Jamie's baby journal, like some of his developmental milestones, and I had to think about how to explain the nature of the problem. Should I be succinct? My son acts like a girl? Should I be precise? My son likes to wear dresses when he plays with his doll? Should I be detailed? My son picked out a doll when I took him shopping for a birthday present and then he wanted a dress and shoes to match and I bought him girl's underwear and a headband. I made him a dress out of an old tank top too. No. She'll think I'm nuts. Keep it simple, I advised myself. My son has shown an interest in being feminine and I don't know how to deal with it. There. Concise and to the point.

The rest of the week and the weekend dragged by. I continued to find things that would keep Jamie and his doll apart, which separation would also keep him out of dresses. Unfortunately, there are only so many activities to do with a six year old that didn't take him near a mall or a toy store. Somehow, I managed to make it to Sunday night without adding to his fascination with femininity.

As I was getting him into his PJ's, I mentioned, "Jamie, tomorrow Mommy has to go to the hospital and you can come."

He gave me a funny look.

"I have to see a doctor. It's nothing serious. I just need some advice. They have a great play area where you can wait for me. It won't be that long. Then we can go out for lunch. Okay, Sweetie?"

"Okay.

I finished our nighttime routine, read him and the doll a story, tucked him in, kissed him goodnight and went to my room. I tried to decide what I should wear. The options were pants and a blouse, a skirt and a blouse or a dress. I wanted to make a good first impression on Dr. Mitchell. I ruled out the dress as too formal. If I was going to wear a skirt, I needed to shave my legs. Then again, if I wore a sleeveless blouse, I'd need to shave my pits anyway. Okay, a skirt would give me a more motherly image than pants, I thought. Into the shower with you, Virginia, I ordered myself. Once I was satisfactorily hairless, I got out, creamed myself up and completed my nighttime beauty routine.

After I got myself ready for bed, I picked out my outfit and hung it on over the closet door. A yellow straight above-the-knee skirt and a white collared sleeveless cotton blouse. Very summery, but sophisticated, if I dressed it up with a gold chain necklace, a gold bangle bracelet and my yellow leather strappy sandals. Excellent, Ginny. Dr. Mitchell will be impressed as all get out with you and your doll playing, dress wearing son. Whatever. I got in bed and turned out the light.

The alarm went off at six the next morning. I got up, paid particular attention to my hair and makeup, wished I had gotten a manicure and pedicure, got myself dressed and went downstairs to make breakfast. I was too nervous to eat, so I just made myself a cup of tea. At six thirty I went upstairs and woke up Jamie. He couldn't tell time, at least relative to when it would have been his usual time to wake up. He yawned. I got him washed and dressed in a pair of chinos I had bought for back to school and a short sleeved cotton pullover jersey, white sox and his fancy sneakers. We went down and he had a quick breakfast, then we got into the car. Jamie was still sleepy and nodded off as we headed through the early morning traffic to the hospital.

I pulled into the parking garage and found a space. It was seven forty when I finally got to the daycare center and five of eight when I rushed out and got on the elevator to the seventh floor. I hurried down the hallway, following the signs for suite 704. The sign outside read 'Jenny Mitchell, M.D.' It was just eight o'clock when I opened the door and went into the reception area. I took a minute to get myself together, took a mirror out of my pocketbook and checked my hair, put on some fresh lipstick, straightened my skirt and blouse, got up my courage and knocked on the door.

The door opened and I was greeted by a pretty brunette. I'm five five and she was at least three inches taller than me. I took a quick look down and she had on mid heels, about the same height as my sandals, so she was tall. On first impression, she was in her mid-thirties, which, from my training as a nurse, would mean she had been in practice for four or five years. Then again, with some women, it's hard to tell their age. She was one of them. I didn't have time to do more of an assessment before she spoke.

"Good morning. I'm Dr. Jenny Mitchell. If you're Jamie's mother, then you're right on time. Please come in," she said cordially.

I went into her office. It was nicely furnished. There was a large mahogany desk with a high backed chair behind it and two side chairs with arms in front of it. Off to one side, in front of a set of windows overlooking City Park was a conversation area, with four comfortable upholstered armchairs around a circular glass coffee table with a low floral arrangement in the center. I noticed a number of diplomas and certificates on the wall, but I couldn't read them without taking my attention away from her, which would be rude. She walked behind her desk and motioned for me to take one of the chairs in front of it. She waited for me to be seated and then sat down.

"Did you have time to complete the survey?"

"Yes, Dr. Mitchell."

I reached into my pocketbook, took it out, stood up and handed it to her over the desk. She unfolded it, spread it out and began to skim through it, pausing at the last page where I had described my reason for consulting her. I saw a brief look of amusement when she got to my explanation. Like reading the last page of a detective novel, once she knew who done it, so to speak, she went back to the beginning and studied the form.

While she was engrossed, I had a chance to get a better look at her. Not that it mattered, but it was a natural reaction to assess another woman by her appearance. She was slim and had medium features with brown eyes and thin arched eyebrows. Her medium length nails were manicured and had French polish, pink with white tips, and there was a wedding band and diamond engagement ring on her left hand. I noticed some picture frames on her desk, which I guessed were her family, but I couldn't see them from where I was sitting. When she walked to her desk, I could see she had on a dark blue skirt suit with a short jacket over a white silk round collared blouse, closed at the neck, around which was a string of gold and turquoise beads. She had a stylish wristwatch on her left hand. Her hair was cut very unusually, long in front, shorter on the sides and then long in the back, covering her neck and stopping about an inch above her shoulders. It was very attractive and framed her face, which was beautifully made up with mascara, eyeliner, blush and a surprising medium plum lipstick. Her hair was over hear ears, so I couldn't see if she was wearing earrings and her legs were covered by the desk, although I guessed she wouldn't be wearing stockings in the summer. I had already checked out her pumps, which were dark blue leather with a fashionably uncomfortable pointed toe. Altogether, if I didn't know she was a doctor, I would have guessed she was in the fashion industry, she was so stylish and well coordinated. If she noticed me checking her out, she was considerate enough not to mention it.

Finally, she looked up from the form and smiled at me, which made me wonder. Had she deliberately given me time to study her and put myself at ease, before moving on to more serious matters? She was a psychiatrist and she did know about human behavior.

"I see that you have given me the usual response, Ms. McCarthy. No offense, but you are wasting my time and yours if you aren't going to be candid. Do you want to try again, Virginia?" she asked encouragingly, using my first name to make her request more personal."

I took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Mitchell, but, candidly, I'm terrified."

"Good. That is an honest answer. We can deal with terrified," she said confidently. "Why are you terrified, Virginia? Do you mind if I call you by your first name. It is hard to observe the social formalities when having an intimate conversation."

No, please do, but I prefer Ginny."

"Well, Ginny?"

"I, I, I love my son very much and, well, I don't want to do anything that might, that might hurt him." I paused. "Or me either. It's been so difficult without my husband," it came pouring out. "I try to be a good mother, but, I don't know, it's just, he's a boy and I don't know that much about raising a boy. I think, well, maybe I mixed him up and you will, you will think it's my fault and take him away from me."

I began to sniffle and opened my purse to take out a tissue. I dabbed at my nose and eyes. Dr. Mitchell stood up.

"Ginny, come over here and let's chat."

She motioned to the conversation area. She took the seat in front of the windows and motioned to the chair next to hers. I sat down.

"Feel better?"

"No," I sniffled.

"Good. More honesty. We are making progress. Ginny, I am here to help you and you are here because you realize you need help. There's nothing wrong with reaching out. That's being a good mother. Ignoring the problem or forcing a child to be something they're not to conform to social convention is what is harmful. You have my promise, Ginny. Whatever is happening, you and I will figure it out and do whatever is best for you son. Jamie, isn't it?

"Yes, Dr. Mitchell."

"Jenny, please. I don't like social conventions in any context. Now, tell me what is really going on with Jamie."

I went on to explain the whole situation with buying him a doll, then a dress and his wanting to wear it whenever he played with the doll. I added my having let him try on one of my tank-tops and how he accepted it as an additional dress to wear with the one that we had added to his doll's wardrobe. Once I started, it wasn't that hard to get it all out. Dr. Mitchell, Jenny, was a good listener, as you would expect. To my surprise, she didn't record anything or take notes. She just let me ramble on. When I had finished, she reached over and took my hand.

"See, a journey of a thousand miles starts with but a single step. An old Oriental saying. Or in this case, a single statement. Now we have something to work with."

She looked at her wristwatch.

"We still have about fifteen minutes, Ginny. I have to say, this is unusual. Not generically. A boy who has feminine tendencies is my stock in trade, so to speak. However, it is unusual to see it in someone as young as Jamie. If he had a sister, I would consider it to be some form of sibling jealousy. That somehow he got the impression that you favored her, so he wanted to be like her. She plays with dolls, so he plays with dolls. You fuss over dressing her up, so he wants to dress up. But he doesn't have a sister, so he hasn't learned this behavior from one. Are there any other girls in his life?"

"My sister Karen, you spoke to her, has two daughters, one of whom is Jamie's age. We get together once or twice a month. She works and it's hard to coordinate our schedules. They do play together. Sometimes they come to our house, where we would have just boy's toys, until recently, anyway. They haven't visited us since Jamie got the doll," I clarified. "Other times we go to their house and it's all girl's toys. About fifty-fifty our house and theirs, at least we try to reciprocate. I suppose he could have learned about being a girl from Debbie. That's Karen's older daughter who is Jamie's age. Cindy is two years younger. She's only four. She might hang out with them, but they wouldn't play with her."

Jenny looked at her watch again.

"I'm sorry. I don't meant to be rude, but I usually do only forty-five minute appointments, so that there is fifteen minutes between patients, to protect their privacy, considering the nature of my practice. I don't want them sitting together in the waiting room. I gave you the extra fifteen minutes, because you're not the patient, but I do need to keep on schedule."

"I understand Dr. Mitchell, umm, Jenny. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

"Thank Dr. Dalton. She's your sister?"

"Yes, my big sister. I will thank her. Jenny, will Jamie be alright?"

She smiled.

"Define alright and I'll give you an answer."

"Happy."

"No."

"He won't be happy?" I asked dismayed.

"No, Ginny. Happiness is a transitory state. What I try to do with my patients is make sadness transitory too. That's the best I can do. Ginny, we have a lot to go over. Please speak with Kelly about making an appointment for next week, same day and time. I want another session with just you, so we can work on a strategy. In the meantime, don't discourage Jamie and don't encourage him either. Just let nature take its course."

Dr. Mitchell walked to the door and opened it. I could see Kelly, or at least a woman who I took to be her, sitting at the desk. She looked over when she heard the door open and smiled.

"Kelly, Ms. McCarthy needs another appointment. Same day and time."

"Yes, Dr. Mitchell," Kelly confirmed.

I walked over to her desk, waited while she made an entry on the computer screen and gave me an appointment card that she had filled out.

"It's nice to meet you, Ms. McCarthy," she said looking up. "And thanks for not reporting me to Dr. Mitchell," she whispered.

"Do you tease all of Dr. Mitchell's patients with that ditzy routine?"

"You caught me. No, just the GG's."

"I don't understand. What's a GG?"

"GG stands for genetic girl. Born female, like you and me. The opposite of TG, which means transgendered. Born male, but psychologically female. Like Dr. Mitchell.

"What!?"

"You didn't know that she is a transsexual?"

"No, certainly not. You're kidding me again, right?"

"No, that's the truth. I guess it didn't come up."

Kelly looked chagrined.

"That's not exactly the phrase I wanted to use."

It took me a while to figure out what she was talking about, then the double entendre of 'it didn't come up' in reference to someone who appears female but is really male struck me and I blushed.

"Kelly!"

"I know. I'm bad. I told you, I don't know why Dr. Mitchell puts up with me."

"Because you like her?"

"Like her? I'd marry her, if she didn't have a hunk of a husband."

"I saw she is wearing a wedding ring. Dr. Mitchell is married to a man?" I asked incredulously.

"Of course to a man. Who else would a hot babe like her marry?"

I gave her a blank look.

"And they have two kids, a boy and a girl."

"They can do that?"

"If 'they' means TG's, no. Medical science hasn't figured out how to get men pregnant yet. But I can't wait for the day," she said with a big smile. "But, you don't have to be able to have children to have children," she reminded me.

"Oh, now I'm the ditz," I kidded her.

"Welcome to the club. See you next week.