I could pick Charlie’s clothes out for him everyday and he’d wear literally whatever. Clothing is stuff that hangs on him which society insists he wears. Fine. He’ll do it, but Charlie’s engagement with shopping, picking out clothes, and getting dressed is at the absolute bare minimum.
Buster, however, is full force in charge of what Buster wears. In fact the only thing keeping me on top of doing the laundry is that if I run out of Buster’s preferred and favorite clothing then Buu won’t be getting dressed. This child will not leave the house if they’re not attired to their own specifications (some days are more specific than others but overall that’s a true statement).
Buster loves pink and teal and My Little Pony and Hello Kitty and rainbows and bunny motifs and metallic shimmer. Buster crafts outfits for the day’s events and locations. Buster is fucking on point in a way I have never been about possibly anything in my entire life.
Buster refers to themselves as ‘he’ majority of the time but every so often ‘she’ and neither choice ever seems to correlate to how Buster decided to dress for the day. But, most of the time most everyone assumes Buster is a girl when we are out and about and I let my kid take the lead on facing other’s assumptions; sometimes Buster corrects them and other times doesn’t – Charlie, Lee, and I simply follow suit. This isn’t hard. This is a very easy thing we do.
When met with straight on questioning of their gender Buster delights in being cryptic and difficult. Which, I should clarify, means Buster is enjoying the interaction. And that’s just who Buster is as a person. This kid loooooooooves getting people’s goats and being smarmy. LOVES IT. If Buster corrects someone outright or doesn’t entice them into a game of patience then chances are that Buster really, really dislikes them and is answering their question so they’ll go the hell away. Which is rare.
Yesterday such an event took place and all this lead up has been so that you may enjoy to the most possible extent the following interaction wherein my three year old rips a grown man to fuckin’ shreds:
Charlie, Buster, and I were out and about doing some holiday craft shopping when a man about my age who looked like a cartoon lumberjack approached us.
Now this happens from time to time if you have children (and especially if those children are assumed to be little girls), people feel comfortable coming up and talking to you as a group. Which is okay. Sometimes folks choosing to insert themselves into our bubble is ill timed and weird but on the whole such interactions roll off like water on a duck, it’s just whatever. It’s fine. It’s nothing.
Mr. Lumberjack started out the same, asking my kids what they wanted Santa to bring them for Christmas. Talking about toys is always a hot topic so they babbled on for a bit then the burly man declared that such sweet girls would get whatever they wanted – Charlie corrected him and said he was a boy.
“OH! Well, no one would know with that long hair your mommy has on you.”
At this point my eyes glassed over as I rapid fire debated with myself every possible answer and outcome on how to approach masculine passive aggressive bullshit and while I hesitated Buster venomously spat out that he was a boy too. Kid wanted this guy gonzo.
“You’ll grow out of that phase, soon you’ll wanna look like me!” And then he gave a confident grin and a playful flex.
Buster dramatically looked this stranger up and down, scanning over his stained boots, dark blue jeans, yellow flannel and prideful scrappy veneer. My beautiful baby curled his lips into a sneer and said “Probably no.”
The woman a little down the isle snorted, confirming my suspicion she had been hanging around eavesdropping and not debating glitter, and our visitor’s face fell. Buster then dismissed him by theatrically turning his face up and to the side with a loud ‘herumf’ (which is a move adopted from the 3rd favorite pony, Rarity).
This is my new favorite story.
Today I learned that it is possible to feel maternal pride for a child entirely unrelated to me that I have never met.
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