I don't know how much Matt is conscious of the danger. At recess, he wanders among noisy clusters of peripatetic boys, watching them, keeping his distance. "I like to play by myself," he says. Perhaps, but he's not playing. He's observing, listening. It's not as if he wants to be more masculine; he doesn't even know what that means. He's trying to learn the language, maybe, but maybe also defending himself. Isolation is easier than being the target of a playful tackle, a hurtful joke.

But he can't always avoid their world. One afternoon, he told me he didn't want to play "Capture the Flag" at school anymore. "I'm usually on the losing team," he said, "and when we lose, the boys on the other team say Ha ha, you're losers!. It hurts my feelings." His shoulders were slumped, his voice forlorn and bewildered.

"And what do you say when the other team loses?" I asked.

He drew himself up. "I say, 'Good job!'"

I am so proud of him, and so sad.

How does it feel, I wonder, to be different from the other boys? Matt doesn't like to talk about these things much. But sometimes at night, as I put him to bed, when I can't see his face and he can't see mine, and my arm is wrapped securely around his warm body with his hand tucked in mine, we talk. I tell him that he feels things more deeply than most people, that being sensitive is hard, but also wonderful. "But Mom," he countered, "what if I'm 17, and a friend asks me to go see 'Lord of the Rings' with him, and I'm still too scared to go?" Oh baby, you'll toughen up way before then, I said, but I was glad for the darkness that hid my tears.

Liza pays about as much attention to gender expectations as she does to my entreaties to keep her braids out of her dinner plate. When she wrestles with the boys, no one perceives her behavior as a "problem." So why should Matt have to toughen up? What's wrong with being scared of violent battles? Our expectations of how boys should behave are as deeply rooted in our psyches as our expectations of wolves. Wolves, and boys, are not supposed to step out of character.

A friend asked if I'm scared my son will be gay. Right now, the question seems irrelevant. And right now, like any mother, I love my son in all his specialness. Like any mother, I just want him to feel accepted. I don't want him to change; I want the world to change.

Even if the outside world tries to force Matt into the boy mold, I expect that our extended family will cherish him for who he is. Most do, of course, but not all. At a family event last year, Matt was dancing and spinning with his cousin, a young girl. They laughed giddily as their twirls turned into tumbles on the floor. Watching him, one of my relatives smirked and turned to me. "I'm sorry, Jill," she hissed into my ear, "Matt just doesn't act like a boy!" I took a deep breath and willed myself to ignore the comment, but her words stayed in my mind. I thought of all of those fairy tales where the children are cast out by their families.

What if that fairy godmother, the one who was listening when I wished for my backwards children, comes again? What if she offers to reverse my wish, what would I say? I would keep my daughter exactly the way she is. But my son? Would I wish him to give me a high five instead of rubbing his cheek softly against mine? Would I wish him to spend afternoons shooting hoops instead of baking brownies? Would I trade his sensitivity for a sense of belonging, his gentleness for acceptance? He wouldn't be Matt anymore, of course. But would I make that trade, if I could be assured he would have an easier life ahead of him?

------------

Matt is now 7. He has learned -- from his peers, from the media and from his sister -- that pink is a girl color, that boys don't play with dolls, and that soccer is the reason to live for first-grade boys. He is, it seems, adjusting, trying to find a comfortable place between his natural interests and what the world expects of a boy. His rainbow-hued fingernails went out with the Beanie Babies. Orange is his new favorite color; he stands out from the blue- and gray-clad boys like a carrot bobbing in the ocean. He still plays dress-up, but Snow White and Cinderella have been traded for ghosts and pirates. He started karate lessons (partly because he liked the tunic and colored belts) and discovered he enjoys it. Karate is a sport, he insists. No need for him to play soccer any more.

He's also reconsidering baseball. He has noticed that the boys at school are obsessed with the San Francisco Giants. One boy, Mark, even cries when the Giants lose. Matt asked his dad to teach him about baseball. Richard, excited at this newfound interest, took him to another game. They stayed through most of the innings, Matt nestled on his dad's lap while Richard pointed out curve balls and sacrifice flies, bunts and pinch hitters. Matt bought a Giants' cap and stuck his ticket stub on the bulletin board, next to his cooking camp diploma. He wants to go again soon, wants to invite Mark.

I wonder: What is being traded, what will be lost? I think of the price paid for trying to live in two worlds. The competing voices of family, self, society. The costs, and the rewards, of making choices. I can't know how Matt's tale will end. The wish is not mine to make. It never was.

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