From the beginning, their clothes, blankets and so on were color-coded, but that was more a function of having triplets than any gender-conforming desires; The Diva’s color was pink, my boy, The Clown, had blue, and my other girl, The Quiet One (aka The Golden Child because she was so placid and patient) had yellow. We were given sets of blankets in these colors, so it just progressed from there. This way it was easier to tell them apart as tiny squishy babies, and is essential at three in the morning when you’re trying to remember who has been changed, who pooped, who has been fed, and who has had their medicine already.
Their colors suited them well at first: The Diva was delicate and pretty, The Clown was the most boyish little boy who ever boyed, and The Quiet One was…well, when they graduated from onesies and we put her in her first dress, she looked like a sheepish football player. A tiny, adorable, squarely-built football player. When her hair grew, it came in mohawk-style, and we agreed that gender-neutral colors were a good choice for her. They have an auntie who is a lesbian with a crew-cut, so we knew if this trend continued that she would have someone to look up to. Oddly enough as time has passed (and more hair has grown) The Diva has lengthened into a lanky, sporty type and The Quiet One is turning into a dimpled, pretty sweetheart.
I felt something of an extra connection to my son in those early days. Of course I loved them all equally, but there was something about him. He had thick, dark hair and darker skin that set him apart from his sisters even more than his gender did, at the beginning. He struggled the most with the hardships that came with prematurity – he came home wired to an apnea monitor to alert us when he forgot to breathe – and there were times I was genuinely afraid we would lose him. Don’t take my son, I begged the universe as I sat by his crib, and half-jokingly added, I only have one boy.
As they grew older and personalities emerged, his sisters crawled before he did, walked before he did, and ran before he did. This is normal – apparently boys are usually a little behind girls – but we joked that he was just secure and complacent; he knew we’d give that toy to him eventually, so there was no need to bother himself about crawling all the way over there to get it. With triplets, it is hard not to worry when one seems to lag behind the others because you have two examples of babies the exact same age that are already doing X or Y – but they all caught up with each other relatively quickly at each milestone.
He was the first to like cars, but then they all love cars. He was the first to pretend-play cars – “driving” a piece of sandwich on his high chair tray and making “brrrm-brrrm” noises. My husband once sheepishly admitted that he would be proud if his son were to be a racing driver, to which I huffily responded that his daughters could be racing drivers too – “Hello, Danica Patrick?”
As toddlerhood approached, they began to be aware of their own bodies and the differences between them. There was a (mercifully brief) period during which, lacking the verbal skills to say “What’s that and why don’t I have one?”, The Clown’s sisters occasionally grabbed his penis in the bathtub and yanked it as hard as they could, presumably to see if it would come off.
I had read somewhere that using the correct, matter-of-fact terms for genitalia helped arm one’s children against sexual predation, so as they learned to talk I was determined to call a penis a penis and a vulva a vulva. No willies or voo-voos in our house, although I have been known to refer to their genitalia collectively as their junk (as in: “you’re not getting out of the bath until you’ve washed your junk.”) We learned “penis” and “vulva” along with “nose” and “elbow.” My husband felt perhaps there had been a little too much emphasis on learning about genitalia the day The Clown poked him square in the crotch and announced “Daddy penis!”
Occasionally the girls will reiterate “[Own Name] vulva. No [Own Name] penis” as they are having their diapers changed. The Clown is also pretty invested in checking to make sure his penis is still there every time his diaper is changed; I understand this is a habit he may not grow out of. And they are not the only ones who have learned things about “down there” along the way; the nurses taught me that the correct way to wipe a vulva clean is from top to bottom, i.e. from clitoris to vaginal opening and beyond, which had me fretting about my own habits; I also learned that very tiny baby boys can (and frequently, disturbingly, do) get erections. It’s totally normal, and I don’t want to make my son ashamed of his body in any way, but also I want to hide my eyes and maybe scream a little, just quietly.
But at about age 2, he began pushing to share the things his sisters had that he didn’t – when they wore sequined headbands, he had to have one. Ribbon hairclips too. The pink car seat is his favorite. And he’s worn pink sneakers, and pink Mary-Janes (as well as the coveted patent-leather teal “fancies” and shiny metallic gold sneakers) to daycare plenty of times.
I’m pretty sure it’s just a matter of wanting to be included and share like they do everything else, but I have to admit, there is a part of my mind that is preparing to deal with the possibility that I may have a non-gender-typical child on my hands.
The first couple of times he wanted to wear pink shoes in public, I was a little bit nervous. We live in a pretty conservative area of the US, and we already get enough attention for having triplets. On top of that, “princess boys” (young boys who sometimes dress like girls) had been getting a fair bit of press recently, and so my mind was going places it didn’t go fifteen years ago when my then-three-year-old nephew wanted to wear nail polish and carry a handbag.
I thought I was going to be the cool mom, the mom who was modern about gender roles, who “just left these condoms lying around and if they disappear, oh well”, who maybe let them drink a little booze just quietly so it wouldn’t seem like something cool and rebellious when their friends wanted to drink boxed wine in the park. And I definitely thought I was going to be the feminist mom who taught them that boys and girls can be different, but don’t have to be one way or another because they are boys or girls, or whatever gender they happen to be.
I was a tomboy myself before puberty hit, to the extent that my father claims my kindergarten classmates occasionally used male pronouns to describe me, despite my name being unmistakably a girl’s name. I never thought or wished I was a boy – I just hated skirts and dresses, and preferred the boys’ toys. I have no problem with my girls doing “boy things” or wearing jeans or shorts.
So the vehemence with which I reacted to my son wanting to wear “girl’s” clothes really surprised me. He wore pink shoes a few times, and it became pretty much a non-issue once I realized that I would rather have a happy son wearing pink shoes than a tearful or screaming son trying to claw off a pair of blue shoes. Even hairclips or little, scraped-together ponytails didn’t faze me that much. But then he raised the stakes – his sisters were wearing pink dresses and damn it, he would not be excluded from this adorable outfit-matching. Ultimately, our children’s happiness has to be our main concern, but it made me feel weird somewhere deep in my stomach. I only have one boy! I wanted at least one kid who wore boy’s clothes (I mean, I love pink, but everyone has their limits.)
We convinced him to tuck the pink dress into his shorts to go to the grocery store. At home, inside our house he can wear whatever he wants – dresses, mama’s scarves and heels, whatever he wants. In public it’s a little different – I didn’t want to have to deal with judgmental strangers, or having to say, “No, we have a boy and two girls.” Maybe it’s lazy – putting my convenience ahead of my child’s exploration of his gender identity – but honestly, having triplet toddlers takes pretty much superhuman effort just to get through everything that has to be done every day (and occasionally in the middle of the night) without dealing with anything more than “Oh, my God, are those triplets?!” and “You must have your hands full!” from the general public.
And I hope you won’t judge me too harshly for saying on another occasion “Mama isn’t ready for you to wear a dress to daycare, honey,” because I didn’t know how the other kids would react, or how the teachers would treat him when I wasn’t there to explain that he just likes wearing the same things his sisters wear, and keep it from becoming a Thing.
At this point, he’s been wearing girl’s shoes and accessories on and off for about six months. It’s just something that he does, just a part of his adorable quirkiness like his happy dance (and his angry dance), or how he crumples to the floor sobbing when told he has to stop hitting his sister, or that he can’t have jellybeans for breakfast. It’s become so ordinary I was actually surprised when the daycare teacher made a comment about his ribbon hairclips and ponytails the other day.
I said, “Oh, he just wanted to look pretty today!” and sort of left it at that. He doesn’t have the verbal ability to explain for himself yet, but I’d like to think that as he grows up, if he wants to continue doing and wearing things that don’t match expectations, that I will grow more and more blasé about it.
Maybe I can convince one of the girls to start wearing boys’ clothes, so we can keep getting all of the cute outfits – not just the pink ones.
