Numbers 1, 2, and 3 are boys. Number 4 is a girl.
Up until she was about three years old, Number 4 thought she was a boy. She loved her older brothers. Hanging with the boys was all she really knew.
She refused to wear anything girly from birth.
I had accumulated an adorable collection of cute little dresses, and almost all of them went unworn, into storage, with the tags still on when she outgrew them.
She was tough and physical. She loved the dirt. She loved bugs, especially “cute little sluggies.”
I admired that, but I was pretty bummed about the dresses.
So Number 3 and 4 are 15 months apart. One night, when they were about two and three years old, they were taking a bath together. I left the bathroom for 2 seconds to get a towel out of the closet right around the corner.
As soon as I turned my back, Number 3 started shrieking.
“EEEEEEWWWW!!! NUMBER 4 POOPED IN THE BATHTUB!!!!”
Yes, she had.
Bath time over.
Several months later, Number 3 and 4 were in the bath again.
Number 4 was studying her brother, and then herself.
Before her mouth even opened, I knew what she was going to say.
“Mommy? Where’s my penis?” she worriedly asked me.
I was scrambling to come up with the best way to answer.
Not Number 3.
“Um, it fell off. When you pooped in the bathtub,” he matter-of-factly explained to her.
And that, I believe, is when Number 4 realized she was a girl.
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