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I found Henry in my closet. He was naked and sitting amidst my shoes and a pile of clothes that I have been meaning to bring to Goodwill.

Apparently, he had been trying on the bras.

I must note here that these brassieres were no ordinary brassieres. Rather, they were the industrial-strength, over-the-shoulder boulder-holders* that I wore when I was pregnant.

Henry ran over to me; his eyes wide and his expression earnest. “When me little teef fall out and me get da big teef in my mouf (he paused to tilt his head back and open his mouth wide) den I’ll haf dose (he pointed to my chest) like you!”

I was wholly surprised. Ummm, maybe? My mind leaped to hormone treatments, psychotherapy and surgery. I searched for the right words to use. Then I shook my head. He’s three. “Henry,” I said gently, “You are a boy. I am a girl. Boys don’t have breasts, just like girls don’t have penises.”

I could see that he was processing this information. He reached down to touch his penis. A second later, he flopped down on the carpet. He was laughing. I started laughing, too. “Alright, buddy,” I said, “Time to get dressed.”

As long as you’re happy, Henry. I will always love you.