Setting: He is four years old. It’s a Wednesday night and like any other night my youngest son and I are completing the bedtime routine. My wife joins us. I’m so nervous but the fierceness that has always been his love gives me hope. In many ways I found my courage to find myself in his unwavering love.

I don’t have a plan. I’m not sure how I will tell him. Will I be able to answer his questions? Am I about to shatter his world? Will he even understand? But I just start talking…

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Me: Buddy, are you a boy or a girl?

Youngest son: I’m a boy.

Me: That’s cool. How do you know?

YS: Because I’m just a boy.

Me: That makes sense. You know, when I was a baby the doctors said I was a girl. So my mom and dad raised me as a girl. But you know what? I realized they made a mistake. I am actually a boy.

YS: Yeah. You are a boy and I am a boy and brother is a boy. And mama…she’s just a girl.

*makes note to self to check back on that ‘just’ piece to determine if rooted in misogyny*

Me: Bud, it would make me feel really good if when you talk about me you could use words like “he and his” instead of “she and her.” What would you think about calling me daddy?

YS: Yeah! You ARE my daddy. I love you daddy. And we are boys!

*snuggling commence*

There would still be many more conversations to have. Watching my identity shift in his eyes has taught me so much about the boxes we put ourselves in and all that is possible in love.