When the ultrasound screen showed I was carrying a boy, I set aside my dress-up dreams. (Not that I can tell if Lucien will one day declare to the world that he’s a transvestite.) I find myself suppressing sighs when I walk around the kids’ section at SM. Three-fourths of the floor is all girly and pinky and peachy, bowed and beribboned and beruffled to the last barely-showing inch of cloth. Well, he can still do rubber wristbands and Hawaiian prints, I tell myself. None of that frou-frou stuff.

My mom has no such compunctions, and this morning, when I woke up, Luc was wearing my hairband.