Old pictures.

My mom’s been hanging up my childhood portraits. All I have to do is walk down the hallway and I can see my little-girl-self staring back at me. Eerie.

I think I was a girl back then; at least, I didn’t feel uncomfortable being one. I was intrigued by how it would feel to be a boy, but I never wished I had been born in a different body (I still don’t, even though sometimes I want my body to look different in some senses).

Mostly I lived in a world that looked genderless to me, where I could love dinosaurs and stuffed animals at the same time. No one could get into my make-believe games and tell me they were unfeminine. My mom dressed me up in skirts and blouses from time to time, but I didn’t care about clothes anyway (I avoided mirrors until I started dressing masculinely).

So I feel ambiguous about those old pictures. Childhood was nice, but it’s time to move on. I hope my mom doesn’t resent me for growing up to be her son.