Out of the mouths of babes...

“But I’m a BOY!” the words echoed through the house like a gunshot. In the immediate silence that followed, a plate could be heard shattering against the floor in the kitchen. Cousins turned off their gaming system, grandpa glanced over from his chair beside the brightly decorated Christmas tree.

Aunts and Grandma poked their heads curiously around the kitchen door, and one very humiliated uncle stood, red-faced and uncertain as to what he could possibly say in response to his little niece’s outburst.

Five year old Christina Noel Roberts, dressed in a dark crimson holiday dress, stood with her feet planted firmly in black patent Mary Janes, stark contrast to her white tights. Her hair had been done up in little pigtails, and a well-meaning older sister had painted her lips with just the lightest touch of strawberry-flavored lip gloss for the occasion.

No one dared to speak a word. Uncle Frank, the accidental instigator of the scene, whose only sin was to tell her how pretty she looked, quietly slunk away. Grandpa Joe offered Frank the not-so-well disguised bottle in his hand. Frank crumpled the brown paper bag as he up-turned the bottle, and Mark Roberts, little Christina’s father, took control of the situation.

“Sweetheart, who told you you’re a boy?” he asked gently, assuming one of the child’s older cousins had been playing a nasty prank on her earlier in the day. But she emphatically shook her head.

“No one, daddy,” she answered.

“Then why do you think you’re a boy?” Again, he tried desperately to keep his cool, despite the fact that his boss, Tim Higgins and his lovely wife Katherine had only moments before joined the otherwise family gathering. He worked so hard to convince Tim to stop by for a drink, assuring his employer that they believed in strong family values not twelve hours ago.

“Because I don’t like being a girl,” the child answered honestly as she stared at her shoes uncomfortably. By now Helen, little Christina’s mother, had crept into the room, her face a mix of stricken shock at the outburst’s ramifications, and concern for her little baby’s well-being.

“Darling, why don’t I take Christina to her room and talk to her about this while you make your famous eggnog?” Helen gently advised even as she scooped the girl up into her arms. She gave her a motherly kiss on her forehead to reassure both Christina and the silent onlookers that everything would be okay.

Mark smiled, exchanging a brief kiss with his beautiful bride of twenty-eight years, giving her a gentle nod. He kissed the top of little Christina’s head, and turned to step into the kitchen while Helen quietly ducked out of the room.

Christina’s room looked the part for any little girl’s room, painted in bright pastels with portrayals of fantastic creatures like unicorns and mystical, friendly dragons. Her bed lay awash in lace, her favorite stuffed animal, a small brown bear wearing a baseball cap, sat at the center, though it toppled onto its side as Helen gently set her daughter down, kneeling in front of her.

“Am I in trouble?” the little girl finally, hesitantly whispered. Helen smiled as she shook her head.

“No, honey, you’re not in any trouble.” She took the little girl’s hand in hers and gave it a light squeeze. “But why did you wait until now to say you don’t like wearing a pretty dress?” Granted, that's not exactly what Christina had shouted, but Helen felt certain she understood what she really meant.

The child shrugged her shoulders. “I’unno,” she mumbled softly.

“Well, would you feel more comfortable in your favorite jeans instead?”

Christina’s eyes lit up and she nodded emphatically. Immediately she began to tug at the pretty ribbons holding her pigtails in place. Helen chuckled softly to herself as she helped her undo them, letting soft, natural curls roll down her shoulders.

When she re-emerged holding Christina by the hand, the child, at least from the front, now looked every bit the tomboy. She wore a bright yellow baseball style shirt and her favorite jeans. She had exchanged the tights and Mary Janes for white socks and her play sneakers. Perched atop her head, a blue baseball cap with her favorite baseball team, the Cubs’ logo embossed across the front. Most importantly though, she wore a bright, beautiful smile for the first time that day.

Tim pulled Mark aside after a brief eggnog toast.

“You promised me when I agreed to stop by today, that you would show me traditional family values,” Tim began. Mark’s face fell.

“Sir, I can assure you, I had no idea-”

Tim shook his head as he held up a hand, indicating for Mark to let him finish. “You told me that you would show me something special, and you have. Most parents, if their little girl had made an outburst like that, especially in front of their boss, would have lost it. I know; I’ve seen it before. It never becomes any less painful for anyone involved.”

He paused to smile as little Christina passed by, stopping to hug her daddy’s waist for just a moment before she raced into the living room. Her older cousins, rather than teasing her, immediately welcomed her to their group, and one could even be overheard complimenting her baseball cap.

“Now with that said, I have a contact I’d like you to consider. He’s a child psychologist. He helped my niece, and I think he can help Chris.”

“You mean Christina?” Mark asked gently.

“Chris, Christina, it’s hard to say at this age. My niece used to be my nephew, after all, and now she’s one of the most successful attorneys in the state. But getting back to what I was saying before, you really showed me something today, and I’d like you to consider the open Supervisor position.”

“I,” Mark stammered, staring blankly back at his boss. Tim simply smiled as he extended his hand.

“Merry Christmas.”