Except my kid.  Which could be because she’s six or it could be because I’ve failed.  I’m not sure. 

Hannah brings a book home from school every night for reading practice, little 16-page paperbacks about Jordan and his soccer team, or Sally, who plants beans in the garden with her mother and watches them grow.  Or Sarah, who is afraid of the barking dog she has to pass on the way to school.

“Where’s Sarah?” Hannah asks, looking at the pages.

“Right there,” I say, pointing.  And there she is, little Sarah, dressed in a striped shirt and what can only be described as dungarees.  Little baby dyke Sarah.

“That’s not Sarah,” Hannah says.  “That’s a boy.”

“No, honey,” I say in my explain-the-world voice.  “That’s Sarah.”

“She looks like a boy.”

Well, she does, I have to admit.  But she also looks a lot like many girls used to, before 6-year-olds began dressing like 16-year-olds. 

“That’s kind of how girls used to dress,” I say.  “We just wore regular shirts and jeans.”

Hannah considers the picture, mentally weighing her capacity to tolerate gender fluidity.

“I’m calling her Sam,” she says.