When our three-year-old, truck-loving boy developed a sudden interest in cross-dressing, we couldn't skirt the issue.

A couple of Sundays ago, Findley, our six-year-old daughter, decided to wear her most special dress to church: a pink chiffony number, its upper layer iced with beaded flowers and a bow. It had been bought for her first flower-girl engagement in the spring. As she pulled it on, her three-and-a-half-year-old brother Emmett decided he wanted to wear it. Trouble ensued.

Lots of the kids' interaction now is about he got it first, I wanted to be first, she beat me, did I mention I wanted to be first? It's wearing on the nerves. My husband, Kirk, one of three boys, tells me it's par for the course -- he spent most of his youth at the very least trying to outdo his brothers, if not trying to outright kill them. But I am an only child, not accustomed to the bickering birthright of siblings. When my kids go at it, I mostly want to a rock to climb under. And this morning was no different. Emmett wanted a pink dress -- the same pink dress Findley was wearing.

Now I should say that Emmett is a Boy with a capital B. He runs hither and yon until he collapses. He is a Super Hero, a Rescue Hero, a pirate, a race car driver. He carries pick-up trucks and back hoe/front-end loaders in both pockets. Any toy more than a foot long becomes a hockey stick. And any hockey stick becomes a weapon. But here he was, wanting a pink dress.

This was one of those moments of parental indecision, of wishing there were a better manual: Dr. Spock surely had no chapter on this. A moment of wanting to avoid passing on all those gender stereotypes we said we would never pass on.

Kirk and I listened to Emmett yammer on about the pink dress, and stepped around the kitchen corner to have a whispered conference in camera. Are you having a gender-stereotyping crisis? Yes. Are you? Yes? Oh God, what should we do?

We stepped back around the corner, faces neutral. Emmett, we asked, do you really want a dress, or do you want a special dress-up outfit? Finn has many special outfits but Emmett has none, except his Batman T-shirt.

Emmett shook his head. No, he wanted a dress. So up we trooped to the kids' bedroom to find Emmett some new attire.

Findley watched us closely for cues. She found it a little strange that her brother wanted to wear her pink dress, but she also found it perfectly normal: He wants what she has, she wants what he has.

She offered him a pink T-shirt dress with a sequined star in the middle. He wanted the chiffon. She offered him another dress, a cotton one, but that wasn't fancy enough, he wanted the chiffon. Finally, she struck upon another party dress. It was a tad less twirly, a slightly darker shade of pink, and was gathered at the shoulders with tiny pink bows. Emmett nodded. That one got the go-ahead.

So Emmett stripped down to his Spiderman underwear and slipped the dark pink dress over his head. He liked it a lot. Only problem was, Findley liked it more. I wished desperately for my rock -- this conflict was going to be a good one.

Findley put on her friendliest voice. Emmett, she asked sweetly, do you wanna trade?

Ha ha!, thought Emmett. She is falling right into my trap, and I will get the twirly one after all! So they traded. Findley wore the dark pink one, Emmett wore the chiffon.

Then came the dilemma of footwear. Emmett angled for the pink Barbie sandals, but that's where Finn drew the line. Yes, he could wear the flower-girl outfit, but the Barbie-sandals request was pushing his luck. We found another pair of pink sandals from Finn's stash. Those would do just fine.

So our kids went off to church in matching pink dresses. Emmett kept looking to us for some kind of feedback -- is this all okay? Findley pondered the whole darn thing. Why does Emmett want to wear my dress? He's a boy.

We told them that it was true that boys usually wore shorts or pants and not dresses, but that Emmett was the same Emmett no matter what he wore, and that was what counted. And yes, the fact that it was unusual meant that Emmett might get some questions, but that was okay. As we pulled up to church, we gave him one last out. Do you really want to wear the dress? He nodded happily.

At church, no one said a thing. After, at the annual Sunday school picnic, we all agreed that run-around clothes needed to be worn, so the kids changed out of their dresses and into shorts and T-shirts. Over hot dogs, people complimented us on letting Emmett wear the dress; they found it very progressive. We heaved a sigh of relief -- another parenting disaster avoided.

Claire Ross Dunn is a Toronto writer who hasn't worn pink chiffon since Grade 12.

After, at the annual Sunday school picnic, we all agreed that run-around clothes needed to be worn, so the kids changed out of their dresses and into shorts and T-shirts. Over hot dogs, people complimented us on letting Emmett wear the dress; they found it very progressive.

This idiot woman is going to wonder one day why her son has turned into a cross-dressing male prostitute. Or given that this idiot woman lives in Toronto, she'll probably be gushing with pride if he does.

What kind of damn fools attend this church? If it ain't Unitarian, even money that these are Anglican or United Church twits.

You know, I, for one, get extremely tired of the embarrassing stories told about me, when I was little. Fortunately, had I wanted to wear a dress when I was little, my dad would have given me his "look" and end of discussion. Which also means I don't have to worry about pics of me in a dress showing up at those times when parents start reminiscing about the stupid things their kids did when growing up.

Now, this kid will get to dread the pics of him wearing a dress for the rest of his life.

Truck Drivin' Song

by Al Yankovic

Lyrics:

I'm drivin' a truck
Drivin' a big ol' truck
Pedal to the metal, hope I don't run out of luck
Rollin' down the highway until the break of dawn
Drivin' a truck with my high heels on

My diesel rig is northward bound
It's time to put that hammer down
Just watchin' as the miles go flyin' by
I'm ridin' twenty tons of steel
But it's sure hard to hold the wheel
While I'm waiting for my nails to dry

Oh, I always gotta check my lipstick in that rear view mirror
And my pink angora sweater fits so tight
I'm jammin' gears and haulin' freight
Well, I sure hope my seams are straight
Lord, don't let my mascara run tonight

Because I'm drivin' a truck
Drivin' a big ol' truck
Smokey's on my tail and my accelerator's stuck
Got these eighteen wheels-a-rollin' until the break of dawn
Drivin' a truck with my high heels on

Oh, I don't mind when my crotchless panties creep right up on me
And my nipple rings don't bother me too much
But when I hit those big speed bumps
My darling little rhinestone pumps
Keep slippin' off the mother-lovin' clutch

But still I'm drivin' a truck
Drivin' a big ol' truck
Headin' down the interstate, just tryin' to make a buck
Wearin' feather boas with sequins and chiffon
While I'm drivin' a truck with my high heels on

I'm drivin' a truck (drivin' a truck)
Drivin' a truck (drivin' a truck)
Got a load to carry and some eyebrows left to pluck (ooh)
And I'm late for my appointment down at my hair salon (ooh, aww)
So I'll be drivin' a truck with my high heels on (drivin a truck)
(My high heels on)

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