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Nibbles has turned into quite the Georgie Porgie of late, kissing the girls and making them cry; a charming turn from his earlier ear fetish that was satisfied with a firm twist of the gentle appendage till turned a pretty crimson. I’m proud to say that he’s taken quite a pansexual approach to this slobbery habit, which is often preceded by a friendly, non-Zidanish headbutt.

Speaking of pansexuality, I do hope I don’t pigeonhole him into any gendered or sexual stereotype. Perhaps I should dismiss it as cute when he’s chasing girls and cars and the adults cheer him on. I too am guilty of encouraging popular stereotypes by always dressing him in clothes from the boys section and refusing to buy the shiny pink “girls” shoes, even though they were the only pair in his size (and he desperately needs a new pair).

Right through my stormy teens I’ve always dressed in oversized boys clothes, so perhaps I may be excused from the fashion department. Books, then? Besides the list of sexist prince-saves-fair-maiden fairytales, I ought to sing of beautiful gay princes that lived happily ever after. Should my stories be uniformly distributed across sexual preferences and even race or ecominic status? Or should it reflect the (questionable) demographics of the community we live in? I wouldn’t want to bias him either way, but I’m too hopelessly human to be rigorous about that.

Ok, so I don’t think that sexual identity issues are something Nibbles needs to worry about – not today anyway. The jigsaw of one’s identity may take a lifetime to piece together and the exercise in itself can be exhausting if the constructed image keeps evolving. I don’t know what color his rainbow will be, but today it is a brilliant, transparent light that bounces off his beaming face and dances in his bright eyes when he sees someone he likes. He doesn’t think to question the source of that feeling for a second, but chooses to fling that affection carelessly with no fear of it being shunned.

What would it take to be so recklessly free again? From what I remember, a stiff martini (or five) might do the trick.