“Because that’s silly,” said Claude.
“Instead, you’ll probably want a job. Maybe it will be farmer or scientist. Or maybe it will be something you haven’t even thought of yet. It’s okay. You have a long time to decide.”
“Are there girl farmers and girl scientists?” said Claude.
“Of course,” said Rosie. “I’m a girl scientist.”
“That’s what I want to be then,” said Claude decisively. “A girl scientist. Can I have a Popsicle?”
“Sure,” said Rosie.
Later—was it later that day or that week or that month? Neither Penn nor Rosie could remember when asked, again and again over the many years, how persistent, how consistent, he’d been, how sure—Rosie opened her eyes in the middle of the night to find Claude standing next to her bed.
“Hi, Mama.”
“Sweetie. You scared me.”
“When I’m a girl scientist, can I wear a dress to work?”
She willed her eyes to focus on the clock then wished she hadn’t. “It’s 3:04, Claude.”
“Yes.”
“A.M.”
“Obviously.”
“I guess you’ll wear a lab coat.”
“Like my raincoat?”
“Yeah, but white usually. And not waterproof. And no hood.”
“Okay. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Rosie slept in. When she came down for breakfast, Penn reported, “Claude wants to know if he can wear a dress under his lab coat when he’s a girl scientist.”
“It’s okay with me.” Rosie was pre-coffeed, still bleary-eyed, catching up with being awake.
“I asked why he wanted to be a girl scientist instead of just a scientist.”
“What did he say?”
“So he could wear a dress under his lab coat.”
In November, it was Ben’s birthday. Later, when it turned out Penn and Rosie were going to have to catalog for doctors in a focused, specifics-filled way a life they were living by more of a skin-of-their-teeth/seat-of-their-pants/bundle-of-their-nerves approach, they were glad for the formative moments that coincided with birthdays or holidays so they could remember when they happened. Claude wanted to make another cake for Ben’s birthday, but Ben wanted the pecan and pumpkin pies he saw all over the Thanksgiving displays at the grocery stores, and Claude’s culinary skills did not yet extend to pies. Instead, Claude wrote him a musical with a cast of brothers. If the specifics of the plot were a bit muddled—it involved a princess, a farmer, and, for some reason Penn and Rosie could never fathom, two clouds carrying toilet plungers—the sentiment was sweet and the recorder music quite moving.
“Claude made the princess’s dress himself,” said Rosie. “It was one of my old dresses—we have a bag of dress-up clothes the kids like to play with—but he added ribbons, sequins, a cape off the shoulders.”
“We only have boys,” Penn always added. “Someone has to play the girl in the skits and the games. It was no big deal.”
“Until the next morning,” said Rosie. “He wore the dress all weekend getting ready for the play. He said he was in dress rehearsals. After the play, he didn’t take it off, but Orion wouldn’t relinquish his cloud costume either. Dress-up is fun. Claude even wore the dress to bed. The next morning I made him take it off to go to preschool, and he really didn’t want to.”
Rosie was underplaying this. He more than didn’t want to. That was the one thing that was predictable about that morning: it had to fit exactly within the time allotted in order to work, and therefore it did not even come close. When Rosie woke at six, Claude was already up, had made himself cereal, was watching Sesame Street in his very rumpled princess dress. “Change into school clothes,” she said, kissing him on the head. Penn made breakfasts. She made lunches. “Claude,” she called over to the sofa as she sealed her fifth bag of mini pretzels, “get changed for school, please.” Penn made coffee, thank God, and Rosie unloaded the dishwasher. “Claude sweetie,” she called, unfolding the stool she needed to reach the shelf where the jelly jars lived, “school clothes.” She went upstairs to wake everyone else. Roo showered. Ben showered. Rigel and Orion threw fits about not wanting to take showers until Rosie decided she preferred hot water to clean children and let the twins go to school dirty. “Claude. Now,” she said. Penn took clothes out of the dryer. Rosie assembled after-school appurtenances then went upstairs again to get showered and dressed herself. “Claude,” she called down, “we’re walking out the door the minute I get back.” At 7:59, she was downstairs, dressed, packed up, and quite pleased with herself, ready to drop Roo through Orion at the bus stop and Claude at preschool and be on time for work by not a moment later than 8:29 a.m.
Claude was still sitting on the sofa in his dress.
“Claude!” she shrieked. “Why are you not dressed for school?”
“I am dressed for school.”
“You’re still wearing your dress!”
“I’m wearing it to school.”
“Claude, honey, we don’t have time for this this morning. The boys are going to miss their bus. Go change.”
“No.”
“I said go change.”