I got home from work today, and after helping my daughter finish her homework, we all sat down to eat supper. Midway through the meal, my wife and she start talking about one of her kindergarten classmates who got into trouble.
I asked what had happened, and my wife said that this boy had overheard my daughter tell one of her friends something in private, then proceeded to relate it to the whole class, which made her cry.
“What was it?” I asked.
“Don't tell him, mom!” my daughter pleaded, and then ran upstairs.
“Geez,” I said. “What's the big deal? Was it something about me?”
“Oh,” said my wife, “you could say that.”
“Well?” I asked.
Well, it turns out that my daughter told her friend something I had even forgot I had mentioned to her. It must've been at least a year ago when I told her a story from my childhood. I don't even remember what the context was. And I certainly don't recall why in the hell I told her in the first place. The story is from about the time when I was around 7 or 8, I don't remember exactly how old I was, and I tried on one of my mother's dresses. I was curious to see what I would look like if I had been born a girl. From what I recall, I was quite fetching. I had thick, curly red hair back then, and the flower-print dress really accentuated my red hair and blue eyes. But, as I said, it was a long time ago, and the memory is vague.
After admiring myself in the mirror, I put my regular clothes back on, and that was my first and last foray into the world of cross-dressing.
But now. Now for some strange, unfathomable reason, my daughter felt it necessary to mention this story to her friend. And little Mr. Eavesdropper, all he conveys to the rest of the class is that I wear dresses.
I know how these things take on a life of their own. By the time my daughter goes back to school tomorrow, it will be all over the entire elementary school. And it will not have been a one-time occurrence almost 40 years ago. Oh no. It will have evolved into something along the lines of her daddy being a full-blown transvestite.
My wife thinks I exaggerate, and thought the whole thing was quite amusing. But I'm not, and it wasn't. And she can now kiss the dream of ever being elected PTA president goodbye.
Moral of this story: be damn careful anything you tell a five-year-old. It will invariably come back and bite you in the ass every time.