Last night, Reid and I were cuddling in bed, talking about our day. I asked him whether he had fun sledding, and playing with Grandpa. Then I asked him if he knows who Grandpa is.

“Your daddy,” he replied. “Right,” I told him. Then I described how, when I was three, I would snuggle with my daddy the same way Reid was snuggling with me.

“And, someday, when you have kids, I will be their grammy.” Which is hilarious. “And you will be their daddy.” Which is even more hilarious.

Then I asked Reid, “When you have babies, what will you name them?”

He replied, without missing a beat, “Byron, Icarus and Perseus.”

So, seriously, even in the next generation I’m not getting a girl?

Reid was so relaxed that they actually took him and me in for our cleanings at the same time. As the hygienist was torturing me, I could hear Reid charming all the ladies in the next room. Of course, he was done before I was (his teeth are smaller in both number and size). So I was still in mid-cleaning, mouth full of implements, when they brought Reid out into the hallway to get his post-appointment swag.

I listened to him choose which color toothbrush he wanted, and pick a sticker from the rack. Then the receptionist led him over to the toy treasure chest and told him he could choose something. He rooted around, and I heard him come up exclaiming, “Bubbles!”

Then I heard this, “Oh, you want bubbles? Okay, but that’s a pink bottle. That’s a girl color. Let’s put that back and get you a different color, one for boys.”

The hygienist must have thought she did something really wrong, because I started screaming, “No! No! There is no such thing as ‘boy colors’ and ‘girl colors’! All the colors are for everyone!”

But since there were about three dental tools and a hose in my mouth at the time, it sounded like, “Naaah! Naaah! Thar nan finks be kras and grr kras! Aw kras fo ebery n!”

So nobody knew why I was absolutely losing my mind, and they continued blithely on. Reid ended up with an orange bottle of bubbles. I finished my cleaning (the dentist told me I was a very good girl). We checked out and I somehow managed not to smack the receptionist either physically or verbally.

But I know that the next time this discussion comes up in our house o’ many boys – as it does on a weekly basis – Reid will bring up this independent confirmation that boys can’t like pink. And year after year of Mommy telling you something can’t defeat one stranger offhandedly confirming that the opposite is true.