The next morning, his mother won’t let him get dressed until after breakfast, so just like at school he eats his breakfast then washes his bowl wearing his girlie night clothes. At least he doesn’t have to wear his new prissy nighties in front of twenty-odd others. He dries his hands on a tea towel and gives his mother one of those looks. The one that says ‘can I please change out of these humiliating clothes and get dressed now?’.

“Why don’t you go and get dressed?” his mother smiled. His legs look so long and thin as they protrude from his little floaty nightie. “You’ll find some proper underwear under your underpants.” she said. “And there’s some tights in your sock drawer.” she added.

“Can’t I be a boy again?” he asked.

“You’re always a boy Peter.” his mother said, kissing him on the forehead. “Even when you’re dressed like a girl.” She smiled as she ran her hands down his silky sleeves. “Now you did say you’d show me your dress today.”

The poor boy was clearly reluctant. “Can’t I show you later?” he almost begged.

“OK.” his mother conceded, “But if you do insist on wearing your boy clothes for a while, I insist you wear ‘proper’ underwear beneath them.”

What does she mean? Proper underwear! “You mean knickers.” I gulped.

“And a bra.” mum said.

I sloped off to my room and gladly removed my nightie and little bloomers before folding them neatly and placing them on my pillow, just as I did each morning at school. I opened my underwear drawer and found beneath my own underpants, a pile of knickers and neatly folded bras that I never realised I had. Unlike the underwear I wear beneath my school uniform, these are all colourful and patterned.

I’d rather just wear some undies but knowing mum would check, I took the top set and put them on. I can understand wearing these with my uniform, but it seemed odd pulling my boy clothes on over girl’s underwear. I opened my sock drawer and on one side was a distinctive box that obviously contained the tights mum mentioned. I also noticed some new socks… girl’s socks next to my more boyish ones, and knowing which mum would want me to wear, I pulled on a pair of the girlie ones; lilac with a white daisy pattern.

I don’t know why but I found myself perusing the box that contained the tights. Apparently they have a ‘rose knit’, but I couldn’t make it out through the little plastic window. I’d never worn tights before and didn’t really want to… but did wonder. I closed the drawer and returned downstairs.

Mum smiled at me and glanced at my feet. “You found your new socks I see.” she said.

I looked at my feet and turned up my toes. “Yeah… thanks.” I replied. Mum asked me if I’d put a bra on. I nodded and she asked to see. “Yessss.” I groaned when she asked me if I was wearing the matching knickers. “They’re a bit too girlie.” I said when she asked me if I liked them.

“Of course they’re girlie.” she smiled. “You don’t want to wear white knickers everyday do you.” she more said than asked. “And nothing’s too girlie for a petticoated boy.” she grinned. This was another statement he often hears at St Ursula’s.

It’s midday on Sunday. Peter says he’s hungry and wonders what’s for lunch. His mother tells him they’re visiting granny for a proper Sunday Lunch. “Excellent!” he says. Granny makes a splendid Sunday roast and he hasn’t had the pleasure for ages… plus he’d also like to see his grandmother as he hasn’t seen her for two months. “When are we going?” he eagerly asks.

His mother looks at the clock. It’s just gone twelve-fifteen. “I said we’d be there around two.”

“Oh that’s ages.” he frowned.

“Well we can go sooner if you want.” she suggested.

“OK.” he perked up

“Well, once you’ve got your dress on, we’ll go.” she said, much to his horror.

Of course he protested, but not too much. He knows not to go too far or that would be deemed disobedience… the consequences of which are far worse than simply wearing a girls dress. He wisely conceded and his mother offered to help him get ready. Peter said he’d be OK but his mother insisted. “You might ruin your tights if you don’t put them on properly.”

“We wear tights for ballet.” he reluctantly replied

“Of course.” his mother smiled. “Give me a shout if you need help with the buttons.” she said knowingly as he climbed the stairs… slowly.

After carefully pulling the tights, he stepped into his dress and pushed his arms through the sleeves. He tried his best to fasten the buttons, but being in the back of the dress they’re not easy. “Mu-um.” he calls from the landing. “Can you help please?” he asks.

Peter stands silently as his mother fastens the long row of buttons for him. “I’ve been looking forward to this.” she says as button by button, she fastens him into a garment she knows he cannot remove himself. “Well… not easily.” she thinks as she ties the two thin ribbons on the back of his collar in a double bow. “Well let’s see how it looks.” she says as she turns him around to face her. “It’d look nicer if you looked a bit happier Peter.” she says after a moment’s observation.

He hangs his head and says “It wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t have to visit granny wearing it.”

“Well she knows that you dress like a girl at school and I’ve told her all about the benefits of petticoating.” his mother replied. “So you’ve nothing to worry about… plus it’ll be a nice surprise for her.”

“I guess.” Peter conceded. He looked down at his frock. Puffed sleeves, lace trim, subtle flower print… it was a world away from his short pleated school skirt, blouse and blazer. And given the choice, he much rather visit his granny wearing his uniform than this.

His mother looks him up and down once more and smiles. “Right.” she says, “Make-up and shoes then we’re ready.”

Peter willingly puts on his make-up. If he is spotted by one of the neighbours getting into his mother’s car, he’d rather be mistaken for a girl than recognised for who he is.

“I’m impressed.” his mother says as he quickly applies eye-liner, eye-shadow and a touch of mascara… all in natural shades that compliment his colouring. He’s used to applying his make-up, but doing it in front of his mother is one of many ‘firsts’. He glances at her nervously before applying the pale pink lipstick. She smiles proudly as he checks his reflection in his small vanity mirror. “You clearly know what you’re doing.” she told him. “When I started wearing make-up I used to pile it on.”

“They’re really strict about make-up at St Ursula’s.” Peter says as he packs up his handbag. “We have to check it at the end of every lesson to make sure we’re presentable for the next.”

“Well you’re certainly presentable.” his mother compliments.

Peter trots as fast as he can between the house and the car. As his mother starts the engine she’s just as nervous as her son is. Although she’s discussed petticoating with her mother to great lengths, Peter’s granny is yet to be convinced that petticoating a boy has its merits.

The usual peep peep of Patricia’s car horn signals their arrival… although I’m fully aware that my grandson is being petticoated at school, I was surprised to see him walk up the garden path clearly wearing a pale blue knee length dress beneath his coat. Not only that, but his legs are clad in white tights and on his feet is a pair of Mary Jane style shoes with a heel. Peter and his mother enter and he takes his coat off to reveal a prairie style dress in pale blue with a subtle floral pattern. It has a broad white yoke, trimmed with a narrow band of frilly white lace, as is the pan collar. I don’t know why but I tell him he looks nice. He blushes as he politely says thank you. I half expected a curtsey too, but wasn’t disappointed when he just turned towards the lounge. “Those buttons must have taken a while to fasten.” I said as I followed, observing the long row of buttons that run from the nape of his neck deep into the skirt of his dress.

“Mum did them.” he replied as he, turned on his heel, scooped up his frock and sat on the sofa.

There’s certainly nothing clumsy about him, I thought as I looked down his dress to his legs. His white tights have a subtle rose pattern in the knit and his black patent shoes have a good two-inch heel. I take my seat and ask Peter to tell me all about boarding school… and particularly about the petticoat discipline.

He tells that dressing like a girl everyday was weird at first, but he’d got used to it after the first week or so. “He said it felt strange wearing his pants for the first time in two months, and that his school uniform and ‘this dress’ are both very comfortable to wear… “Even if only girls are supposed to wear them… I don’t mind.”

“See.” his mother said proudly as she entered with the tea pot. “Petticoating is nothing to be afraid of is it?”

“But it is highly unusual.” I retorted. “…in spite of the fact you don’t seem to mind, I fail to see the benefits of dressing a boy in girl’s clothes and putting make on him.”

“He does his own make-up.” my daughter stated. “So he’s learning to take pride in himself.”

I looked at my grandson again. His make-up did look quite nice I suppose, and it wasn’t too long ago he wouldn’t even bother to brush his hair unless told. My daughter went on to explain how he’s more disciplined, more obedient, is well mannered before showing me his half-term report. “Oh.” I said as I looked down the list of subjects and saw B, B+ and A grades. Last year when he was a first year at the local high school he struggled to get a C grade. “Well done Peter.” I smiled.

“I didn’t know I had a report.” Peter said, craning his neck to see.

His mother turned it away from him, and said it wasn’t for his eyes. “I just wanted to show your grandmother how your grades have improved.” she said. I told Peter to take his seat, before taking hold of his report and perusing it in more detail.

Peter asks if he may go to the bathroom, a question he’s never asked before. “Of course you can.” I replied “You don’t have to ask.”. I felt the sides of my mouth turn upwards as he glid effortlessly in his heels, the full skirt of his frock floated around him as he left. Alone with his mother, I take the opportunity to say, “Well he seems happy enough, and he’s ever so elegant…. but don’t you miss him being a normal boy?”

“Normal boys can grow into nasty men mother… it’s only for a few years and it’s for his own good.” my daughter replied. “And you can see how his grades have improved already.”

“Oh yes.” I replied, scanning his report. “I can also see that ‘Peter has taken to being petticoated reluctantly, yet admirably, and the routine is clearly of benefit to the boy. He takes great pride in his appearance, and always carries with him a happy and sociable demeanour. As such, Peter will benefit from an additional petticoating regime outside of term time.”

“See, I told you he’s happy… he’s just a bit too shy about it to admit it.”

“Maybe so, but I can’t help but wonder if it’s not some kind of mind control or…” I felt ashamed to suggest such a thing, “…brainwashing.”

“Well in a way it is.” my daughter replied, “But not in a sinister way… petticoating will make him a better person.”

“Well if you’re sure.” I sighed.

“I am mum.” my daughter insisted, placing her hand on the back of mine and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I don’t want him to grow up like…” she didn’t complete her sentence. She didn’t have to.

I took a deep breath. “I’m sure he won’t Patricia.”

“So am I.” my daughter replied. “A few frocks isn’t much of a price to pay… and if he didn’t like it, I wouldn’t do it.”

“I suppose.” I conceded. “Now talking of frocks, you could have bought him something a bit trendier than that dress.” I stated.

“I like that dress.”

“It’s nice enough, for a porcelain doll maybe… don’t you think he’d rather wear something a bit more casual? A plain skirt, a nice t-shirt maybe… that’s what girls like to wear. Not prissy prairie dresses.”

“It’s pretty, not prissy… and I made a point of not buying him a pink one.” my daughter insisted, just as Peter returned.

“Well that’s one consolation I suppose.” I replied as Peter took his seat. “You’d rather wear something a bit more modern than that wouldn’t you Peter?”

“Er… I don’t know. I’ve only got this and my school uniform..” he replied as he straightened his skirt over his knees. “I’d rather wear my uniform I think.”

“Or your own clothes.” I added knowingly.

“Well… yes.” Peter replied, glancing coyly at his mother. “But you’ve seen those. I thought it would be a nice surprise if I wore my new dress.”

“Well it looks very sweet on you.” I said. I wasn’t being wholly honest though, and I wondered if he really did want to wear his dress for me, or if he was merely saying what he’d been told to say.

Before long I served Sunday lunch. It’s always nice to have a meal around the table with one’s family and Peter’s new found table manners were impeccable. Not so long ago I’d be telling him to wipe the gravy from his chin. Today he’s managing to eat without even disturbing his lipstick, which one cannot deny is a lovely shade of pink and perfect for his colouring. Of course he’s being polite and well mannered, but part of me misses the boy with unkempt hair. The boy I’m constantly telling to take his feet of my furniture, to stop slouching, even to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. As his mother says, a petticoated boy is a perfect boy… but if I can’t tell him off, what can I tell him?