Pronouns

We were walking through Costco—my daughter Kenzie, my granddaughter Emmie, and me—moving slowly through wide concrete aisles. A cart rattled as we pushed it past towering shelves stacked high with bulk everything. Voices echoed around us, forklifts beeped in the distance, and Emmie’s small hand was wrapped snugly in mine as we made our way through the familiar maze.

Emmie is four. Like many young children, she sometimes mixes up pronouns. We’ll pass someone and Emmie will say, “She’s pretty,” pointing to a well-dressed gentleman. I’ll gently correct her: “He’s handsome.” Sometimes I’ll ask questions instead—Was that a boy or a girl?—and we’ll walk through it together. Not as a lesson, really. Just conversation. Curiosity. Language slowly finding its place.

That day, the subject of gender came up again—this time about her dad. Emmie referred to him as “she.”

I smiled and asked, “Is Daddy a girl or a boy?”

“A boy,” she said confidently.

“And is a boy a him or a her?”

“A him.”

“That’s right,” I said. “Mommy is a girl, so she’s a she/her. Daddy is a boy, so he’s a he/him.”

Then I added, almost casually, “And Uncle Rian is neutral, so they are a they/them.”

I glanced back at Kenzie as I said it. She was smiling at me.

That moment felt big. Not loud or dramatic—just quietly important. One of those moments that settles into your chest before you even realize it’s there.

Later that evening, I talked with Rian. We’d already been on the phone for nearly three hours, the way conversations stretch when no one is rushing to leave. I love those talks.

Later that evening, I talked with Rian. We’d already been on the phone for nearly three hours when I mentioned my conversation with Emmie. Rian said, “That is how it’s supposed to be.”

And I knew they were right.

We can create inclusiveness right from the beginning. We can instill love, compassion, and kindness—but it has to start with us. With parents. With grandparents. With the adults willing to have the conversations instead of avoiding them.

Children don’t need perfection. They need honesty. They need language that makes room for people. They need to know they are loved—not for who they’re expected to be, but for who they discover themselves to be.

If we chose it—if all of us chose it—this could be an incredible ripple effect. One conversation at a time. One hand held while walking through Costco.

It has to start somewhere.

It might as well start with us.