1.
Reading the comments people left for my last post, praising me for recognizing and questioning the rigid gender rules, in addition to feeling thankful, I am actually embarrassed. Feeling a bit like a fraud. A hypocrite.
In an ironic way, although I set out to remain anonymous so I can speak my mind on my blog, perhaps I have been putting my best face forward when I am spouting parental wisdoms: For the hours I am composing my posts, I am wise and patient; The rest of the time, I feel my way around in the dark, making horrible mistakes.
Such is the peril (merit) of knowing someone online: s/he is made up of the words they (choose to) publish.
I do struggle with how much I need to compromise on a daily basis because my kids are school-aged and they deal with realities in the school hallways, in the classrooms, on the playground. They are their own people and I no longer live their lives for them. I feel that it is unfair, selfish even on my part, to allow (encourage?) my children to become social pariahs because of my own philosophical convictions. Because I have a point to make.
I am torn every day between wanting to challenge what pass as gender “norms” and needing to protect them. As some of us have learned the hard way, some mishaps stay with you for the rest of your school career, if not your life.
“Make sure you do not have BO. You don’t want to go down the history as ‘THAT kid with BO’. Once a rumor starts with you having BO, it does not matter whether you have BO, or whether it was just once after the gym class, because you know, you are going to be, yup, you guessed it, ‘THAT kid with BO’!” I warned my oldest, despite much eye-rolling on his part.
2.
The morning after I published the post, feeling pleased with myself. Smug even, I’ll admit.
Fuck you, world! I had declared.
Mom. 1. World. 0.
At breakfast my oldest was leafing through Mr. Monk’s notebook.
“Don’t touch my diary!” Mr. Monk reached over to secure it. (Before you are impressed that he keeps a diary, well, so far, he has only filled out ONE page. And that was a long time ago…)
“But I want to see it!” His brother grabbed a hold of it.
“NO! It’s mine! Don’t look at it!”
“Why can’t I look at it? You are saying I can’t look at it only because I want to look at it now. If I say I don’t want to look at it, you are not going to care!” My oldest, the future lawyer. I believe we have established that before.
“Just don’t touch it. It’s my diary!”
After a few more minutes of heated exchanges, I had chosen to stay out of these occurrences that happen all the friggin’ time throughout the day, my oldest delivered the throwaway punch:
“Fine! Anyway, diaries are for girls!!”
My eyes widened. I could see the steam coming out of my nostrils the mad bull into which those words had transformed me.
“What did you just say?” Disbelief. The first time I heard something like this in my household. An utterance that dared to arbitrarily dictate what a boy is not supposed to do from the mouth of my own child directed at his own brother. Ironic, isn’t it?
“Diaries are for GIRLS! He’s like a girl! Only girls keep a diary!” Words tumbled out with the intention to hurt.
By now no longer a mad bull, I was Fury Herself. “Please shut your mouth right now!” I did not mince words. Did I ever mention that I have a fiery temper?
I went on to drop my oldest off at his band practice (Our lives are full of ironies…)
“Why did you say ‘Diaries are for girls’ to your brother?”
“Because it is true. THEY ARE! And that was 10 minutes ago! Why are you still talking about it?!”
“BECAUSE I don’t want my children to grow up believing in gender stereotypes!” I know I sound ridiculous. But I do talk to my oldest in such a fashion.
“How can that be a stereotype if it is true?!”
“Why is it true? Why do you think it is true? Who gave you the right to say what is for a girl and what is for a boy? Who gave you the right to be spouting such nonsense in my house? How would you like it if someone makes fun of you because of your long hair? That you look like a girl?” I am not proud of myself but I do get carried away when debating against my oldest. Because he’s always so sure of himself, so quick to argue, I often forget that he’s only 11 3/4.
“I DON’T LOOK LIKE A GIRL!”
“How did you feel when some girls laughed at your because you are in gymnastics?”
Pause. True to his heritage as a “Last Word-er” though, he soon retorted, “It’s different!”
“Why is it different? No. I want to know why you think it is different.”
“Just because!” He’s crying now. “Fine! Diaries are for boys too, ok? And what does it matter? He‘s going to be made fun of anyway because he speaks with a British accent!”
Mom. 0. World. 1.
On some days, I just want to surrender, and curl up inside a cozy black cave. Wake me up when they turn 25 please.
3.
After watching me going through my nightly ritual of makeup removal, Mr. Monk asked, “Why do women wear makeup?”
“Because we want to look pretty.”
“So why can’t boys wear makeup?”
I couldn’t think of any legitimate reason other than, “Well, they just don’t.”
Mr. Monk walked away with my powder brush, unsatisfied with my copped-out answer.
Later my husband came in the bedroom, I repeated the question for his benefit, “Yeah… WHY can’t boys wear makeup?”
“Because their fathers will kill them. That’s why.” He summed it up succinctly.
At this moment, Mr. Monk came back to the room and asked his father, “Why can’t I wear makeup?”
“Because I will kill you. Ask Grandpa what he would do if I wore make up. He would kill me too.”
“But Michael Jackson does!” Mr. Monk protested; I looked away, trying hard not to laugh out loud.
My husband retorted, in a tone that signaled end of discussion, “Michael Jackson is dead!”
Thank goodness for dads. That’s what came to my mind as I sneaked away from this land mine of a conversation.
