i don't have time for this crap

I'm kind of drowning in life right now. (Or, more like, always.) I'm burning the candle at both ends, except if the candle was a ball and it was just ON FIRE. The last thing I should be doing is writing a blog post. It was not budgeted into this week's schedule which is packed tighter than most Americans' ginormous not-even-remotely-carry-on-sized luggage is wedged into the overhead compartment. BUT. When duty calls.

[Incidentally, I saw something the other day directed at bloggers about whether you edit as you write, or write the whole thing first and then edit. I was like, um, neither. I sit down, have digital/verbal diarrhea, post (or more often, schedule it to post), then once it posts I'm like, Shit! Typos! And I go edit and update it approximately three or seven times in rapid succession. What can I say. I'm a pro.

Anyway, that aside was just to say that, when I get a bug up my ass about something, I can't think about much else until I barf it out onto the computer, or on paper in a pinch, or painstakingly type it with my thumbs into the Notes on my iPhone. And actually, it's pretty much the only way I can write anything good. Prompts and sponsored posts come out sounding like just that. Which is why this can't wait.]

So. Today. Jack likes to get dressed IMMEDIATELY when he wakes up. And he likes to pick out his own clothes. And he likes to wear mismatched socks. He has had this one shirt for years. I am obsessed with it. It hails to my youth. But he never ever wants to wear it. Probably because it is neon pink. This morning, however, he decided, of his own accord, to wear the pink shirt. Correction. Orange shirt. Radical.


No, he's not brown-baggin' a fo'ty.
That's his "share." It's a "tele-cope." (Obv. Because BOYS like SCIENCE.)
By the way, I took this pic before "the incident," because I thought he looked so freakin' cute.

But. When we walk onto the playground for drop off, two little girls from his class instantly point and yell, "JACK'S WEARING PIII-IIINK!!!" Now. As you may or may not know, my son is a "highly sensitive child," and people making fun of him is honestly the worst possible thing for him. Seriously, I almost think he would rather be in physical pain. His sweet little face just fell and he kind of folded into himself. One of his teachers saw this go down, knows Jack's sensitivities, and tried to save the situation by saying "No, I think it's more of a coral color." Jack cries back, "It's not pink! It's not cowal! It's OWANGE!" I said, "BOYS ARE ALLOWED TO WEAR PINK, YOU IGNORANT LITTLE FUCKS!" No. I didn't. I said, "Buddy, it's fine! Boys are allowed to wear pink! You look super handsome! And it has an awesome surfer bug on it!" His teacher picked up on my line of argument and said to the little girls, "Right. Boys can wear pink, and girls can wear blue," etc.  The two girls caught the drift and were like, "Yeah! See? There's a blue jewel on the crown on my purple Princess Sofia dress!" and "I'm wearing blue, too!" (Like, a blue thread in a hot pink dress, but, hey, E for effort, kid.) Jack said "IT IS NOT PINK!" I was like, "Okay. Pinkish-Orangeish." Jack: "O-WAAANGE!!!!!" Me: "Okay, okay. Let's call it 'neon orange.'" Just to seal the deal, another little boy walked out and said, "PINK SHIRT." Seriously?!? You would have thought he was dressed in sequins and gold lamé like fucking Liberace the way these kids were reacting. And I live in a fairly funky so-cal surf town. And all this 80s crap is back in style, right? Or has that passed now? Still. What the shit, people?!

I knew the damage had already been done. Jack sort of crumpled into himself, tugging on his shirt, on the verge of tears, saying "I don't want to wear this shoit anymoah. People are going to think it's pink." (Accurate, because it is, in fact, pink.) I said, "Aww, bud, it's okay, it's an awesome shirt and you look like such a cool dude! It's okay if people think that - EVEN THOUGH IT IS NOT PINK AT ALL IT IS VERY ORANGE - but if it WERE pink, that would be okay, too, because it is totally cool for boys to wear pink. Daddy has pink shirts! He even work a pink shirt for our Christmas pictures and he looked so handsome!" NOPE. Not havin' it. J: "I willy don't want to wear it, Mama. People will just laugh at me all day." Me: "Okay, love, of course! The last thing I want is for you to be sad and uncomfortable. And I am so so sorry those kids made you feel bad. That was not nice of them. You do whatever you want, but just so you know, your shirt is totally fine and nobody should have given you a hard time." Luckily he had a spare Lego Movie t-shirt in his cubby and it was BLUE. Phew. That was a close one. Remind me not to step out of our color-coordinated gender roles ever again. (Oh shit. I just realized I'm wearing a blue sweatshirt. And blue jeans, too. Come to think of it, I'm basically dressed like a giant Smurf. People are totally going to think I'm a man!!!)

I wrote a poem special for the occasion:

Jack wore pink, kids pointed and laughed
Jill wore blue, no one gave a rat's ass

Anyway, the moral of the story is: my son will never, ever, wear pink orange EVER again. Thanks a lot, jerks.

It just makes me so sad. I just saw this post this morning by some dad about how he "lets," or rather, gives his girl the freedom to be a "girl" (read: pink glitter princess), and I liked it, I see his point, I'm the same way. My girl does love princesses and kitty cats and all things pink. But really, lets be honest with ourselves here. Girls don't come out of the womb wanting pink frilly shit, and boys don't come out of the womb with an aversion to it. They are, apparently, sooner than later, shamed into conforming, and it pisses me the fuck off.

That is all.



[This reminds me of a funny post I just saw:
"I'm in Old Navy. I can't believe how many shirts are left over from the 1976 Surf Championship." ;)]

Update: This morning when I dropped the kids off, all of the little boys in Colby's class were wearing pink fire fighter hats (which, incidentally, were given to all of the GIRLS when "Calbin's" fire fighter dad visited the class last month. The boys got manly BLACK. Rawr.) It made my heart happy. And made me realize that the identity-stomping must start somewhere between the ages of 3 and 4.

bat-grill

The girl is turning three soon. It's wild. It's wild she's as old as she is, and wild that she'll probably always seem younger to me than her brother (if you're thinking, duh, she will always seem younger than her brother because she IS younger than her brother, dumbass... that's not what I meant. I meant that she seems younger to me at 3 than her brother did at the same age. But then sometimes older. I don't know. Nevermind.) You know what else is wild? That she is a whole little person with so many thoughts and ideas and words and plans and like, LIFE, and she probably won't remember any of this!!!

So. We're presently on the East Coast visiting the in-laws and I thought I could get away with a small little family shindig, leaving my poor MIL to do most of the heavy lifting, but then the girl decided she wanted to have a "berfday wif my fwends, like bruddah did," and how could I say no? The theme: Bat-Grill Pwincess, which, p.s., isn't actually a thing. Or, it wasn't. Until now:

I mean...
Custom Batgirl Princess
by Oh Sew Cute by Mel
(Thank you X for reminding me of the wonder of Etsy)

Anyway, we had a small intimate gathering of sixty freakin people. I stressed and planned for months, like I do. (Cupcake toppers and tissue poofs are the devil's work. The very definition of self-created stress.) But, as is true of basically everything in my life, it wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be.

I highly recommend hosting a party at somewhere other than your house, where they only allow you one hour to set up. Listen to your husband when he forbids you from baking eight dozen mini cupcakes. It also helps if you suck at cooking, that way you can just buy a pants-load of party platters from the market. I got this text from the hubs as he was picking up the food: "You are an insane person if you thought for a second this wouldn't be enough food." Skip goodie bags and let the kids take home their hand-potted succulents (so on trend ;)) and painted rocks, handily provided by the botanical gardens! The moral of the story is: why do it yourself when you can pay someone else to do it for you? ;) Outsource, outsource, outsource. We (and by "we" I mean Etsy, Ralph's market, and our local bakery) threw the best bat-grill pwincess pawty in Da West.

how do you like my Microsoft paint batgirl mask?
protecting my kids' privacy is obviously extremely important to me ;)
no one will ever know

Any-who. The whole point of this post is this. Apparently, during the party, multiple people came up to DM and said "We were so confused because it was a super hero party, but for a girl???" Um, whut? Let's just say, they picked the right half of the parenting duo to direct such ridiculousness. You know that old idiom, there are no stupid questions? Well, it's not true. And what was DM's response? "It's because she has a big brother." WRONG ANSWER, buddy.

HELLO PEOPLE. This is the twenty-first century. Have we met?????

Grrrrrrrrr.

We've been over this. Girls are allowed to like super heroes. And not just because their big brothers do. Boys are allowed to like princesses. And not just because their little sisters do. I know this is a well-worn refrain 'round these parts, but c'mon. Examine your biases.

To that end, I thought this article was really interesting: Does Your Child Challenge Traditional Gender Roles by Emma Waverman on Today's Parent. She points out that people are generally more comfortable with, for example, girls liking superheroes and dressing like tomboys, than boys liking princesses and wearing skirts. The mom's internal struggle really struck a chord with me because I totally understand, yet can't totally explain, why I would feel less comfortable if Jack wanted to wear a dress to school than if Colby wanted to wear... I don't even know what. I love dressing her in her big brother's clothes, I basically think it's the cutest thing ever. But if she decides she wants to shave her head, I might die. Not because of the gender thing really, just because she has the most gorgeous hair in the world. Anyway. Worth giving it a think.

I also saw this and loved it: Moms Fight Gender Stereotypes with Princess Awesome Dress Line on people.com. I won't try to unpack the fact that "moms fighting gender stereotypes" create a dress line called princess awesome. But still. Baby steps. I heart this big time. And it cannot be denied that the pink-princess obsession is in the water at preschool (only served to the girls though, just the girls. Because, as Jack took to saying when he started preschool, "pink is for grills.")

And on that subject, here's a refreshing take on it: My Daughter Loves Pink and Princesses. She's still a badass. on Stuff Moms Say. "I don't appreciate the message that liking pink, tulle tutus, dollar store tiaras, or fairy wings makes my daughter any less badass than other little girls because I assure you, she is the fierce, opinionated, and 100% herself. And she can get halfway up a tree wearing an ankle length Merida costume." I like what she's saying here. I'm not sure who she hangs out with though, because there are 12 Elsa-wannabes (my daughter included) at preschool, and ain't nobody goin' all counter-culture or "off-trend" there.

I also recently read this blog post - can't find it now - that was along the lines of, don't judge my son for being a spastic a-hole when you come over with your singular, sweet, well-behaved daughter, he's a boy, this is what boys do, blah blah blah. That stuff really irks me. (And incidentally, I'm not the only one. Tons of comments said "Hey actually my son is the sweet sensitive one and my daughter is the tasmanian devil baby, so, yeah.)

Certainly, both of my children have their spastic a-hole moments. They both run around like bat-shit banshees, punch, kick, yell, and scream. They both whine and cry and kiss and snuggle. They both like playing with dolls and the Princess Sofia Castle. They both like pretending to be ninjas and propelling themselves off furniture. My son does really love sports and things that go more than his sister does, and my daughter does love taking care of her babies and loveys in a way her brother never has. But big brother is a big baby, and little sister is a tough mudder. Brother wouldn't touch a snake or a snail with a ten foot pole, and sister will crush a spider with her bare foot. I've come to see it all as facets of their unique personalities, and not as black-and-white (or rather, pink-and-blue) gender markers.

I know I literally just wrote about this three weeks ago, but I feel like this aggressive gendering of our children is everywhere, always, and it's too much, especially when extrapolated to its natural conclusion - gross inequality. Why can't we just let them be who they want to be, rather than trying to dictate their preferences based on some old school gender code? Clearly, the outside world will not hesitate to stamp out any whiff of individuality, to crush their creative little souls. I, for one, am going to do my best not to be one more voice telling them to color - pink or blue, must choose one - inside the lines.

Also this. Just because.

** If you liked this post, you'll love my essay in I Still Just Want to Pee Alone, Available Now! **

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is this a girl fork?

The other night we were reading a story - Digger Dozer Dumper, a book about trucks. I like it better than the best-selling Goodnight Goodnight Construction Site because it refers to some of the vehicles as "she," as opposed to the latter, which assumes that all rough and tumble construction play must be engaged in by males. (Hey, I'm already deconstructing children's books. Don't get me started on heteronormativity and gender binaries.) At the end it asks "Which truck do YOU want to be?" and the kids always pick their favorite. Well that night, Colby picks this little baby bulldozer and says, "I hass to be dat one cuz I'm a grill [girl]." I did a screeching cartoon double-take like, "W-W-W-WHAT?!" And promptly launched into a lesson on feminism and gender equality for my two- and four-year-olds. The point being, this is something that I think about a lot. (See, e.g., "I wear The Pants" and "the bedazzled bulldozer.") It is something that is very important to me. And yet, apparently, somewhere along the line I seem to have dropped the ball.

This was just the beginning of our recent spiral into the abyss of gender dichotomy. Last week, the kids were "helping" me set the table. Colby walked up to me and asked, "Mama, is dis a 'grill' fork?" What in the actual f*ck?!

Lately, Colby has also taken to saying things like "Take off my shoes for me cuz i'm a pwincess," "I cant frow away dis gawbage cuz i'm a pwincess," and "Carry me! Pwincesses don't hass to walk wif dare own legs."

It is with great regret that I must hereby tender my resignation as a card-carrying feminist and gender-studies aficionado. Where did I go wrong???

I meant to write this post in December when people were flipping out about the "No Gender December" thing, but, it's February now. Whoops. Anyway. I'm not saying I would want to raise a genderless child like Storm or Pop, or that I advocate using the term "purple penguins" in lieu of pronouns. But. I wholeheartedly support the notion that we should let kids be who they want to be, wear what they want to wear, and play with the toys they want to play with, rather than forcing them into these cute little pink- and blue behavior boxes,

Of course, this is coming from the person who dressed her daughter solely in hot pink for the first year of her life, so it has to be taken with a grain of salt. I remember when I was pregnant with Colby, I originally didn't want to find out the sex of the baby. I said, "It doesn't matter, anyway. Whether it's a boy or a girl, it's wearing big brother's hand-me-downs. I'm not going to buy a bunch of pink frilly shit just because I have a daughter." I lied.

Seriously though. Why do we care so much? Why is this the first question anyone asks (myself included) of a pregnant woman? Is it a boy or a girl? It really shouldn't be such a big deal. But it is. People care. A lot. I know someone who had SEVEN children in attempts to get a son. What do you think is going to be SO different about lucky #7? And how do you think that makes girl chiles #1-6 feel?

One of my good girlfriends from college is pregnant with her first. She didn't want to find out the sex of their baby, but her wife did, and the wife won that argument ;) They were telling me about the night they found out - they had the doctor write down the sex and place it in a sealed envelope. They went out to a nice romantic dinner. They slowly opened the envelope together, reveling in the suspense - and - SURPRISE! It's a girl!

But my friend's initial reaction was less than ecstatic. Her wife was good-naturedly giving her a hard time as we were discussing it because M's first comment was, "We'll just have to make her hang out with dudes, because that's the only way she's going to turn out cool." I was like, "M! YOU are a girl! And YOU are cool! WTF?!" Next, she said "Well, I guess it's good she's a girl. I'll be more careful with her that way." Seriously?! Granted, M played professional rugby, can deadlift my body weight, and is a general badass, so my "Yay, another pretty-pretty-princess" remark was less than well-received. But still. I've written about this before. Why is this still a thing? Why do we attach such significance to the shapes of our bits and pieces? Why do we harp on the handful of immutable differences as opposed to the vast majority of things we have in common with the "opposite" sex.

I used to tell people that I didn't believe all this "boys will be boys" versus "sugar and spice and all things nice" bullshit, and that each child springs from your lady parts possessing a personality in full. Based on my sample size of two, I would tell you that MY boy is sweet and sensitive and dramatic and MY girl is tough and strong and chill. But then we sent them to preschool, and in return, got Star Wars/Ninja/Laser-Bwaster Boy and Pink Kitty Cat Pwincess Grill.

I don't want to say it's NOT okay for them to like those things. But it definitely makes me sad that The Boy now says things like "Pink is for Grills" and The Girl asks if her f*cking fork is sufficiently dainty to be held in the fragile female grasp. (I'm still not sure what that's all about. I think it might be because I only like to eat with the larger dinner forks, not dinky little salad forks, and my kids know this, so maybe "grill forks" are actually the big manly ones? ;))

Anyway. I know some people still think there's a place for traditional gender roles. But I am not one of those people. I have friends who refer to certain tasks as "boy jobs," and I just can't get behind that. Yeah, my husband is a little taller and a little stronger, but he's also afraid of spiders. He does lunches and dishes, I do dinner and laundry. We both take out the trash. I run the arachnid amnesty program, and he is in charge of taking dead rodents out of the pool filter. (I won't go so far as to call that last one a boy job. In fact, I am quite certain Colby would mind this job far less than her brother OR her dad. But I will say it is not a job that plays to my natural skill set. Nor is cooking, for that matter. But somebody's gotta do it!) I can't imagine telling my daughter (or my son) that they are any more or less qualified for a particular task just because they're male or female. In my mind, we're better at certain things and worse at certain things because we are all unique, individual people, not because our predilections are predetermined by the existence of an X or Y chromosome.

I'm not saying we have, as a society, or even as a household, achieved complete gender equality. Far from it. As a woman and a wife and a mother and especially as a female-mom-lawyer, I know that we still have plenty of ground to cover on that front. But you better believe I am going to do everything in my power to ensure that any obstacles or impediments to my daughter's journey based solely on the fact that she's a "grill" are not going to come from me. The same goes for parameters and expectations surrounding my son's potential. I just don't see any advantage to be gained from doggedly adhering to these stereotypes that no longer serve any purpose.

Have you ever heard of the term "skeuomorphism?" According to Wikipedia, a skeupmorph is a "derivative object that retains ornamental design cues from structures that were necessary in the original," e.g., "pottery embellished with rivets reminiscent of similar pots made of metal, and a software calendar that imitates the appearance of binding on a paper desk calendar." Or like how the "phone" button on your cell phone looks like the handset on an old landline.

This is how I feel about traditional gender roles. Maybe, in cavemen times, there was a purpose for these roles. I was not there, so I do not know. However, whatever purpose they served has long been rendered moot. Sure, they're comfortable and familiar. But we do not need them anymore. If they were just harmless decorative rivets on the façade of life, that would be one thing. But when these outmoded biases result in a gender wage gap that starts from the time they're earning an allowance, that shit's got to stop. It's time to confront these stereotypes and step outside our comfort zones. Even if you're kinda old-fashioned, are you really okay with your daughter earning 78 cents on the dollar for doing the exact same job as a man? That's just some straight bullllshit. It actually boggles my mind that this is still happening in 2015.

My next post will tell everyone how to magically solve this problem. I will then win the Nobel Peace Prize, and retire.

Just kidding.

I have no f*cking clue how to solve the problem. But I'm going to start with my own little sample size, and go from there. Because sometimes that's all you can do. And if everyone else does the same, then maybe, just maybe, we really will figure it all out someday.

Until then, just remember: Little girls like superheroes too (even if they're called Bat-Grill Pwincess). And real men wear pink. But we call it "Nantucket Red."

And for your reading pleasure:

"What's Your Kids' Wage Gap? Boys Paid More, More Profitably," by Soraya Chemaly on Huffington Post. "Fathers are the gatekeepers of their daughters' ambitions." Oh dear. P.S., don't read the comments.

"Five myths about the gender pay gap," by Vivien Labaton on The Washington Post.

"Raising a genderless child: Possible?" by Emily Sohn on Discovery News.

I also really loved this, which points out that it goes both ways. "Here's why we have to stop labeling our boys," by Robyn Passante on The Washington Post. "I want girls to be on their radar as people just like them, not as pink sparkly objects of their affection, so that when they do eventually feel that tug of attraction for someone, they see all of her, not just the parts they want to touch."

the highly sensitive child. and mariachis.

you guys. this book has changed my life.

The Highly Sensitive Child by Elaine N. Aron, Ph.D

okay maybe that's a little ... enthusiastic. but seriously. game changer.

if you looked at the title and thought, "huh? highly what?" then this book and this post are probably not for you. but if the term highly sensitive resonates with you, i would definitely recommend this book.

as you may recall, i myself have a sensitive boy. what you may have gathered, but i probably haven't said in as many words, is that he gets a lot of that from me. i really liked this book not only for the insight that it gave me into my son's little brain, but also for the light it shone on my own issues with life, people, marriage, motherhood, and "the real world."

within the first few minutes of opening the book i was like, "okay, i'm gonna need a highlighter." then i felt like i was in law school again because i just highlighted all of the parts. i was in the bathtub, actually, at the time, and i kept getting out, leaving foot-shaped puddles out to the living room where DM was sitting. "LOOK! highly sensitive people NEED down time! i'm not just being a party pooper or a wet blanket. this is a real thing!!" back to the bathtub. two minutes later. traipse back out to the living room. "highly sensitive people like to follow the rules! highly sensitive people need routine! they are planners! they like the quiet. we are highly sensitive to caffeine! and drugs! this is why coffee cracks me out and i am a total tweaker on pot! (allegedly)." and finally, "ooohhh myyyyyy GAHD! DADDY MACK! highly sensitive people hate mariachis!!! it's like this was written about ME! er... i mean... about Jackson." THIS EXPLAINS EVERYTHING!!!

DM will rue the day that amazon prime delivered this gift unto my doorstep, because it's like my new bible for justifying all my weird-ass quirks and peccadillos. in addition, i have diagnosed 37% of the people in my life as "highly sensitive," which is 22-27% higher than the rate at which the personality type naturally occurs in the human population. with my google university degree in medicine and this book, i am UNSTOPPABLE!!!

but, let's be honest. (DM and) i already knew i was crazy. that's not what we needed help with. we needed help understanding our boy. i have to say up front that life with jack has become more and more enjoyable with each passing milestone, without the help of this book. whoever warned me that "the trying threes" were worse than "the terrible twos" was wrong, at least in jack's case. (also whoever said it was easier to potty-train girls than boys. NOPE.) anyway, while still especially "strong willed" or "spirited" or "challenging" or "a dick" at times, on balance, our family dynamic (which generally revolves around jack's moods) has improved immensely over the past year or so.

but man alive. that was not always the case. there was a time when i wondered on a near-daily, if not hourly basis, what on EARTH was wrong - with him, with me, with our approach to parenting, with karma, with the universe. i thought for sure that i had broken the poor kid with my new-mom neurosis. or maybe it started even before that. as the L&D nurse said to me in the hospital after jack was born and she was unable to soothe him: "did you cry a lot while you were pregnant? if you cry a lot while you're pregnant, then you get an unhappy baby."

i know i am "highly sensitive," which can be a blessing and a curse when dealing with a little mini version of my stressball self. but i've learned to "fake it." at least before i told the entire internet, only the people closest to me knew what an enormous nut case i am. but i was worried that jack was going to have a harder time adjusting. on the other hand, i worried that he would adjust just fine, but that in the process he would lose all the parts that made us fall in love with him... in "toughening up," he would have to harden his sweet little heart and soul. thankfully, for all parties involved, the boy is already learning to "pass" perfectly well, but his sweetest, lovinest, funniest, cleverest pieces have remained completely intact. his teachers even commented the other day, "we just LOVE jack! he's one of our favorites! we are going to warn his teachers next year that they just have to be patient and eventually he'll come around and charm their socks off."

there was a time when we were afraid to take him to parties. especially parties where anyone was going to make any sort of noise. superbowl parties were THE WORST. GOD FORBID anyone score a touchdown. PLEASE LORD LET THIS BE THE FIRST SUPERBOWL TO TIE 0-0!!! if anyone dared to cheer, Jackson would ensure that the party would come to a screeching halt. literally screeching. i myself am very sensitive to noise, so i can totally sympathize. (DM just told me i needed polarized sunglasses, but for my ears. i think they're called earmuffs.) but it was a real problem. even at home, DM, previously an obnoxious slightly-louder-than-average east coast sports fan, quickly learned to tamp down his raucous reactions to the triumphs and sorrows of being a Philadelphia eagles fan.

another issue is being touched by strangers, or really, anyone, at least unless he happens to be in the mood for touching. this seems perfectly normal to me! but apparently it is not. a couple of weeks ago we were at a party and one of DM's friends not only touched Jackson, but picked him up over his head and threatened to throw him into a small body of water. this struck sharp bolts of panic into both our hearts. DM and i stared at eachother, stricken, like ohhhhh f*ck, and silently counted down the seconds until J emitted his usual party-stopping scream. but then.... silence. DM and i watched in awe as a slideshow of emotions clicked across Jackson's face. "what in the F?.... I DO NOT LIKE THIS!... I DO NOT LIKE THIS AT ALL... this makes me want to scream... or cry... or perhaps both simultaneously... processing: ramifications for kicking this person in the head... no... wait... you got this!... hold it together, man... it will be over soon... oh thank god... okay, smile for the crowd... see? look. take a picture, mom. this is me having fun. whee."

and on the subject of the physical: highly sensitive children (apparently) feel pain more. here we thought we were raising a contender for the biggest crybaby in the guinness book of world records... turns out most of it is probably pretty legit. and they need their feelings, physical and emotional, to be validated, not discounted.

so, you can see why i might be a little concerned about this little marshmallow making his way through the cold, hard world.

then the other day, this conversation happened:

j: co-by, i'm not mad or anyting and we're stiow fwends, but you do not hass to sit WIGHT next to me all dah time.
c: but i wants to pway wif you.
j: you can pway wif me, but you juss hass to give me a wittow space!

and would you look at that?! the kid is not even four years old and he knows what he needs, AND knows how to ask for it. he's got me beat, ten ways to sunday. it's actually to the point now where Colby will walk up to him and say, "Jack, do you want to be awone?" Jack: "Yes, pwease." Colby: "Okay." (Alright, well, she says "Okay" maybe 51% of the time. The other 49% of the time she gets a devilish glint in her eye that says, "too f*ckin' bad, bruddaaaah!") i'm calling it progress.

but one area where my highly sensitive son and his highly sensitive mother diverge, personality-wise, is that, while i tend to be quiet and withdrawn when upset or overwhelmed, jack falls into an uncontrollable rage. i'm pointing the genetic finger at daddy for this one. (me: we do not throw things or kick things or break things when we're mad. j: yes we do. daddy does. me: ....)

i liken it to a switch being flipped, and once it's "on," there is no going back, you just have to ride it out. or, like going off a cliff. once he's gone, you can't pull him back. these "rages" are impossible for me to comprehend, let alone manage. frankly, they scare the crap out of me. until i had a ... i won't say "normal," but... not-highly-sensitive child, i thought maybe this was just one of those parts of parenthood that no one tells you about. but the more i interacted with other kids the more i realized it was... beyond.

my sister, who is to the autism spectrum what i am to "highly sensitive" personalities, has diagnosed both Jackson and me with Asperger's. and while i can see her point, i was resistant to this line of thought because, my apologies, this may not be a PC thing to say, but i think that being "on the spectrum" is the ADHD of the 21st century, in that it is an over-diagnosed catch-all. this is not to say that there aren't plenty of legitimate cases, of course. (the book actually discusses how to differentiate a highly sensitive personality from autism spectrum disorder.)

at one point, though, things felt so out of control that i finally did ask the pediatrician about it. he rolled his eyes and assured me that perhaps i was crazy, but that my son was perfectly normal. of course, he had never witnessed my "smart, well behaved" child try to punch me in the face when he was in a blind rage. every time it happens, i am just at a complete loss. it's like 3 years and 11 months of parenting flies out the window, and i feel that black blur of terror from the early days creeping up again. it cuts me off at the knees. i'm back at square one, ground zero. it f*cking sucks.

this is one area in particular where The Highly Sensitive Child book helped me understand my son, more than myself. she talks about how to help prevent these rages, and how to roll with the punches (literally and figuratively, in my case), when they can't be avoided.

maybe it's like astrology and horoscopes. maybe you just see what you need to see. but if any of this is sounding familiar to you, it is definitely worth a read.

the overarching theme i took from the book is that your child is super sensitive and SUPER AWESOME and it's a package deal. it's about accepting them for who they are, and working with instead of against their personality strengths and weaknesses. don't try to "fix" them. they're not broken. the same goes for you, too, pal. work with what you've got. it takes a lot less energy than trying to be what you're not.

ps, though i know i sound like a walking advertisement, Elaine N. Aron, Ph.D doesn't know me from adam. i just really liked her book :)

pps, i can just imagine my grandfathers or my old school uncles reading this and saying something along the lines of, "pshaw. what this kid really needs is the business end of a belt strap." and don't think i haven't considered it. but i just know in my heart that that is a) not the way i want to handle it, and b) probably the most counterproductive tactic we could possibly devise for dealing with this boy of mine.

big boys don't cry. just kidding.

sometimes i hate the internet. it's too big and too loud and too mean. it sucks my energy and my time. it tells me i'm not that funny. it tells me i have bladder cancer and a brain tumor. it tells me i should be able to work full time, parent full time, have sex with my husband for 30 consecutive days, read award-winning novels, keep up with world news, bake delicious organic meals, pack food diorama bento boxes for my kids' lunches, clean my house per daily schedule, remove any stain (even grass, blood, and ketchup!) from my grubby kids' clothing, clean my grout with a toothbrush, baking soda and vinegar, throw outrageous and expensive themed parties for every occasion, entertain my children with an endless stream of educational activities, and craft handmade gifts for neighbors, teachers, babysitters, coworkers, and friends (with coordinated hand-stamped hemp wrapping paper and locally spun glitter and twine, obv).

but sometimes i love the internet. it tells me i'm not crazy. it tells me my kids aren't crazy. or at least that we're not the only crazy ones. it makes me feel like i'm not alone, despite being surrounded by people in "real life" who gush about the beauty and awe of pregnancy, the ceaseless joy of motherhood, who tell me to enjoy every single precious moment of my children's lives because it'll be gone faster than i can blink an eye... when sometimes all i want is to squeeze my eyes shut and pray the world around me will just disappear for a minute. for every article or post that tells me i'm doing it wrong, there's one in which i find a kindred spirit, a sympathetic soul. yes, the internet reveals the ugly underbelly of human nature, but it also exposes it's big, bleeding heart.

in this particular instance, i am appreciative of the world wide web for its attention to the subject of "sensitive" boys. on the one hand, i read lots of posts from bloggers about "why they're glad they don't have daughters," e.g., this and this. boys are snakes and snails and puppy dog tails, rough and tumble, "a noise with dirt on it." girls are sugar and spice and constant social drama. people in "real life" say it all the time too. "he's all boy," "boys will be boys," etc. i guess this is just an offshoot of my earlier posts about heteronormativity and hegemonic masculinity a.k.a. kids and gender and pink princesses and blue balls... er.. basketballs ;) (if you're so inclined, you can check out those previous posts here: "i wear The Pants but everyone in my family wears pants (sometimes)" and "the bedazzled bulldozer"). but when i read the manly boy posts i'm like, really? not my boy. yes he likes trucks and sports, but he also seems to think dirt is anthrax in disguise, requires 37 napkins to get through a meal, is deathly afraid of winged insects, and literally has "spidey sense," in that he can sense if there is a spider anywhere on our property and will not sleep until the offending arachnid is vanquished. (i don't kill spiders, btw. i guess it's a combination of charlotte's web and an aunt of mine who convinced me that spiders were good luck omens and if you killed them you would end up living in a van down by the river. so instead, i catch them and escort them outside. which adds precious minutes to an already lengthy bedtime routine. which is something my clever dude has probably already figured out ;))

my boy is ten times the crybaby/drama queen that his little sister is, and i would bet big money that, of the two, he will be the primary source of high school theatrics. (we always say we want to protect jack's sweet sensitive soul from the harsh realities of life... colby, on the other hand, we're not too worried about. she'll take life and punch it in the face. she's such a little lover, but if provoked - watch out! you mess with the bull, you get the horns!) anyway. jack's not a "wimpy kid," per se (or, i don't know, maybe he is), but mainly he is just SO sensitive and he gets his feelings hurt quicker than you can say you're sorry. even a perceived slight or an unintended stink eye can send him into hysterics. he just doesn't fit neatly into the "boy box" like so many people would have you believe. he likes pink and blue (though i'm already starting to see society's influences here - a year ago he listed pink as his favorite color. recently i've heard him say "pink is for girls," or, "grills," as he calls them ;)) he likes trucks and jewelry. he likes to have his toenails painted and run around in a superhero costume (dressed as "Flash Man," with a cape, a "Bat Signal," and a "Gween Lanter-in Powah Wing"). he wants glitter shoes and light up spider man shoes. he wants a pony tail and a pirate sword. it's his party and he'll cry if he wants to. and he wants to. oh does he want to. and i'm okay with that. (though i do wish he could work on VOLUME CONTROL!)

yes, i have to fight my own internalization of society's norms here, about who and what and how little boys are allowed to be. DM and i have pow-wows about it all the time. seriously, every time we sit down and try to watch a show or a movie, we end up talking for an hour and a half about our kids, or mainly, our sweet "spirited" child, mr. jackson jay. we go back and forth and up and down. we start out with, this cannot be normal. then we say, well, what is normal, anyway? we don't want to hang our societal and cultural baggage about what's "normal" and "manly" and "not-sociopathic" onto our 3.5 year old son. then we say, but seriously, does there have to be so much crying? then we say, there is no way our parents spent hours upon hours fretting over this shit, and we turned out relatively alright. and then we fret some more.

it's an ongoing struggle. but i will continue to fight that fight. and it makes me feel good to know that there are plenty of thoughtful, intelligent parents who are out there fighting the same fight. maybe, someday, kids will be free just to be themselves.

these just kill me
(photo by jill greenberg)

and this, because it is one of the main catalysts
of our heart-to-hearts about our kids' behavior
 

selected googliography:

Boys Cry, Too, by Katie Hurley on Dr. Greene.com

The real boy crisis: 5 ways America tells boys not to be "girly" on Salon.com

Parenting the Highly Sensitive Boy by "Rebecca" at Positive Parents.org

The Strong, Sensitive Boy, by Ted Zeff

the bedazzled bulldozer

what better way to start your day than with some more critical analysis of heteronormativity and hegemonic masculinity.... AMIRITE?!? hahaha, i'm half kidding.

this is about my boy and his pink blankie - the kernel that sparked my recent gender studies rampage. warning: there may be an inverse relationship between word count and actual knowledge on the subject.

anyway. my son is very ... sensitive. the sensitive child thing, and more specifically, the sensitive boy thing, is enough for a whole book (seriously, there's a whole book), let alone a blog post, so i will address that another time. i know (or hope) that, at least in part, it's the age, hence the "top 50 insane reasons my son is crying" fad. but i also know that, at least in part, it's just who he is. he's the sweetest, funniest, most thoughtful, most empathetic, cleverest little person, but he's also very emotional, raw, dramatic, and intense. he cries a lot and has a quick and furious temper. he gets his feelings hurt SO easily - even a stray look can set him off like a spanish soap opera. we call him our "drama king." he also loves the outdoors and is obsessed with all things sports-related, especially baseball. he will reenact his world-series-winning pitch time and time again, but inevitably, his dad or his sister or i will say something wrong and there will be bats thrown in fury and a waterfall of tears.

jack loves bikes and skateboards and "surfing" and jets and rockets and construction vehicles and motorcycles and garbage trucks. he is also the only boy in his preschool class who listed pink as one of his favorite colors. he has a pink blankie (two of them, actually). he screams bloody f*cking murder if any winged insect flies within 37 feet of his head. (i'm talking like, a gnat, let alone one of those enormous shiny green pterodactyl bugs. last week we were eating lunch out and one of those skeevy things buzzed through the outdoor seating area and jack's reaction was exactly the same as the 14 year old girl one table over). meanwhile, my daughter will stomp on a big juicy spider with her bare foot, or pick up an enormous horned beetle bug between her little pincer fingers like it's no big thing.

jack has an internal safety-meter, closely monitoring himself and anyone in his general proximity, while colby likes to climb anything taller than she is, and will launch herself backwards off any surface with complete faith that someone will catch her. if her faith was misplaced and she comes crashing down on her head, she'll rub some dirt on it and move on. she's a little lover and gives the best "huggles" (snuggle-hugs), but if you wrong her, she will bite you or smack you in your stupid face. she loves "foop-ball" and "beep-ball" and is really into "air-peens" and trucks right now, or, as she calls them, "phucks." :) maybe this is just because her brother also loves all of those things and we basically haven't bought the poor girl a single toy of her own. the only "girly" toys she owns were gifts from aunties and uncles and grandparents. sorry kid ;)

jack likes to have his toenails painted, and when i'm getting ready in the morning he demands his own "makeup" so he can "get ready" for his "'pecial date." he loves to try on my heels (his favorite are a pink patent leather pair that he calls my "ballerina shoes") and his sister's glitter Target Toms. the other night he told me he wanted a pair of glitter shoes, too. DM was sitting there giving me a warning glare so i said, "would you rather have glitter shoes, or light-up Spider Man shoes?" he chose Spider Man, and DM said, "that's my boy!" [*insert eye roll*]

but i couldn't help but ask myself, why did i make him choose? (aside from trying not to make him spoiled as sh*t, and it is too late for that.) the same thing happens when he wants to wear one of his sister's flower headbands to school, or wonders why he doesn't have any tutus. i just duck and weave, claiming they're in the wash or we don't have any in his size. when he asks to have his toenails painted pink or purple, i try to steer him to green or blue. i know how ridiculous that sounds. i'm painting his freaking toenails, so at that point, does it really matter what color they are? (speaking of, did you guys read about the hullabaloo last year when the president of J Crew was featured in an ad with her son, painting his toenails, and the caption read “Lucky for me, I ended up with a boy whose favorite color is pink. Toenail painting is way more fun in neon.” the backlash was quick, fierce, and absolutely absurd. ugh.)

but, my point is, why do i care? why can't i be more brave like that mom who let her son dress up as "Daphne" from Scooby Do on Halloween?* why can't (or rather, won't) i let him choose his own identity without placing my parameters on it? these are obviously my hang-ups, not his. where is that internal cringe-factor coming from when he zeros in on the gold glitter shoes at Payless Shoe Source? my critical gender studies professors would be ashamed of me. he's freaking three. i've seen enough photos of my straight male friends dressed in high heels and dresses as children to know that he will probably not turn into a cross-dresser later in life, no matter what he wears today. i don't worry that i'm "turning him gay" or anything of the sort. either he is or he isn't and i'm fine either way. i guess mostly - at least, this is how i justify it to myself - i feel like i'm protecting him? isn't it better that i steer him toward "gender appropriate" choices now so that he doesn't get teased and made fun of down the road? but then, i am just perpetuating the problem, right?

i mean, we live in california. people name their kids cricket and apple and lazer and some family used their third-born child as a sociological experiment re: gender norms. i understand that we've got a lot more leeway here than we would, for example, in kalamazoo, michigan. i mean, some places, a kid could get beat up for having his toenails painted pink or wearing his tinkerbell backpack to school. but still. i can just see him proudly bringing his favorite pink whatever to show-and-tell and some big brash bully character calling him a pansy or a "girl"... just imagining his little crestfallen face, and him coming home and telling me he hates pink and his new favorite color is black (not technically a color but not the time to tell him that). UGH. just the thought of that imaginary scenario in my mind BREAKS MY HEART. seriously. my heart. it is hurting right now. ouch.

many people claim nature over nurture and i'm not disputing that we all have, at our core, some essence of being that we carried with us into this world. but i think this essence is such a unique, individual thing. i don't think it comes in only two colors, two shapes, two sizes. nothing has driven this point home for me like having children. my kids each burst forth from my womb (and boy did they burst) with their personalities more or less formed. they like what they like and they DO NOT LIKE what they don't. they don't fit any formula, prescription or mold. they couldn't be more different from each other, or different than what i expected.

and who knows. maybe, statistically speaking, more girls do like dolls and more boys do like trucks. but i also know, from my own experience, kids pick up on our every prejudice. yes they come complete with personalities, but the knowledge and information comes from us, and they soak up every last drop, even the things we don't mean to share. to the extent that we do inform and mold their beautiful little minds, our responsibility as parents and as a society is to fill their brains and hearts and souls with everything they need to grow into functioning adult humans, preferably of the non-A-hole variety. one of my best girlfriends was telling me a while back that she was trying to convince her daughter to leave dance class or the park or wherever and she said, "Let's go home so we can watch princesses with Daddy." Millie replied "Daddies don't watch princesses. They watch football." my friend was marveling that our kids are now at the age where we are no longer in total control of the ideas that fill their heads. it's so true, and a little terrifying, too. but in the end, it's a good thing, right? it means there's still hope for children born into that cult of dickish douche bonnets at westboro baptist church.

maybe the fact that i'm even thinking and stressing about it just reinforces the walls that have already been built. i don't know. all i know is, my boy AND my girl like trucks AND dolls, glitter AND baseball. and i want that to be okay. i want to be aware of, and resistant to, this pigeon-holing that we do. looking on Pinterest, i see "10 crafts for toddler boys," "outdoor games girls will love"... can't we just call those "crafts" and "games"? why do we always have to fit everything so neatly into boxes. do this OR that. be this OR that. must check one. it's dumb.

interestingly, i really don't stress about my daughter in this regard. (actually, that's not entirely true. sometimes the daycare girl dresses her in these horrible butchy/frumpy outfits and ties her beautiful curls back into this little knot and she kinda looks like a sumo wrestler and i have to resist the powerful physical urge to change her outfit and fix her hair immediately upon arriving home.) but generally, i don't worry that she's going to get made fun of because she likes football or dresses like a boy (thank you Shiloh Jolie-Pitt). if she wanted to wear light-up spider man shoes instead of pink glitter ones, i wouldn't even think twice (okay, i'd be a little sad. i do love me some glitter. but i am fully prepared for a tomboy/goth phase as retribution for dressing her solely in hot pink for the first 2 years of her life.) so. i guess that strips my biases bare. why is that?!

maybe because she's tougher and thicker skinned than him. maybe because we are (thankfully) getting to a place in history where it's okay and even lauded when females excel at sports, math, science, and life. or maybe it's because, as a woman, i've spent less time confronting and analysing the socialized concepts of masculinity than i have those of femininity. i don't know. i hope you weren't looking to me for any answers, because i don't have any. thanks for coming along for the ride, though. and if you have the answers, please, feel free to share :)

*um, okay, side note. i went to look online for the link to that Daphne from Scooby Do "My Son Is Gay (or not)" blog post, and it seems to have magically disappeared from the internet. then i see a post from its author basically talking about how she was excommunicated from her church and community for writing the post. WHAT THE CRAP?!?!? okay. THIS is what i'm talking about?!?! is this what happens when you set your kids free to be who they want to be?

dear god, please let the internet self-destruct
before he is old enough to find this
on the world wibe web

by the way, i'm not saying J is necessarily "gender creative" (if that's an official thing), or a "girly boy" (this term is problematic on its face), or is or should be defined by his appreciation for pink glitter, but i do find it really comforting and enlightening that there are so many people thinking and talking about issues like this. it makes me think the interwebs are not a complete and utter waste of our brain cells.

 

Selected Googliography:

 

Can I Make My Son Gay, by Karen Alpert of Baby Sideburns at Chicago Now.com

http://www.chicagonow.com/baby-sideburns/2013/09/can-i-make-my-son-gay/

Pink is for Boys http://pinkisforboys.wordpress.com/

Raising my Rainbow - Adventures in Raising a Fabulous, Gender Creative Son
http://raisingmyrainbow.com
[And I love what she says about photographer/artist Parisa Taghizadeh's project "BOY," "a series of portraits of my son who enjoys 'dress-up.'" Although the project seems to be about a boy’s love for princesses and fairies, it’s more "an inquiry into what little boys are allowed to be before the world changes them and molds them into some notion of what it means to be a man in our society.”]

Sarah Hoffman - On Parenting a Boy Who Is Different http://www.sarahhoffmanwriter.com/