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.