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.

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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."

bad feminist, good mother, maybe?

I used to be really hairy. I say "used to" because I've more or less bleached, waxed and lasered every errant hair into submission. I've told DM this many times, as well as friends from my post-wooky era. But I don't think anyone really understands. I mean, I started shaving my legs when I was 9 years old. And not because it seemed like a fun thing to do. But because I had grown-man hair on my legs when I was in 4th grade. Until I discovered laser hair removal, I could shave my legs at 7am, and have 5 o'clock shadow by lunch. Still, whenever I tell anyone this, they just say "Yeah, yeah, okay," and think I'm being dramatic.

these are not actually my legs, now or in fourth grade.
incidentally, in poking around on the interwebz, i saw some discussion that this image is not in fact hairy legs,
but a pair of hairy leg tights to be worn by women to ward off unwanted male attention? all this time i was carrying around an untapped asset. who knew?!

Anyway. Last month I was going through some old photos at my grandma's. I grabbed one in particular, not because it was a sweet shot of my sister and my newborn baby brother and me, but because, for whatever reason (probably because I've burned most of the rest of the evidence), it is one of the few photos I've seen that really demonstrates the full extent of my naturally hirsute state (at eleven years of age).

Now, I'm going to do something today that makes me more than a little nervous. I'm going to upset the precarious balance of my secret ninja blogger status by sharing some photos with you. This is mostly because if anyone actually recognizes the present-day me from any of these photos I'll probably just murder myself. But also because this story just can't be told without photos. So here goes:

I'm the hairy one.

DM is relatively unhairy for a man of Iranian descent. This was his reaction when I showed him the photo:

"What in the...? Were you a man? Were you a Rhesus monkey? Were you pretending to be a tiger for Halloween? Did your mom let you play with the Sharpies? Oh my god. You're hairier than me! What is really going on here? Okay. You can no longer blame me for our hairy children. It is now clear that you bear the majority of the responsibility in that department. Wow. You are lucky we got married and made babies before I saw this otherwise I might have changed my mind. Bad breeding stock!"

"Don't worry, he only means half of what he says." "Which half?" - Almost Famous

But he's right. Our kids are really furry. Jack is inexplicably blonde-haired and blue-eyed, so for now he is just covered with an abundance of blonde fuzz. It's so thick and coarse on his legs, though, it's like an un-shucked corn cob.

i swear he doesn't have rickets. DM has the exact same calves. or lack thereof. and i lurve dems.

The thing is... I hate to say this, and I know I'm playing into the problem... but... he's a boy. So I'm really not too worried about the ramifications of his hairiness on his self-image or social life. I do remember the first time I encountered DM's "manly" chest up-close and personal... I'm not gonna lie. It freaked me out a little bit. I was used to slick hairless so-cal surfer boys. But once you go... uh... yeah... nevermind.

Colby on the other hand... Poor Colby Jean.

All of this got me thinking about beauty and body image and self consciousness and my responsibilities as a mother to a beautiful girl. We've all seen the Dove commercials. We've heard the sound bytes. And look, I am well versed in fem theory. I understand gender performativity and "visible identities" and the objectification of women.

But here's the thing. I love pink. I love dresses. I love heels. I love jewelry and sparkle. I spend too much money on frou frou undergarments. I have my own mini MAC store of eye shadows in a glorious rainbow of hues even though I wear the same boring color every single day. I have spent more money than I care to admit on hair removal and products meant to do this, that, and the other thing (and they never, ever, deliver). I refuse to leave the house until I'm "ready." I'm about as high maintenance as someone who shops solely at Target can be. Yes, I am a by-product of gender stereotypes and society's unrealistic portrayal of beauty and blatant consumerism, but they have done a bang-up job because I actually really enjoy it. I like to play dress up. I think it's fun. So fucking sue me.

Incidentally, I'm not doing it for my man. He groans when I straighten my hair (he prefers it au'naturel). He asks "What happened to your face?" when I get daring with my makeup. He thinks the sexiest thing I could wear is his ratty old t-shirt. He doesn't give two shits about prickly legs or prickly any-other-things.

But. This does pose an interesting quandary. How do I "do me" without passing my body image baggage on to my daughter?

[INTERMISSION. Seriously. Here's the deal. I wrote this post last week but the word count was "a fuck-ton," so I decided to split it into two parts. But in so doing, I deleted over half the post and it was unrecoverable. I have a slight case of PTSD. After spending the better part of a week re-writing the thing, there's no way I'm going to make that mistake again. So here's the whole, unabridged version. But you might want to take a break. Pee. Get some popcorn. Etc. I'll be here when you get back.]

Okay. So. For example. Being a hirsute female. I'm sure my excess hair predated fourth grade, but it wasn't until some kids called me Sasquatch (and, inexplicably, a hammerhead shark? Are my eyes really that far apart?) that I began to internalize that shame. Up until that point, my mom had never even hinted at the subject, but when the time came, she was armed and ready with a depilatory buffet. She fully supported my body hair offensive, but was also quick to point out when external influences were getting the best of me, e.g., when a high school boyfriend told me I should shave my chest because I "had more hair there than he did" (which, incidentally, wasn't difficult to do.) Mom: "That's ridiculous. Don't listen to A-holes. Especially short ones."

Unfortunately, due to her genetic (mis)fortune, Colby will certainly have to deal with similar issues at some point. I think my mom handled it the right way. I certainly don't want to make Colby self-conscious about it before she needs to be by launching some sort of preemptive hair strike. But UGH, the thought of her coming home in tears after some brat calls her Chewbacca makes me wanna DIE :(

The good news is, I've gotten to the point where my husband can tell me, in so many words, that I have a blonde mustache, and it doesn't get me down. Hey, better than a black mustache, right?? I'm sure Miss Sassy Pants will develop her own thick skin in time. One of the benefits of all that extra hair ;)

Then there's the hair on my head. I hate my hair. I long for smooth, straight tresses. I long to wake up without my hair looking like a cuckoo's nest, or to swim without looking like a bedraggled poodle afterwards. As far as I'm concerned, the flat iron is one of the best mechanical inventions of all time, and me and mine are tight. My hair could technically be characterized as curly, but, depending on the humidity/barometric pressure/cloud formations on any given day, it can more aptly be described as frizz-fro-chic. Even when I wear it curly, I certainly don't just step out of the shower looking like Julia Roberts or Nicole Kidman circa 1985. It involves an arduous algorithm of conditioners and product and diffusers just to make me not look like an escaped mental patient.

And I understand I've internalized a lot of weird negative shit and I'm super neurotic about it. For example. Once a gay fashionisto friend from work said to me, "Gurrrrl, you look ten times hotter with your hair down." Since that day (15 years ago), nary a messy bun has graced the public sphere. Then there was the time in law school when I showed up to an interview with my hair "naturally curly," a.k.a. shellacked to within an inch of its life. Another girl who was waiting for an interview said to me, "Wow. Brave. I'd never show up to an important interview without a blowout." Granted, this girl was a blowhard, but for better or for worse, I haven't shown up to an interview, court appearance, wedding, shower, or really even a date night with my hair in its natural state ever since.

The thing is, my daughter has GORGEOUS curls, and I would never forgive myself if any of my curl contempt rubbed off on her. So recently I've been making more of an effort to embrace what God/Mother Nature gave me, even if that means showing up to work every day looking like a sad lion. And even though I know she will probably end up hating her curls anyway.

The other day one of my girlfriends was giving me a hard time as I was discussing this issue with her. She said, "You do realize you and she have the exact same hair, right?" But that is simply not the case. If it was, people wouldn't constantly ask me "Where does your daughter get those amazing curls???" Ummm... apparently not from me?

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

[Full disclosure - I can't post a current picture of my hair because, in between writing, inadvertently deleting, and re-writing this post, I got a Keratin treatment. In my defense, the lady told me I would still have my curls, minus the frizz. Well, she lied. I do not still have my curls. AND I LOVE IT. Seriously. Game changer. Why I did not do this seven years ago is completely beyond me. It is GLORIOUS. So, yeah. I'm a complete phony. What can I say? It's an evolution. And as my sister-in-law said in attempts to assuage my bad feminist/mommy guilt, "Maybe start worrying about it when she's old enough to have memories." Deal. ;)]

Then there are the ever-present weight and body-image issues. I'm basically a skinny-ish person. "Skinny-fat," I think, is the medical term. No, I'm not as thin as I'd like or as thin as I used to be, and my skinny jeans are like some sort of terrible April Fool's prank. But relatively speaking, I can't complain, especially since I'm not really willing to do anything about it. And yet. I religiously spend at least the first two hours of every Monday morning on a diet, I have an unhealthy relationship with my scale, and I spend way too much energy bemoaning the muffin top.

Have you read this article "Fuck Diets" on Ladybud? It is still one of my favorite pieces of all time. So good. If you haven't yet, read it. Anyway, that is how I want to feel about my weight. But I'm rather bi-polar on the issue. One day I'm like, whatever, I'm healthy(ish) and thin (enough) and there are about a million other more important things that I should be worried about. I mean, I could be in Iraq. Or Syria. Or Liberia. I could have EBOLA! And then I think, "I wonder if Ebola makes you skinny? I mean, like, before it kills you...." (Too far?)

I just had this conversation with a friend:

Friend: So skinny in that Instagram pic! No fair!
Me: Strategically placed baby.
F: That doesn't explain twiggy arms and cachectic neck.
M: What does cachectic mean?
F: Wasting away to nothing. Like end-stage AIDS or cancer patients.
M: Awww. That's the nicest thing you've ever said!

Insane, I know. So what do I do to combat the crazy? Repeat this mantra to myself again and again, and pass it on to my daughter if and when she needs to hear it:

Babies and puppies are small.  So are dimes and Skittles.  You’re a fucking woman.  A woman! You are entitled to occupy as much fucking space as you like with your awesomeness, and you better be suspicious as fuck of anybody who tells you differently.

Why, ladies? Why must we continue to whittle ourselves down? Who is it for? What is it for? ... “Shrink your waist.” “Lose inches off your thighs.” “Slim down.” “Get skinny.”

How about “Grow your mind.” “Increase your confidence and productivity.” “Beef up your knowledge.” “Enlarge your scope of asskicking.” ?

- From "Fuck Diets" on ladybud.com

What else is there to say?

I see a lot of stuff online about "No makeup Mondays" or a week or a month without makeup challenges. Ostensibly to prove to ourselves and to our daughters... what, exactly? That we can make the monumental sacrifice of living without makeup for a month? And then we go right back to our cosmetic crack like the addicts we are? I like the idea behind it, but in reality, what do we learn?

I also think there's something a little... hollow... about celebrities with their personal trainers and their hair, makeup and wardrobe teams giving their PSAs about self-love and being beautiful "on the inside." And then there are the supermodels who decry being PhotoShopped to puny proportions: "I boldly present to you, ME, a size TWO, not a size ZERO as mainstream media would have you believe! Do you see that singular dimple on my ass? THAT is the REAL me!" I mean, I appreciate what they're trying to do, really. And raising awareness of the issue is important. But these mixed messages don't really do much to alleviate the problem with the real-real people here on the ground.

And more power to people who feel their most beautiful in a t-shirt and jeans without a speck of makeup on. But I am not one of them. When I look good, I feel good. And for me, looking good involves mascara and fancy underpants. I'll leave it to Butler and Bordo, et al. to deconstruct those fucked-up feelings, but, there they are.

I don't have the answers, of course. And I can't teach my children what I don't know. As with most things in life, I will probably just make it up as I go along. But as I'm sitting here today, I think I'd like to say something like this: Most everybody loves a great lip gloss and the perfect LBD. But that's just icing on the cake. Don't be the kind of cupcake where people lick off the sprinkles and the frosting and throw the rest in the trash. Actually, just don't be a cupcake. Period. Look. Frosting is just that: sugar. Empty calories. (Don't get me wrong, those are my favorite kind, but they make you fat and you're still hungry afterwards.) Concern yourself with substance. Be happy. Be healthy. Be good. Be strong. Be you. And be glad it's not 1992.



glamour shots, obv.

I wear "The Pants," but everyone in my family wears pants (sometimes).

you know what really chaps my hide? stuff like this:

when i was pregnant with jack, at 12 weeks, we made the ultrasound tech take a guess as to the sex. she said girl. so we told everyone it was a girl. several people said, "oh, that's okay, i'm sure your next one will be a boy." i was like, um, i'm sorry, what? are you telling me "better luck next time"? is this china? do i have to throw the first one away since it doesn't have a penis? wtf?! turns out he did, in fact, have a penis. PHEW. i guess 9 10 months (< special pregnancy math) of morning ALL DAY sickness wasn't a complete waste of time and energy since i successfully produced a male heir to the throne in my royal kingdom???

it's 2013 (i think, but i could be wrong) and people say stuff like this, too:

"oh, you have two girls? is your husband sad? are you going to try for a third? who will he play catch with if you don't have a boy?" nothing incites my fury like the insinuation that a) you somehow failed at baby making if you didn't produce a boy, and b) that daddies can only play catch with their wiener-wielding man childs. GUESS WHAT?! MOTHERS can play catch with their SONS and FATHERS can play catch with their DAUGHTERS and... unfortunately, my math skills have languished since lawyerhood, so i don't know the exact permutations, but basically, IF YOU HAVE HANDS, YOU CAN PLAY CATCH.

"oh, you have two boys? are you so sad? are you going to try for a third? who will go shopping and get mani-pedis with mommy if you only have boys?" i hate shopping and my son loves having his toenails painted. so suck it.

"girls don't like football." this one does.

"boys don't like pink." not a true statement.

"you throw like a girl."

"stop crying like a girl."

oh, and when my daughter was born and they put her on my chest, i whispered to her, "hey buddy." the nurse, whose name was Chit, by the way, said, "Hey, you can't call her buddy. She's a girl." um, okay, a) i just pushed this baby out my lady bits so i can call her whatever i damn well please. i could call her Ernesto and you would need to shut your freakin' trap. and b) since when can't a girl be a buddy?!

what the eff, man? is this 1952? there are so many things wrong with the above statements, i don't even know where to start. first and perhaps foremost, using "like a girl" as a derogatory statement is just f*cked up. second, not all girls are crybabies dressed in pink, and some can throw a mean spiral. some boys DO like pink, get their hearts broken on a daily basis, and prefer drawing or collecting leaves or playing the ukulele to tackle football. third, having children is a total freaking crap shoot and you never know what you're going to get.

the other night, my daughter was body slamming my son and they were both laughing maniacally and making fart sounds each time they made impact with the floor. i looked over at my husband and i was like, "well, i guess i get to know what it's like to have two boys after all." (i had always thought, if i could choose, it would be fun to have two boys.) he replied, "not really. we still have one 'boy' (pointing to our rough-and-tumble girl) and one 'girl' (pointing to our delicate flower of a boy child)." i'm not gonna lie. i laughed quite heartily because per the prevailing cultural trappings, it's totally true. but then i felt bad because we are sexist jerks.

i understand that, generally speaking, there are a few essential differences between men and women, mostly physical. beyond that, i chalk most of it up to culture and socialization. the affectations of gender stereotypes are just that - acts - but they are so ingrained it's hard to even think about getting to a neutral place from which to analyze them. i mean, cavemen and cavewomen, or adam and eve, or whoever... they didn't care about pink vs. blue or shaving their legs or painting their nails or how best to showcase The Original Cleavage under leaves and mammoth pelts. (speaking of, eve must have been one of those lucky hairless women because, eef, me in just a fig leaf without access to a razor? avert your eyes.) anyway, the point is, they didn't have peewee football or barbies or superheros or princesses. these "preferences" and "tendencies" and hang-ups are things that we have created.

my personal experience has also belied the cultural norms, which i guess gives me a different perspective than many. my mom definitely "wore the pants" in two different marriages and was the master of the house, no two ways about it. she wasn't super girly. she didn't do much makeup and she sort of sucked at hair. she definitely rocked a mullet for a good little while there circa 1989-1992. she loved purses and heels but also went through a tennis shoe and fanny pack phase. she was a kick ass business woman, capitalizing on every opportunity and always working her way to the top. she was a whiz in the kitchen, a skill set she actually picked up primarily from her father. she also climbed mountains and drove fast cars. she never made me feel like there was anything i couldn't do because i was female. i remember for a while i dreamt of playing football at Notre Dame. like, i really thought this was my future, apparently still riding high on our resounding powder puff victory in 7th grade. she managed, for that year, or three, to encourage my dreams without rolling her eyes or laughing in my face. looking back, i realize how hard that must have been and it makes me love her even more.

in my own relationships, i have unintentionally sought, or been found by, thoughtful, sensitive, loving, romantic, moody, dramatic and/or intense men, so i know, even though many men try to hide it behind their tough/manly/sporty spice exterior, they can be just as emotional, irrational, and insane as we are, or are purported to be. it kind of reminds me of something my gay and lesbian couple friends complain about - the "So who's the 'man' and who's the 'woman' in the relationship?" question. why does someone have to be The Boss? why does there have to be a Stronger Sex? how are we defining/measuring strength and power here? and WHY are we measuring it? why can't we just BE. why does there have to be this dichotomy and why do we have to choose sides? what purpose does this serve?

look. i am FAR from innocent here. i gender the SH*T out of my kids, particularly their closets. my daughter's wardrobe consists of 93% pink glitter, and i put big flower headbands in her hair from the day she was born until the day she called the kibosh on that business. my son has a lot of blue and grey featuring emergency vehicles, sanitation vehicles, construction vehicles, and/or carnivorous prehistoric animals. i gender the sh*t out of myself too. half my wardrobe is pink or orange. i have had my toenails consistently painted for the past 20 years. i have spent thousands of dollars and hours on hair removal and other cosmetic ... ahem... augmentations. i am willing to spend obscene amounts of money on a good pair of jeans. i love dresses and high heels and things that are sparkly. my diamond IS my (second) best friend. seriously. i lurve her.

but that just underlines my point. i consider myself a fairly well-educated, progressive-minded person. i minored in Critical Gender Studies, for heaven's sake. and yet i still subconsciously - or even consciously - fall prey to this strict "pink OR blue" mentality and i just want to know why?!

maybe i'll never know the "why," but at least i can continue to be aware and to fight the inevitable gendered pigeon-holing that we as a society perpetuate (myself included, see reference to pink glitter, above).

here are some things i intend to teach my son AND my daughter:

how to throw a ball and a punch. (seriously. in case you can't tell. this is a pet peeve of mine. teach your daughter how to throw and hit. your son too. unless your children have no arms (in which case i am very sorry), teach them how to throw, and catch, a ball, and how to throw a right cross and a left hook punch someone in the neck. wait. f that. even if they don't have arms. teach 'em to use their feet. they'll be even more badass. also how to throw a well-placed knee to the groin.)
how to change a tire.
how to do their own laundry, including emptying the f*cking lint trap.
how to pee in the toilet, or at least clean up after yourself if you are physically unable to do so.
how to iron a shirt.
how to sit through a pedicure, even the terrible part where they're sawing the dead skin bark off your heels.
how to check a book out of the library.
how to pay your bills.
how to write a will. (PLEASE, i beg you. if you have children, write a will.)
how to bake a cake, some basic edible meals, and a couple of potluck pleasers.
how to keep house in a manner that will not instantly put off potential friends, suitors, or mothers-in-law.
how to alleviate discomfort from mosquito bites, bee stings, and the flu.
how to start a fire.
how to jump a car.
the etiquette of "the courtesy wave"!
how to write a thank you card.
how to say sorry.
how to shake hands (no limp fish, ew!)
how to look someone in the eye.
how to set 'smile' as your default setting.
how to be kind.
how to love.
how to say "Yes."
how to say "No."
how to tell the truth.
when to tell a white lie.
how to help others, and yourself.

i guess this list could go on forever, but mainly, i just want to teach my kids how to survive in this crazy world. i want them to be good, honest, loving, and kind. these traits are gender neutral. i think the most important lessons in life apply regardless of what shape your bits and pieces take.

** If you like this post, you'll love my essay in I Still Just Want To Pee Alone! **

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source:  mae martin - http://imgur.com/gallery/jkNljuC



love ellen.