I'm Afraid of Girls
Tiny purple bows, no bigger across than the width of my thumb. Miniature pink roses with petals almost indistinguishable from one another. Ruffles as fluffy and undulating as clouds. What could be scary about these? Nothing. Except that they frequently come attached to a baby girl.
Case in point: I painted the new baby's nursery pink. At first I hesitated, as my son's nursery was a gender-neutral shade of golden yellow. But when I found out she was a her, a pale pink room popped into my mind's eye. After some light deliberation, I decided to go with it. The color turned out what I am calling Pinker Than Planned -- what I envisioned was a pale, mature, blush pink that was more suggestion than color. What I got was closer to cotton candy pink that screamed "Look at me, I'mmmmmm piiiiiink!" in a Binky the Clown voice. Not only was this Not Perfect (and I tend to demand that Everything Be Perfect), but it made me worry. Would growing up in a piiiiiink room turn my daughter into a vapid, frivolous girl who talked like Kim Kardashian and looked like the Sweet Valley High twins? Would ruffles, bows, and flowers make her...*gulp*...weak?
Already I am showing signs of the worst kind of sexism: the kind that resided inside of me, secretly, only to rear its ugly head when life hands me a daughter.
Example the second: At a recent OB appointment, my 2-year-old son became fascinated with the blood pressure cuff. He instructed me to sit on the exam table so he could put the cuff on my arm and squeeze the ball, which was squishy and made a fun wooshing sound. I applauded his technique and told him someday he would make a great... *pregnant pause*. (Pun intended.) Should I say doctor or nurse? My instinct was to say doctor, even though I can't remember the last time my blood pressure was measured by a doctor rather than a nurse. I consider myself an enlightened Gen X-er, but here I was automatically associating nurse with female. Sure, there are plenty of male nurses. But the fact that we still call them male nurses indicates some deep-seated belief that the nursing profession is more appropriate for nurturing females, while strong men should aim to be doctors.
I made a mental note that these are the slip-ups I would have to watch for even more closely when raising a girl.
(For the record, I did tell my son he'd make a great nurse. If that's what he wants to be, I have no problems with it. Right now his greatest professional concern is whether his future vocation will feature lots of balls to play with. Perhaps a career in urology, then?)
The truth is, the world is a more difficult place for females to navigate. Double standards like the two I unearthed in my own psyche lurk everywhere, from slut-shaming (chastity equals self-worth, unless you're male) to unequal pay (have breasts, earn 79 cents for every dollar your male coworker earns) to the advice we give working moms but not working dads (how ridiculous does it sound if you say, "I don't mind hiring a dad, as long as he can focus on work"?)
I'm neither ready nor equipped to explain things like these to a little girl, much less teach her how to tackle and overcome them. Long division and Manifest Destiny I can handle. But the more difficult life lessons? My mind reels. Teach her to be smart and speak up in school, but not so often that she looks like a know-it-all. Teach her to be mindful of strangers following her home, acquaintances dropping pills in her drinks, and dressing too provocatively, but not so much that she's paranoid and untrusting and ashamed of her femininity. Teach her to be strong and decisive, but not so much that her coworkers deem her bitchy.
Did our mothers have to explain things like this to their girls? Arguably, growing up a girl has become even more difficult since I was a child. There is an increased obsession with celebrity, including reality stars who are famous for being famous and not doing much else (I'm looking at you, Kylie Jenner). Bullying has become easier thanks to social platforms and the prevalence of cell phones among young people. Continued focus on the female body and appearance is supported by an onslaught of countless cable TV channels and endless internet sites, in addition to the more traditional media (billboards and magazines, *yawn*) that our parents had to contend with. I hope she is beautiful, but not so much that it cripples her. I hope she is kind, but not so much that she constantly puts herself last. I hope she isn't painfully shy, nor does she seek to become the next Miley Cyrus-esque public twerking trainwreck.
With only a few short weeks left, I find that I am afraid of this thing called a daughter. All of this responsibility, on top of basics like keeping her fed and clothed and not playing in traffic, is terribly overwhelming. I read recently: "Raising a girl is like building a nation." Holy crap, what? I can barely dress myself every morning, and you want me to create an independent, self-governing, stable human who can both unify the masses and sew her own flag? I hope her citizens are okay with purple bows and pink roses, because right now that's as much as I've got.
"I'm just making it up as I go," I explained to my father-in-law once.
"How do you think any of us did it, dear?" he replied.
 |
| Utterly terrifying. |
Case in point: I painted the new baby's nursery pink. At first I hesitated, as my son's nursery was a gender-neutral shade of golden yellow. But when I found out she was a her, a pale pink room popped into my mind's eye. After some light deliberation, I decided to go with it. The color turned out what I am calling Pinker Than Planned -- what I envisioned was a pale, mature, blush pink that was more suggestion than color. What I got was closer to cotton candy pink that screamed "Look at me, I'mmmmmm piiiiiink!" in a Binky the Clown voice. Not only was this Not Perfect (and I tend to demand that Everything Be Perfect), but it made me worry. Would growing up in a piiiiiink room turn my daughter into a vapid, frivolous girl who talked like Kim Kardashian and looked like the Sweet Valley High twins? Would ruffles, bows, and flowers make her...*gulp*...weak?
Already I am showing signs of the worst kind of sexism: the kind that resided inside of me, secretly, only to rear its ugly head when life hands me a daughter.
 |
| Your basic nightmare. |
Example the second: At a recent OB appointment, my 2-year-old son became fascinated with the blood pressure cuff. He instructed me to sit on the exam table so he could put the cuff on my arm and squeeze the ball, which was squishy and made a fun wooshing sound. I applauded his technique and told him someday he would make a great... *pregnant pause*. (Pun intended.) Should I say doctor or nurse? My instinct was to say doctor, even though I can't remember the last time my blood pressure was measured by a doctor rather than a nurse. I consider myself an enlightened Gen X-er, but here I was automatically associating nurse with female. Sure, there are plenty of male nurses. But the fact that we still call them male nurses indicates some deep-seated belief that the nursing profession is more appropriate for nurturing females, while strong men should aim to be doctors.
I made a mental note that these are the slip-ups I would have to watch for even more closely when raising a girl.
(For the record, I did tell my son he'd make a great nurse. If that's what he wants to be, I have no problems with it. Right now his greatest professional concern is whether his future vocation will feature lots of balls to play with. Perhaps a career in urology, then?)
The truth is, the world is a more difficult place for females to navigate. Double standards like the two I unearthed in my own psyche lurk everywhere, from slut-shaming (chastity equals self-worth, unless you're male) to unequal pay (have breasts, earn 79 cents for every dollar your male coworker earns) to the advice we give working moms but not working dads (how ridiculous does it sound if you say, "I don't mind hiring a dad, as long as he can focus on work"?)
I'm neither ready nor equipped to explain things like these to a little girl, much less teach her how to tackle and overcome them. Long division and Manifest Destiny I can handle. But the more difficult life lessons? My mind reels. Teach her to be smart and speak up in school, but not so often that she looks like a know-it-all. Teach her to be mindful of strangers following her home, acquaintances dropping pills in her drinks, and dressing too provocatively, but not so much that she's paranoid and untrusting and ashamed of her femininity. Teach her to be strong and decisive, but not so much that her coworkers deem her bitchy.
Did our mothers have to explain things like this to their girls? Arguably, growing up a girl has become even more difficult since I was a child. There is an increased obsession with celebrity, including reality stars who are famous for being famous and not doing much else (I'm looking at you, Kylie Jenner). Bullying has become easier thanks to social platforms and the prevalence of cell phones among young people. Continued focus on the female body and appearance is supported by an onslaught of countless cable TV channels and endless internet sites, in addition to the more traditional media (billboards and magazines, *yawn*) that our parents had to contend with. I hope she is beautiful, but not so much that it cripples her. I hope she is kind, but not so much that she constantly puts herself last. I hope she isn't painfully shy, nor does she seek to become the next Miley Cyrus-esque public twerking trainwreck.
With only a few short weeks left, I find that I am afraid of this thing called a daughter. All of this responsibility, on top of basics like keeping her fed and clothed and not playing in traffic, is terribly overwhelming. I read recently: "Raising a girl is like building a nation." Holy crap, what? I can barely dress myself every morning, and you want me to create an independent, self-governing, stable human who can both unify the masses and sew her own flag? I hope her citizens are okay with purple bows and pink roses, because right now that's as much as I've got.
"I'm just making it up as I go," I explained to my father-in-law once.
"How do you think any of us did it, dear?" he replied.
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