Have you ever done *literally* everything in your power for years to raise your kids to reject gender role stereotypes and sexism only to hear that very same garbage coming out of their sweet little baby mouths in spite of the evidence in front of their little pudgy cherub faces? I have…
FYI: according to my son at age four, girls can’t use power tools because they are too dangerous (the power tools, not the girls. Someday he’ll learn…) He told me this while he watched me cutting deck boards with a circular saw and continued to lecture me about his safety concerns while I drilled holes and screwed said boards into place on the playhouse platform. And I didn’t even screw my finger to the joist!
Also, for the record, I built this rotten child a bookshelf and a couple of other small things for his nursery when I was seven months pregnant with him. The innate knowledge that girls can use power tools should literally be coursing through his blood.
We started building a custom playhouse for our son, “Sweetie Bird,” almost two years ago, about a year after we foolishly started talking about it in front of him and with him. He spent that year persistently ripping my heart out by dragging all the spare lumber out from under the deck on a regular basis and propping it up around a tree.
Once, in an overwhelming burst of pity and guilt, I even helped him nail a bunch of random boards together, and they lay abandoned in the yard for weeks until Fab dismantled them so he could mow. Finally, in the spring of that year, we started seriously watching how-to videos and designing the structure, and one day, as I am often wont to do, I went out and just started digging the post holes.
To be exact, I went out and spent about an hour triangulating where the posts should be, making sure everything was square. I marked the spots where I needed to dig and got to work. When I looked up, Fab was asking why I took the markers out of the ground. I commented sarcastically that of course I did not do that thing.
Naturally, Sweetie Bird himself had removed the markers, so I had to measure again. By that time, Fab had overcome any lingering doubts about the feasibility of the project enough to help me dig the holes.
We dug four holes. Then, as I am also often wont to do, I got a little worried about local ordinances regarding backyard structures. I consulted with my lawyer neighbor about what would happen if we built the playhouse too big.
He told me they served Waffle House at the local jail…
Tempting!
So, with that in mind, since we had planned a structure about 30 square feet larger than allowed, we had to redig two of the holes, but ended up basically redigging all of them because of roots that were in the way. Tougher, more fuck-you-I-won’t-do-what-you-tell-me kind of parents would have just built it anyway, citations be damned. But we are anxious, paranoid, meek little rule followers.
It’s in the backyard for the love of outdoor activities! Who would ever even see it, let alone realize it was too big? Our vengeful neighbor for one, but she died recently, may she rest in peace.
Where was I?
Right.
I designed the playhouse. I measured. I dug. I calculated the amount of wood we needed to buy and the length each board and post needed to be. My husband is French and simply cannot with the way we call it a two by four but it’s really a 1.5 x 3.5. Sweetie Bird watched his papa and me working together on each stage of the project. We both helped him drill holes and insert screws.
This was not the first time he had seen me wielding power tools. We had already been working on the project for several weekends when the subject came up. I was so exasperated about being mansplained by a tiny boy I thought my brain was going to implode in a puff of dust like those weird fungi.
I don’t have to prove myself to a child!
Oh, but apparently I do…and believe me, he’s a tough customer.
So what if I do most of the cooking and papa takes out the trash and mows the lawn? I like to cook! We share plenty of other responsibilities. I never even learned how to use the vacuum – my son has literally never seen me vacuum!
I don’t not vacuum just to prove my feminist cred. It’s just that my tolerance for filth is much higher than Fab’s. Only once has he bested me in a filth-off. I gave in and cleaned the toilet when the nasty goo started peeling off into the water. I fought valiantly, but even I had to admit that was just too gross.
So where does the seemingly inborn sexism come from? Sweetie Bird and I read about Ruth Bader Ginsburg together. We talk about sexism and civil rights and gender. I bought him pink and purple things when I could and he even picked out pink or purple himself sometimes! He has beautiful long blonde curls that make everyone swoon and we’ve talked about how girls can have short hair and boys can have long hair.
In short, I never did anything that should have taught him that women can’t use power tools, or do just about anything for that matter. His papa is also very good about reminding him that any toy a boy plays with is a boy’s toy and any clothes a boy wears are boy’s clothes.
But the fucking patriarchy did teach him about what women can and cannot do. Every damn day. And the patriarchy is very persuasive.
No matter how we try to curate what he watches and listens to, we can’t shield him from all the bullshit being propagated around him every minute of every day. Kids are sponges when it comes to learning the good and the bad. They soak up and internalize the patriarchy’s messages from day one. It’s a full time job to counter what they hear and see at school, at the park, with extended family, etc.
As far as I know, the only solution is to keep doing what we’ve been doing. Point out and explain the -isms we come across as many times as needed. Read with him widely. Answer his questions honestly. Challenge his assumptions regularly. Cultivate critical thinking and questioning. Teach him how to recognize hypocrisy. Teach him about checking his privilege to listen and using it to stand up for those with less.
Ok, that’s enough. I’m getting intimidated by this laundry list of things we must do to make sure our son won’t grow up to be an insufferable lout.
Our job is only just beginning. But he just turned six and he has a baby sister now. There will be a lot to learn. He already understands a lot more nuance and complexity than he did two years ago. Just a couple of months ago, I found myself talking to him about racism, police violence and why the woman we saw doing a painting demonstration had hair and a shirt like a man.
Kids are observant and curious. When we break it down into manageable, age appropriate bites for them, they can and astonish us with their razor sharp observations.
Just for kicks, yesterday, as I was sawing off a 2”x6” to make him a pair of stilts, I asked him if he remembered telling me I shouldn’t use “papa’s” tools. He said yes. When I asked him if he remembered why he thought that, he seemed a little sheepish and just said, “maaaaaaaman…” I think I’ll consider that he’s not totally convinced, but he’s getting there.
He better come around soon though, or I might have to claim it’s too dangerous for me to make him a set of monkey bars for his playhouse. That’ll fix him!
What sexist bullshit you never taught them have your kids regurgitated at you? Do tell!
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