I am terrified of raising a boy.
Boys pee fountains.
Boys are expected to run and play. Boys are supposed to be active and noisy. They’re expected to wrestle, fall, take risks, hurt themselves. They’re expected to make messes, to build and destroy.
Boys are expected to be good at math. They aren’t supposed to like to read. There’s something wrong with a boy who likes to dance, or draw, or write, or sing. They’re supposed to run. They’re supposed to become big and strong.
Boys are supposed to fight. Boys are supposed to stand up for themselves alone and take the punches life gives them without emotion or tears. Boys are supposed to be strong and distant, but if they’re not, angry is better than cheerful.
I am terrified of raising a girl.
Girls should wear pink.
Girls should practice motherhood early, by playing with dolls and little fake kitchens. They are always cute, never smart. They must go on their first diet the day after their 10th birthday.
Girls are expected to be caring and nurturing. It’s ok if they like to read, but preferably, they should only read books that are for girls. They can be good at sports, but only if they’re not too competitive. They should never be faster or stronger than the boys.
Girls should be thin. Ribs are good. Long legs and thigh gaps are better than fat ankles and round knees. Girls’ arms don’t need muscle. Girls should be physically weak and needy. Girls should care about their appearance above all else.
Girls should always be cheerful. Never angry. Angry is not feminine.
Boys are supposed to grow up into some sick, twisted version of manhood.
Girls are supposed to grow up into some sick, twisted version of womanhood.
I want my children to grow up confident. I want them to know who they are. I want them to be able to resist the way the world wants them to be. I want my boys to be able to play with fake kitchens and lego indiscriminately. I want my girls to have tea parties during the afternoon and play hockey in the evening. I want my children to devour books and discover new worlds in stories.
I want my children to feel united in this world, like they belong regardless of the sex organs between their legs or the gender in their heads. I want them to feel loved and safe and valued. I want them to grow up to be themselves.
I am terrified of raising a child.
For many years, I will hold my baby’s life in my hands. I will be the one molding my baby’s character, doing my best to pave the way for a future full of happiness and joy. But I know the day will come too soon when other influences and experiences will begin to have an impact on that young life. Am I capable of teaching him or her to be herself, himself, despite society’s constant sorting, valuing, degrading? Am I capable of raising a child into a strong adult who can stand against the pull of a culture that can be so misguided and dangerous?
I’m not afraid of labour. I’m not afraid of those first few weeks, learning all about my new baby. I’m not afraid of learning to change diapers, or colic, or breastfeeding, or long nights of a mysteriously crying baby. I’m not afraid of the sacrifices I will make for that beautiful life.
I am afraid of the world into which I am bringing that beautiful life.
(I wrote this post weeks ago. I’ve been sitting on it, a little nervous that it doesn’t quite articulate my thoughts perfectly. Baby-brain is a real thing; whenever I sit down to write something, I’ve felt fuzzy and slow, like my creativity and my technical ability to string words together have misaligned themselves. Today, I’ll admit I can’t aim for perfection in this; it’s time to post.)