I Don’t Want to Be the Girl
In an effort to create a mother/son holiday tradition, I’ve started taking my boys with me when I go shopping for Christmas ornaments every December 26. Staring at a discount table with “90% off sale” signs plastered to every visible surface, it’s one of the few times I feel confident saying, “pick out whatever you want!”
It may not be every little boy’s — and certainly not my husband’s — dream, but at present, it works for us.
This year, while I was waiting in a (masked and distanced) line to pay, I caught the following conversation:
“I’m the Daddy. You be the girl.”
“I don’t want to be the girl. I’ll be a boy.”
“No, if we’re playing family, you’re the girl.”
“No!!!!!!!”
I was in the middle of pulling my distraught four-year-old off the floor and trying to figure out how, in the coolest and least-mom-sounding-way possible, to vouch for my gender, when this thought flashed across my mind: Why would you even have this argument?
Truth be told, most days I don’t want to be the girl either.
I love being a mom, but I also have no desire to compete in the world of Pinterest-worthy party decor and curated lunchbox selections.
I’m never going to recreate a landscape from The Land Before Time in Bento Box form with dinosaur shapes cut from allergy-free sunflower oil spread and local raspberry preserve sandwiches, a forest backdrop of lightly-seasoned organic broccolini, and the sweet dulcet tones of a fully-compostable straw strumming in and out of a 100%-post-consumer-waste juice box to approximate the distant thunder of a coming storm.
I’ve been in a battle of wills since I enrolled my seven-year-old in elementary school. I want him to buy his lunch at school because I would really love ONE LESS thing to do each day, and he refuses. So, I’ve been trying to bore him into compliance with the exact same lunch — a Lunchable, a yogurt, and a Z bar — ever since.
It’s been one year and seven months, but I’m sure he’s going to cave any day.
When I threw the same son’s third birthday party, I arrived at the venue, and the woman handed me a diagram. “These are some options for your table displays.”
Table displays? Seven months pregnant with my second child, I thought it was amazing that I remembered to buy a cake.
Pre-marriage and kids, I had a notorious memory. Need to know how we celebrated the end of third grade? I can tell you. The name of that dive bar we found when we got lost on our way to a frat party in college? Got it. Tax receipts from 2008? Filed and accessible.
For the twin’s first doctor’s appointment, I had to pause before confirming their birthday.
And, to make that too-long pause even more awkward, I then thought I needed to recall two dates, as if my sons did not, by virtue of being twins, share a birthday.
“Did you think it was two different days?” the nurse said.
IF YOU MUST KNOW NANCY, FOR A MOMENT, I DID.
I tell everyone I’m more forgetful than I used to be, but the truth is I never had to keep track of dentist appointments, birthday parties, school projects, book fairs, Teacher Workdays, cafeteria menus, and who has enough clothing to get through the week for four people in addition to myself before.
Then there’s the emotional labor.
You see, it’s not enough to schedule, remember, coordinate pick-up and drop-off and attend those dentist appointments, you also have to be ready for every moment of anxiety, fear, trepidation, and eventual triumph that comes with a pediatric teeth cleaning, and sometimes you cycle through all those emotions before you even get to the parking lot.
Yes, their toothpaste tastes different than the one we use at home. No, the water spray can’t hurt you. I promise x-rays aren’t that bad!
At least dentist appointments involve a relatively small circle of interaction — receptionist, dental hygienist, dentist. The school day, with its classmates, teachers, administration, carpool officiants, other parents, and support staff is an entire ecosystem that must be navigated with compassion, care, and the occasional “I don’t know why you only have time to do the monkey bars on Tuesdays, but let’s just roll with it.”
The concessions necessary to navigate the world as a woman start so young. Even Izzy from “Jake and the Neverland Pirates” has to explain herself.
In. Every. Single. Episode.
Jake? He has a sword. Cubby? He has a map. Izzy? She has pixie dust, which helps you fly. The fairies gave it to her, but she can only use it in an emergency.
Jake is ten years old and carrying around a deadly weapon, but Izzy, by virtue of being female, has to explain (and mitigate the power) of her gift. Have any of us ever thought about how tired Izzy must be from that lengthy explanation before she even takes her seat at the table? Captain Hook hasn’t even shown up yet, and she’s already done more work than everyone else.
Sound familiar?
I long to interact with the world the way a white male does. My husband is often telling me to leave a room when I want to or “just say no,” not understanding that a woman’s world is one of negotiation and explanation. I can just say no, but I’ll be judged for it, so I tell everyone why I’m saying no, leading to a different, albeit slightly different, realm of judgment.
I’m constantly amused that anyone would ask why I’m so tired as if Monday is different from Thursday or Saturday. In my head, I gesture to ALL OF THE THINGS as reasons I could always use a nap. Being female is hard work. (Hell, being human is hard work, but I gave this essay a specific title, and I need to stick with it.)
In an ideal world, I’d never have to tell my sons that being the girl is fun; they would see it. They would watch Black Widow with the same reverence as Iron Man. They wouldn’t scowl if they got stuck with a pink balloon. They wouldn’t associate so much of my role with laundry and cleaning up.
It’s a change that is bigger than me, but I try to remind them that my life isn’t entirely about being the only one who knows where all of the shin guards and toilet paper are. (No, shin guards and toilet paper aren’t in the same place. That would be madness!)
And until then, I do what centuries of women before me have done — continue plugging away at problems — big and small — in the hopes that tomorrow is brighter than today. It’s the kind of work and meaning I can buy into, and doing it makes me proud to be the girl.
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