Don’t Label My Daughters
As a female, and now the mom of two girls, I’ve seen more than my fair share of double standards. It’s interesting how when it’s you dealing with the crap, you kind of just sling it and forget it, but when you see it happening to your kids … it’s a whole other ballgame.
One particular area I’m raging about is why we have to put our girls in these specific boxes. You have Girlie Girl and Tomboy. That’s it. There are no other choices. You have to choose and if you don’t fall into either category, society or some mean old biddy on the street, is going to force your child into one of these boxes whether they want to or not.
Please pause while I swallow the hot fire rage burning my esophagus. The fact I haven’t ripped someone’s face off in my nearly 12 years of motherhood should be celebrated as I have put on an Oscar worthy performance. If you disagree, kindly click away because you’re really going to hate the rest of this post.
The Problem With Labels
I’m not going to take a deep dive into the problem, but the main problem is as follows:
- No male is ever expected to fall into any ridiculous reductive category where there are only two choices.
- Why are there only two choices?! Why is it one or the other? If you’re uncomfortable with my daughter (or any woman) not fitting into your narrow minded views on self expression, take several seats and sew your lips closed and then gorilla glue them because it sounds like you need help reinforcing how to keep your mouth shut.
As I said, I have two daughters. One is the classic girlie girl. She likes glitter, and jewelry, and dancing. She’s a lot like me that way. These girlie things makes her happy. I’m all for it.
My other daughter used to love wearing cheerleading outfits and performing cheers; she wore high ponytails and dressed up like Disney princesses. It was the cutest thing. Until one day she decided it was over and it no longer suited her. Now she wears her Vans exclusively, joggers, hoodies (but very specific hoodies, not just any will do), she’s very concerned if her bangs don’t lay right (and I better get the straightener if we need to help them out!). She loves sports, but she dances around the house and loves dance movies and TV shows. She has her own vibe and her own style. She’s also like me in that way.
She’s so confident in her own skin. I’m so envious of that part of her. But I’m also so here for her and all that she wants to do and who she wants to be. She has these big, beautiful dreams. It’s really amazing.
Though, the next person to call her a Tomboy is going to get whipped with a car antenna. Well, alright, I’m not sure modern cars still have those anymore, but I’ll find one. And I’ll whip ya with it.
In case there’s any question left here, let me be clear: I’m perfectly okay with my kids exactly how they are and if you have anything other than love and support to shower them with – run like hell. Momma bear doesn’t take kindly to people who mess with her cubs.
(So, my web designer says I needed to include a bio, though I find this task silly because, if you’re here, you know me.)
I’m a writer. It’s what I do. It’s a cathartic mechanism when I need release from my anxiety. I’ve had blogs in the past; I’ve taken them down, but I never stopped writing. I simply can’t. My notes app is forever long as it’s filled with pages and pages of different topics. Sometimes I just write a few sentences. Sometimes I write paragraphs.
Recently, I've been writing long essays. My friends and others I hold dear have coaxed me into sharing my work again.
So that's what I'm doing, you wicked, pushy people. LOL
I have no desire to see my writing be anything more than an opportunity to share what I love doing most. I have no interest in this blog reaching the masses.
I thought it would be fun to call it My Spicy Disaster because that's often how I feel. A complete mess of epic proportion. So join me, if you'd like, and let's pretend we're not sitting amongst the chaos crying, but laughing instead.
Or maybe we do cry sometimes, but then wipe our tears and remember one person’s disaster is another person’s … well, who the hell knows …
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