Another Question of Gender Equity
It was Sunday morning. As usual, our preparations for church were not going as swimmingly as one might hope. For one, there is never enough time on any given weekend morning, especially one on which you need to be somewhere by 10 AM. For another, getting dressed is never as simple as it seems, particularly for our little girl.
She's two, after all, and still needs some help with the process of donning clothes. Unlike her brother, who gets to wear whatever he's willing to put on himself, she more often deals with input from me. This is never more true than on church days.
You see, we have all these lovely dresses that grandmothers and friends have purchased for or loaned to us, and I feel it is important that she wear them. She, however, does not.
She let us know this in no uncertain terms on Sunday when Daddy wrestled her into a darling navy blue pleated courduroy dress with tiny red polka dots and appliqued strawberries. It even had a matching beret! What could be sweeter?
When I heard the mad screeching in the living room as I stepped out of the shower, I knew what was up--and that I had been wise to assign this task to my beloved. I rounded the staircase to find a grisly scene. Our precious gal was all but foaming at the mouth, arching her back and shaking her head violently in protest. Utterances reminiscent of the bowels of hell poured forth from her beet-red face.
With my reserve of calm (Daddy's was spent), I stepped in and asked what was wrong. As if I didn't know.
"I DON'T LIIIIIKE DRESSES!" she wailed.
"But this dress is so pretty," I said, fully aware I would never use this argument on her brother, who was wearing black cords and his enduring favorite, a black-and-chartruese skeleton t-shirt. "And the hat is so pretty, too," I tossed in for good measure, attempting to place it on her head as I spoke.
"DRESSES AREN'T PRETTY AND HATS AREN'T PRETTY!" she said with remarkable conviction, flailing her arms so as to launch the beret in my general direction.
This was one battle I wouldn't--and ought not--win. Why should I force her, at two, into society's mold of girlhood? Won't society do that soon enough?
I hope not. And I surely don't want to be the prime perpetrator.
She's two, after all, and still needs some help with the process of donning clothes. Unlike her brother, who gets to wear whatever he's willing to put on himself, she more often deals with input from me. This is never more true than on church days.
You see, we have all these lovely dresses that grandmothers and friends have purchased for or loaned to us, and I feel it is important that she wear them. She, however, does not.
She let us know this in no uncertain terms on Sunday when Daddy wrestled her into a darling navy blue pleated courduroy dress with tiny red polka dots and appliqued strawberries. It even had a matching beret! What could be sweeter?
When I heard the mad screeching in the living room as I stepped out of the shower, I knew what was up--and that I had been wise to assign this task to my beloved. I rounded the staircase to find a grisly scene. Our precious gal was all but foaming at the mouth, arching her back and shaking her head violently in protest. Utterances reminiscent of the bowels of hell poured forth from her beet-red face.
With my reserve of calm (Daddy's was spent), I stepped in and asked what was wrong. As if I didn't know.
"I DON'T LIIIIIKE DRESSES!" she wailed.
"But this dress is so pretty," I said, fully aware I would never use this argument on her brother, who was wearing black cords and his enduring favorite, a black-and-chartruese skeleton t-shirt. "And the hat is so pretty, too," I tossed in for good measure, attempting to place it on her head as I spoke.
"DRESSES AREN'T PRETTY AND HATS AREN'T PRETTY!" she said with remarkable conviction, flailing her arms so as to launch the beret in my general direction.
This was one battle I wouldn't--and ought not--win. Why should I force her, at two, into society's mold of girlhood? Won't society do that soon enough?
I hope not. And I surely don't want to be the prime perpetrator.
posted by Lisa Strandberg at 10:09 PM
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