All This Girl Power is Making Me Sexist

I can’t believe I’m admitting this, let alone publicly and in writing and on the internet. The internet is forever.

But there’s no cheating the Thursday rule, and this is really what’s on my mind lately. So here we go…

No wait-
First, since we’re practically strangers, here’s a little background about me.
A long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I was in a traveling show called Many Strong and Beautiful Women. It was a collection of performance pieces by women for women and about women that attempted to portray the course of a woman’s life from puberty to dating, through motherhood and into grandmotherhood. It was intense. But also life-changing and lovely.

I did the show for a couple of years. We performed all over the state in elementary schools, colleges, company meetings, even prisons. We all occasionally received fan letters, but I hold the honor of being the only cast member to ever receive hate mail. I considered it a mark of pride. I still do.

It’s been a couple of decades since those days, but I really think this story starts there, because I believe all the work we did there shaped a particular brand of feminism for me. The girls in that show really could do anything we wanted. We proved it by growing up and becoming activists, business leaders, actors, writers, teachers, college professors. And mothers, most of us.

And that’s really where this story starts.

When Claire was younger I swore I’d never have another baby. Babies are for crazy people. I still believe babies are for crazy people, but it turns out that’s us. I had this feeling about the new baby. If we did manage to get pregnant again, I just knew it would be a girl. We’d name her Lucy Anne. I was in love with Lucy right away, and I couldn’t wait to watch Claire dress up her little sister. Early in the pregnancy, I even called the baby Lucy. I used “she” when I talked with Claire about her. Then the inevitable moment came, and an ultrasound revealed what were clearly, undeniably boy parts on a big screen TV.

Brandon was elated. I was confused. Claire was excited by the realization that I have a penis in my stomach. How could my baby be a boy?

But science doesn’t lie, and a picture is worth a thousand words, and there’s a shitty cliché for every moment like this. You can take your pick. I was disappointed, and I was ashamed by my disappointment, and confused by the series of events that were unfolding.

Most of my friends with children have boys, and they were all so excited for me. I’m trying to be excited too, but I had already (stupidly) dug out the few remaining dresses I’d saved from when Claire was tiny. A certain brown plaid number that reminded me of Audrey Hepburn, a red polka dot dress I dressed her in and then dressed her stuffed monkey in when it no longer fit her. A few others. Now they’re just gathering dust indefinitely.

Okay, except for the times when Claire and I will dress up the new baby.
Just, you know, once or twice.

Having a boy in the house will be a big change for us. Right now it’s just Claire and me most of the time. When Brandon is home, we joke that boys are smelly and messy, that they’re loud and good at doing the dishes. Teenage boys are gross and penises are irritating. I don’t want to deal with being peed on when I change diapers, and even the idea of male puberty drama feels overwhelming to me.

One woman I know from Claire’s school recently went through the same thing. She had a girl first, and then last year gave birth to a boy. She confessed to me that she was disappointed at first, too, but then realized with some relief that she wouldn’t feel compelled to compare the two children the way she would have if they were both girls. That holds an echo of truth. I might have done the same thing if it was another daughter.

These are all things all women think about as the movements of a new life inside her own body grow bigger and stronger every day. The baby I’m carrying wakes up at specific times now. 9 AM, 1 PM, 11PM. The rest are random. He flutters back and forth constantly.

He.
This is really happening.

I’m trying hard to shift away from denial and move into excitement. At Brandon’s insistence we bought baby clothes, fuzzy little footie pajamas covered in foxes or monkeys or monsters. Claire picked out a pair of booties that look like sock monkeys. She’s the best part of all of this. Her exuberance is tireless, gleeful. She tells everyone she knows. She has bottomless patience for my exhaustion. She is, in a word, incredible. I can’t imagine doing this without my daughter.

Some people say that sons branch out, but one woman leads to another. I can’t speak for everyone’s experience, but it’s true for me. This new baby will be a son.

When Claire first noticed that boys and girls are different, and we had to have our very first edition of “the talk”. I told her she needs to wear clothes when she goes outside in a public place because she is lucky enough to have a vagina, and that people who don’t have one might feel jealous. It worked, she keeps her clothes on, but I wonder now if maybe it was a mistake. I have accidentally raised a girl who feels sorry for people who aren’t women. When she was obsessed with penises, I reminded her that boys can pee standing up, but only girls can choose to have babies. I emphasized how important it is for her to have the right to make that choice. I’ve told her about how women weren’t always able to vote. I praise her tenacity and her bravery and even her bossiness. I tell her stories about St Thekla and Elizabeth Bennet and Lyra Belacqua.

I never thought we were sexist, necessarily. Just, you know, very pro-girls.
But now there’s this other perspective I have to think about. How do I create a space where a boy feels comfortable being a boy and a girl still feels powerful about being a girl? Lately, I feel like the world we live in doesn’t really belong to both. It’s harder and harder to get a safe, legal abortion or even birth control for women. And this argument about rape culture on college campuses- I fall so strongly on one side and most of the men I know don’t even understand why we have to have sides. I don’t feel like I know how to raise a boy in this world. I think that, in the darkest place inside me, somewhere along the way I became a little sexist.

It’s not Brandon’s fault. He’s patient, understanding, supportive, and a million other amazing things. I could perhaps blame specific moments in my life. I could blame role models; I could blame the ways I’ve learned to be quiet and pleasant to have peace in the world of men, but I won’t. The blame belongs to me alone.

The person growing inside me will be a part of that world. He’s going to grow up and eventually become something foreign to me.  How can a person be so close to me and so far away at the same time?
(It’s okay. It’s a rhetorical question. It doesn’t have to have an answer.)

Back when I was in the traveling show, my first ever piece was from the Ain’t I A Woman by Sojourner Truth. It didn’t go well for me, and it’s haunted me all this time. I could never figure out how to get the inflection right. The only part I ever really nailed was this line, “If you have a woman’s rights, give them to her and you will feel better.”

It’s stayed with me all these years.  I think about it often now, because as an adult, I realize that things really haven’t changed much since her time. There are so many rights we still fight for. The right to feel safe walking on any street. The right to make eye contact without invoking advances. The right to get paid the same amount as men for doing the same work. The right to keep our bodies safe and whole and our own. I don’t know how to raise a boy in this minefield and I’m scared.

My mom friends all promise that raising a boy won’t be that different from raising a girl. I would have said once that I didn’t know how to raise a girl, either. By that logic I know I’ll figure it out.
Eventually.

Since this ended on a bit of a downer, here’s something mildly sexist from Flight of the Conchords to cheer you up. Or piss you off.
Whatever.