Back when the universe took pity on us and allowed us to be pregnant at exactly the same time (her due date was three weeks before mine), Penny and I did some talking about how WE WERE DIFFERENT than other moms. We weren't going to prescribe to those silly gender notions, with pink OR blue, and dolls OR trucks. We were ENLIGHTENED. We were MODERN. We were feminists. We had both been tomboys growing up. We had listened to Free to Be, You and Me. It was not only possible but probable that any girl, like Atalanta, could beat the pants off any boy in a race (or anything else). I was certain we were both having girls and that each would be a modern-day Rosie the Riveter, Every Woman, Working Hard for the Money, Bringing Home the Bacon ANNNNND Frying it Up in the Pan.
Penny knew she was having a girl, and for the whole pregnancy she gently reminded people that she wasn't all that into pink, and that the baby's room was not going to be all princessy and fairie-y (it is, instead, the coolest, mod-est, not-babyish, arty, creative, super-cool kid pad with one very striking orange wall; maybe she will let me show you pictures some time). The message was clear: NO PINK. NOPINKNOPINKNOPINK. I went shopping with her from time to time and I'd have to eat my arm to not show her frilly pink dresses.
I was having a boy, and swore that I would teach him to garden and cook (oh wait, except I don't know how to do those things) and be a good sharer-of-household-responsibilities like his dad. He would have a doll, just like "William" in the aforementioned children's album full of seventies-era awesomeness. He would be okay with playing dress-up. He would not exclusively play with trucks.
Fast forward three years. Penny's daughter's favorite activities are gardening, playing with spices, art, and nurturing stuffed animals. Frogboy's interests are multifaceted: he does not just drive little cars around. He also crashes the cars. And he drives trucks, airplanes, spaceships, cranes, boats. And then he crashes those. Penny's daughter (we'll call her mini-Penny for now, until she picks out a fitting pseudonym), mini-Penny would probably outfit herself entirely in shades of pink if left to her own devices. She often carries a purse. She accessorizes wonderfully with little necklaces and rings. Her mother is having to learn this like a foreign language. And she's not at all horrified, despite the fact that Penny's grown-up friends continue to tease her about how differently it turned out. It was never, she asserts, that she minds pink if that's what her daughter chooses. It's that she didn't want to choose it for her. This is laudable, I think. Self-determination is important to the wee psyche.
How does this happen, though? Is it really this ingrained? Is it genetic? Besides his one beloved rabbit and his blankie, my son could not possibly care less about stuffed animals, and throws only a passing glance at the adorable infant siblings of his classmates, siblings that the girls all coo over and want to carry around. He would not be caught dead in an apron, though he does love to play kitchen.
I thought I'd give it a shot, though. In true Free to Be, You and Me fashion, we bought him a dollhouse (see Potty Humor).
I helped him set up the furniture, we played with it a couple of times, and then he showed little interest until one day I came into the room to find him playing with it all on his own, rehearsing little scenarios: "Okay, sweet dreams, i love you, have a good nap," he was cooing in the sweetest little faux-parental voice. I was amazed to hear him being so nurture-y and loving to DOLLS. I crept a little closer so that I could take a picture of him playing with the dolls to prove it to his dad, and yet when I got nearer the real situation was revealed.....
That's the baby snow plow on the bottom bunk, there. Seeeeee, he loves babies!
And where are the actual DOLLS, you may ask? Well, you see, there was a slight mishap:
Poor little wooden family. To be displaced by squatters, and now this.
Well, at least they're still smiling.
