gender bending

I've been thinking a lot about gender roles this week. In all the years I taught early childhood, the argument of nature vs. nurture came up...a lot. I never had a clear cut answer for anyone. I'm certain, no matter whether it is politically correct or not, that little boys are hardwired for different kinds of play than little girls. Give a four year old girl and a four year old boy the same Barbie doll, and they'll both play with it. But the girl's Barbie will be groomed, go to a wedding, and play with friends. The boy's barbie will be tied up with string at some point, be dragged through mud, and possibly interrogated. In particularly sophisticated play, the Barbie might actually become a gun - little perfect plastic legs pointed and "pow, pow" sounds resonating through the air. But.....little boys love pink just as much as little girls, and I'm certain that it's only society that makes blue preferable. After all, purple was once the color of kings - women would never have been allowed to wear such a rich color. We teach them a lot - girls dance ballet, boys play football. We teach them that boys are good at math, and girls talk too much, so they're better in English class.

Some of us grew up with the idea that there are men's jobs and women's jobs. So, it all came back to me in a rush tonight, while I was doing the dishes. How fitting. I worked today - all day- came home, cooked dinner, did laundry and then cleaned up the dishes. John is on vacation this week....he took the kids to Academy, and then he watched television while I cooked, cleaned and fussed at the kids. When he's not around - sometimes for weeks at a time - I take care of whatever needs to be done. But it never occurs to him to do all the things I do...the man could walk past a pile of dirty clothes for months, and it would never occur to him to wash the smelly socks. He'd just go buy new ones. I know...he's done it before. I've spent years conducting experiments to see how long I can leave things to fester before he'll turn a gimlet eye in their direction. Now...he does vacuum. Vacuums make noise, they have moving parts...they are manly.

Is it a learned gender role, or are grown up boys still playing different roles than grown up girls? I wonder....

When Katie slammed her bedroom door one time too many (which would be only once, for those who know me), I threatened to take her door off the hinges. Her answer to me, "you can't, my Daddy won't let you use his tools." Wait, wait, wait...I have my own tools. They're not even pink.

For those who know me, my only brother is gay. He is a gay, brilliant musician...he does not use tools, work on cars, or care about my dad's war career. I was the only person left for my dad to teach. I can paint a house, shoot a gun, replace a car battery, and am quite good at maintaining the lawn. But even my dad maintains that just because I CAN do those things, doesn't mean that I should. Women should be kept safe. Well...I'm all for safe, but I'll gladly trade some grass mowing for someone else putting away the freaking laundry.

I've never told my girls that there are any kinds of limitations on what they can do as females (except peeing standing up...there ARE some lines you just don't cross). Yet, as puberty rounds the corner for Katie, I see she's embracing what it means to be a girl in our world.

So, the water was growing cold on my dishpan hands while I was thinking about all of this tonight, and I refuse to believe that I am destined to smell like clorox forever, just because I have a Y chromosome. I'm pretty sure the lack of that same chromosome didn't deprive the males around me of the ability to put laundry in a machine. It's a machine, guys, it makes noise and it even walks across the floor with a really manly swagger, if you put in enough heavy stuff. Maybe if I paint it camouflage colors and call it Rambo...in the meantime, I think I'm sad that I never had a little boy so I could observe some of these things from beginning to adulthood, and draw some conclusions. Then again, one person leaving the toilet seat up at my house is probably enough.

mirror, mirror

Tonight I watched Katie posing in front of the mirror in our hallway. She spends a lot of time doing that lately. So much, we put a full length mirror in her bedroom. The hope was that this would prevent half-naked prancing in the hallway. Yeah...she likes the hallway one better. She came out with hair up, blue pajama top. She skipped out with pigtails and red pajama pants. Back to the green and white pajamas. Then she took a shower...and started all over again.

I found myself wondering, "what does she see when she stares into that mirror?" I know what I see when I look at my daughter. I see a beautiful girl, who can look pretty ugly when she's angry. I see a talented kid, who all too often coasts by with the bare minimum effort. I see the enthusiasm of childhood, tempered by the onset of teen angst - being too enthusiastic would be uncool. I see the shadow of the toddler who never left my side, and frightening glimpses of the woman she will become. I see the battle between wanting to be accepted and being true to herself. I see the pig-tails and mascara, the stuffed animals and texts to boys, the elation and frustration, cartwheels and high heels - all in equal, scary measures. When I look into her face, I see the baby I carried and the soul I have known since before she was born.

What does she see?

I was in a workshop last week when I was asked to say three words that would be said by co-workers at my retirement party. Now, first of all, I hate these types of questions...."if you were a root vegetable, what kind of root veg would you be?" ummm...turnip? Oh, is that bad? Anyway, I was so stumped by that question, it was embarrassing. I stammered, stuttered, and couldn't think of a thing. When pressed to say how I thought co-workers see me, I answered "insomniac, overly-demanding, quiet." The people at my table were shocked, as they said none of those were words that would have come to their minds - well, maybe the insomniac part...that's legendary. One person even went so far as to say she's concerned if that's really how I see myself. Other people described themselves with such hope, such optimism...

I look in the mirror every day. If I'm not seeing myself, then who do I see? I think a lot of the person in the mirror is the girl I was TOLD I was the whole time I grew up. It was summed up in two words, "not perfect." If it's not an A+, then it's not perfect. If there's one thing out of place in your home, then it's not perfect. If your hair is messed, then it's not perfect. I look at the things I have done, and see only the mistakes...keep looking for perfect.

When I look at my children, I don't see what they have done wrong (well, yes, I do, but I don't see that as who they are). I don't measure them by how many mistakes they make, or how many others have done better. I expect my kids to be true to themselves, and they're for sure not perfect. I don't want perfect - I prefer lovable and learning. Perfect kids wouldn't go with my imperfect furniture anyway.

When Katie is prancing in the hallway, I have two hopes for her. I hope that - and I really do mean this - she is wearing something more than a bra. But even more, I hope that she sees what the rest of us see smiling back at her - all her imperfect glory. All the possibility. All the dreams. All the lovable mess that is her.

hello...good-bye

This evening I had the sorrowful moment of saying good-bye to a friend. She is moving half a world away and we may well never see one another again. In today's electronic world, it's never really good-bye, except our friendship will change. For a moment, I didn't want to go to her farewell dinner, because - childishly - if I don't say "good-bye" then she can't really leave. Right?

I grew up moving so often, that I was forever saying good-bye. To friends. To pets. To schools. To teams. To dreams. I wonder if it's easier to be the one leaving or the one being left? So many places that I have lived, so many people have touched my life. All my life, I have remembered them off and on, for many of them have shaped a part of who I am today.

Through social media, I have reconnected with many of these friends. Through messages, tweets, blogs, and photos, I know who they are now. It doesn't even feel strange, because I've carried them with me all along. I never really left those friends. Never said good-bye completely. We share memories, experiences based on where and when we were in that moment in time, and shared bits and pieces of one another. I still get to share my life with a childhood neighborhood playmate, talk about my family with the first boy I ever kissed, and exchange recipes with someone whose locker was next to mine in high school. We've become the strangest global family I could ever imagine. And, yet, before Facebook or My Space, or even AOL chirped out "you've got mail," I thought about them and recalled their words and laughter over the decades.

In college I wrote a paper about whether technology was bringing us closer together globally or just reducing personal connections. My answer today is the same as it was then - both. We're connected to loved ones all over the world, but sometimes we slight those right in front of our noses, choosing to engage in electronic communication instead of face-to-face. Conversation is almost a lost art with many people. Language is ever changing...but people don't, and we have the same basic needs as always. I think we are only now experiencing electronic media that allows for true connections. I can't wait to see what the next ten years bring.

So, as Carol sets her sights on the East, I can look forward to sharing her adventures from afar, and enjoying the pieces of herself that she has left behind. We share a love of cats, a love of books, and a love of kids. Her enthusiasm for life is an inspiration.

I only hope that somewhere, I have changed some people as well.