Raising My Boychick | Parenting, privilege, and rethinking the norm

The Liberatory Mermaid: A Bedtime Story

“Mom, can you tell me a story, the story about the sticks and the world?”

“I don’t really know that story; that’s a story you told. Do you want to tell me that story?”

“No, I want you to tell me one. Don’t you know any stories? Will you tell me a story please?”

“Well, alright. Once upon a time…”

***

Once upon a time, there was a little mermaid –

***

“A mermaid! …what’s a mermaid?”

“A person whose top half is like a human’s and whose bottom half is like a fish.”

***

Once upon a time, there was a little mermaid, who lived in the ocean. She had a strong tail she swam everywhere with, and she was clever, and beautiful, and so curious.

***

“What’s curious mean?”

“What do you think it means?”

“I’m curious! Sometimes, when there are invisible-pretend monsters, and they attack us, I attack them back, and I get my sword, and I kill them!”

“I think perhaps you mean courageous.”

“Oh. Why? What’s curious?”

“Curious is wanting to know why, and what things are. It’s knowing a little bit, and wanting to know more.”

“I’m curious!”

“Yes, you are.”

***

This little mermaid was curious about the people who lived on land: there were so many things she didn’t know about them. She didn’t know what shoes were for, because she didn’t have feet, or legs. She didn’t know what streets were, or cars, because she swam everywhere. She didn’t know what she didn’t know, and she wanted to learn.

One day, she met a powerful and wise witch, who offered her the chance to change her shape and grow legs like the people on land. But she was a fair witch, and warned the mermaid that to do so would cost her her voice, because all magic has a cost.

***

“Why did she have to lose her voice?”

“Because that was the cost of having legs, because all magic has a cost.”

“Well MY magic doesn’t! I would just give her legs, and she could keep her voice!”

“Well too bad your magic wasn’t there then! The mermaid only had the witch’s magic, so it cost her her voice.”

***

The mermaid was a little scared, but she wanted to learn all she could, so she agreed. The witch cast her spell, and the mermaid’s tail split it two, forming into legs, with feet. She nodded her thanks to the witch, because she could no longer say it, and went to live on land with the people there.

She stayed many years with them, learning about shoes, and streets, and wheels, and so much more. The people of the land liked her and welcomed her, even though they couldn’t talk, because she had no voice –

***

“Why didn’t they use their hands to talk?”

***

– and none of them knew any sign language.

The little mermaid loved it on the land, but she missed her own people, and one day, she decided she had learned enough. She had worn shoes and walked on streets and although she now knew she could never know everything about these people, she was ready to return home. So she dived into the water, and her legs melded together into her powerful flipper once more, and she regained her voice, and went home to tell her people all that she had learned.

***

“The end.”

“I love that story. Will you tell it again?”

“Maybe some other time. For now, let’s get you ready for bed.”

“Ok. Thank you for the story. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

9 Comments | Posted on 11 March 2012 by Arwyn | Category: Kyriarchy, Parenting | Tags: bedtime story, Gender, radical retellings, writing our stories

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To my second born, at six months

Dear Vulva Baby,

You are a delight.

You are also a second child, which means I have not written to/of/about you as much as you deserve, and as a second child, I know, I know exactly how much that will hurt when you realize it.

But now, on the day you turn six months old, let me take a moment to say the things I feel no less deeply for not saying them as frequently.

You are a delight: I delight in you, and you bring light and joy wherever you go. You smile and flirt with everyone, snuggle and love those you trust, and communicate more and better than any baby I’ve met.

You are strong: from turning yourself top side up (if wrong way round) the day before you were born, holding your head up on your own the day after, and standing, standing, standing strong on your deliciously thick and rolly thighs, you are of and in your body so fully and adeptly.

You make us laugh, and you play with us so well, asking for the games you know in ways so clever it takes my breath away. Of course you cry, of course you get cranky and tired and needful, but only when you have a need, and when it is met, you play, play, play.

You are already a music star.

I have so many fears for your future, so many worries, so many things it kills me to not be able to control. But you: you draw me out, bring me back, and help me stay here, with you-now.

There are so many more things I want to tell you of you — the way you laugh when we play bite your ribs, the way you learned to nurse politely within a week of cutting a tooth, the way you shriek with joy when seeing your brother, the dog, the cat, the way you stuff as many fingers in your mouth as possible — but most of all, most of all, I wish I could convey to you the way I love you. It is vast, and deep, and words fail me because there is nothing unique in this, my love for you, except you. Bubbly, beloved, bouncing, bright you. And I am hopelessly, hopefully, unceasingly in love with you.

Happy half birthday, my second-born, my baby-child. I love you.

5 Comments | Posted on 1 March 2012 by Arwyn | Category: Parenting | Tags: letters, schmoop

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Braiding Gender

His hair is soft, smooth against my fingers as I sooth it down from the brush’s static. He brought me the brush, and a hair tie, presumptive in his certainty I would do this for him, brushing-braiding-primate bonding. As he should be; as he has no reason not to be.

“Do you want a braid or a ponytail?” I ask.

“Ponytail. No, braid! Braids are prettier.”

“Alright.”

I change the brush’s angle now, gather the gold in my hand, divide it by three with these two practiced fingers. His voice pipes up while I plait:

“Some people might laugh at me, because they don’t think boys should wear braids.”

My hands don’t stop, even as my heart does.

“That’s true. Some people might.”

Braiding, simple braiding like I am doing, is a series of trades; left for middle, right for middle, twist twist twist, trading turns each time.

I twist.

“What would you do if someone did laugh at you?”

“I’d run away.”

Twist.

“Or I’d find someone who wasn’t laughing, and I’d tell them.”

Twist.

“Or I’d use my words, and tell them to stop.”

Trade.

“Those all sound like good plans.”

Twist, twist.

“Do you think anyone at your school will laugh at you?”

“No.”

His answer is swift, certain, a full stop.

“Good.” I bind the braid, prevent its unraveling with a simple strand of elastic.

“There you are!” I pull him close. “My pretty boy.” I let him go.

***

What does it mean to be gender non-conforming? Can a child raised in gender diversity, without expectation of conformity, be gender non-conforming? My firstborn rejects nothing; we give him nothing to rebel against. He embraces all: pinks and browns, blues and purples, and everything, everything red.

I could describe him one way — how he bounces around the room, turns sticks into light-sabers, plays ceaselessly with his private pretend army — and garner proclamations that “he’s all boy!” Or another — his love of long hair, his doting on his baby sister, how he hugs everyone who stands still long enough — and get a much different reaction. Both are true; both are incomplete.

***

Contrary to the warnings long-given by naysayers of low-gendering parenting, the Boychick is no ignorant innocent: show him any stereotyped advertisement (or book, or film), and he will tell you exactly which is supposed to be the girl, which the boy. Despite my secret subversive desires, there is no idealistic confusion here. But nor, though on anyone else he would proclaim them to be so, does he seem to have any concept of his own clothes as “boy” or “girl” garments; they are only the red-with-heart, or red-with-dragon, or the brown dress-shirt, or the blue with the beautiful bird. They are only clothes, loved on their merits. They are only his.

***

Is this gender non-conformity, this lack of rejection of that we deem feminine? How can it be; how can we stand the double standards, when his sister inheriting the same mixed wardrobe would be seen as fully “normal”, not even so much as a tomboy, but nor an especially girly-girl? How can I allow a pathological interpretation of one child for an equal love of hair braiding and hare-brained ideas that would be deemed fully healthy if found in my other?

And yet.

“Some people might laugh at me.”

Indeed.

***

He’s not wrong.

It is, in fact, something of an understatement. According to TransActive, “Gender non-conformity is the third leading cause of school bullying” (and “#2 is actual or perceived sexual orientation”). And from a newly published study from Harvard School of Public Health, “Rates of PTSD were almost twice as high among young adults who were gender nonconforming in childhood than among those who were not.”

Sometimes gender nonconformity is conformity to an unacknowledged gender. Sometimes it’s not.

Sometimes gender nonconformity is because society doesn’t give kids any model for their gender. How can they conform to the expectations of their gender, when according to their family and their schools and their culture, their gender — not fitting neatly into the two accepted and exclusive slots of “male” or “female” — doesn’t exist at all?

Perhaps that is my child’s purview, a both or a neither or a something else altogether. He’s not entirely unfamiliar with the concept, though it’s not like ze or the singular they roll off our tongues as easily as I could wish. But so far, he says not: playing she or both at his fully accepting, gender-full school is well and good, but at the end of the day it is, he says, but a role, and he becomes he once more.

***

I want to have a neat wrap-up, a ten-point list, a how-to guide. I want to twist a tie at the end and be done, left with simple beauty, woven into being. But like his braid, the question of my child’s gender — of any child’s gender — frays and gathers gunks and fly-aways, and will need to be taken out, smoothed and soothed and brushed back, to be put together again, and again, and again, as often as he asks it of me.

11 Comments | Posted on 26 February 2012 by Arwyn | Category: Body, Kyriarchy, Parenting | Tags: Gender, gender diverse parenting, gender non-conforming, identity

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How to make chicken noodle soup from scratch when sick with the third cold in a row during the winter of DOOM

Step one: make bone broth
(Two days to two+ months prior)
Make fried chicken/bbq chicken/chicken roast. Save bones in fridge — make mental note not to feed broth to gluten-free friends if using fried chicken. Invent plausible explanation for denial of broth to gluten-free friends. Resolve not serve broth to outsiders. Pray to remember this resolve.
Save onion, celery, other veg ends in fridge or freezer, over course of week — make mental note not to let friends look in freezer and/or invent plausible cover story for storage of, essentially, trash.
Wake up feeling not quite as busy as usual. Toss bones and veggie scraps into pot, add extra celery; cover with water. Look into pot. Make mental note to not look into pot next time.
Take older child to school. Come home, nurse baby, watch Battlestar Galactica. Wonder if the Chief could get any sexier. Remember stove never got turned on. Watch next episode with sleeping baby in lap. Turn on stove.
Add spices.
Look at garlic, look at baby in sling: toss garlic cloves in whole, with skin. Try not to think about it.
Add more spices.
Let boil.
Sit down.
Hear broth boiling over, curse, swear baby to secrecy on both counts.
Get up, turn stove down.
Add more spices.
(Shift laundry, empty dishwasher.)
Sit down. Decide no, the Chief could not get any sexier. ~~Make mental note to look up Chief/Lee slash.~~ Never let anyone know this thought.
Make lunch.
Look at broth — curse, remove grey celery, add more water.
Eat lunch.
Taste broth, gag. Add salt. Taste broth. Glare at broth.
Bake chicken for dinner.
Add extra bones after dinner.
Debate leaving broth on stove overnight. Remember house’s lack of fire extinguisher. Turn broth off, put in fridge before bed.
Sleep. ~~Dream of Chief/Lee.~~
Put pot back on stove in morning.
Add water throughout day as needed.
Adjust spices.
Admire deep red color of broth, then remember onion skins. Shrug.
Get bored waiting, turn stove off.
Scour kitchen for jars; spend half hour matching jars and lids. End up with two jars without lids, ten lids without jars. Glare at cabinets.
Strain broth into jars, 3/4 full. Put in fridge.
(Optional: empty ice cube trays, put broth in trays, freeze. Transfer to plastic bag when frozen.)
Next day: loosen lids, transfer to freezer. Pray for sturdy glass and no breakages.
Following day: check jars, give thanks, tighten lids. Do not make joke about overscrewed jarheads. Remember dream. Do not smirk.

Step two: Decide to make soup
(Day before)
Watch in dismay as entire house comes down with another cold, two days after FINALLY starting to feel better from the last. Do not go grocery shopping, because COLD OF DOOM.
Look in fridge, cry.
Look in freezer, whimper.
Pull out frozen thigh meat, last two tiny jars of broth.
Take box of tissues and bottle of water to bed.

Step three: Make soup
Engage partner in game of chicken and/or woe-is-me contest over who feels worse.
Lose.
~~Pull out pot from cabinet.~~ Wash pot, grumbling.
Set pot on stove to heat/dry.
Chop chicken into bite-ish sized pieces.
Remember empty pot on stove, curse.
Add dollop coconut oil.
Realize water had not entirely evaporated; place lid on pot to avoid oil explosions.
Give thanks for high burning point of coconut oil.
Toss chicken in pot as chopped.
Tell older child he may not taste the raw chicken.
~~Curse keeping him cooped up at home instead of sending to school.~~
~~Resolve to pretend not to notice next time he is sick.~~
~~Make mental note to investigate chloroform purchase.~~
Give child kiss; tell him to wash hands before coming back to help.
Stir chicken — turn up heat.
Add spices.
Wash knife and cutting board; ~~yell at~~ tell child not to add any further spices.
Chop onion; add; stir.
Add more spices while child is not looking.
Pull last four, previously-rejected carrots and remainder of celery stalk from fridge. Scrub carrots carrots. Bend celery; shrug, rinse. Chop all.
Add carrots, stir.
Let child add more spices.
Add cup of water, scrape bottom of pot. Pretend “browning” the chicken was on purpose.
Add celery, stir.
Go to fridge to pull out broth. Attempt to pour broth in. Realize broth is still frozen. Curse.
~~Yell at~~ Tell child yes, that IS a bad word.
Spend ten minutes pouring boiling broth from pot into jars and out again to melt broth.
Wait until remaining frozen chunks of broth melt in pot.
Bring to boil.
Squish last half of garlic bulb; put in jar, hand jar to child to shake.
Teach child meaning of word “vigorous”. Listen to him say “I’m being VIGOROUS” ten thousand times to background of garlic shaking. Make mental note to buy another pair of noise canceling headphones.
Finish peeling garlic, mince finely.
Look at garlic; think that’s a lot of garlic. Remind self to think of it as chemical warfare against cold germs. Contemplate chopping more garlic. Remember noise. Decide against.
Add noodles to boiling soup.
Forget to add peas.
Add garlic. Repress urge to cackle evilly at imminent cold virus death. Resolve to check temperature after dinner.
Boil until noodles are done.
Serve.
Leave clean up for partner.
Brag about cooking skills on social media.
Collapse into bed.

7 Comments | Posted on 14 February 2012 by Arwyn | Category: Body | Tags: feminists don't laugh, food, recipe, sick

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BEARS. IN. SPACE!

Ok, so not actually bears, but rather teeny tiny extremophiles — nicknamed water bears, properly called tardigrades — but I still think this video, and this phylum, is pretty much the best thing ever.

Yes, it includes a Doctor Who reference. But really, that’s almost superfluous to the awesome. (Almost.)

Watch: