Not Quite...Not Really...

Will someone please just oppress me already?

This white liberal guilt is simply killing me and I don’t know if I can go on much longer with nothing legitimate to complain about. I straddle this line between the “acceptable” and the “undesirable, but tolerable”, a line that leaves me uneasy and teetering somewhere between both sides looking desperately for something to hold on to; something like a sense of community, a validation of who I am and my experience, a slightly knowing nod at least.  

 I live in the land of “not quite enough” “not really but…” and “a little too…”

I live in the land of “where’s your…” and “aren’t you?” and “sure you are…”

I blend

I am assimilated

I am the lower middle class white suburban privilege that I taught myself to demonize during my fully paid for liberal arts education. Eating dorm food and chastising my parents for their wasteful capitalist ways.

I am too femme to be a dyke

Too lazy to be a femme

Too fluid to be either gay or straight

And devoid of easily read, brightly colored labels

And so I blend

 Short of one incident at a Trader Joes last winter, involving orange juice, the small of my girlfriends back, and a hissed warning from a man in a trucker hat, tolerance has been handed to me on a silver platter.  Not that I give a shit about being ‘tolerated’, as it were. I’ve never been particularly interested in ‘tolerance’.

If I blend in nicely with other Outback driving, Starbucks drinking, CampFire leading moms that politely ‘tolerate’ the presence of my partner at social functions, and look to me for ‘diversifying’ their cocktail parties, I couldn’t care less. I want to be embraced, or shunned. I want to be Loved or Hated, I want definition, clear lines, so I know who to avoid and who to welcome.  I have no interest in merely being ‘tolerated’ by anyone.

 Fucking Adore Me or Fucking Avoid me, just don’t Fucking Ignore Me.

Too young to be old

Too old to be young

Too white to be oppressed properly

Too bi, too femme, too recently ‘straight’

Too many responsibilities to take time for dance clubs or political rallies

Too monogamous, too traditional, too assimilated

I am the non-threatening, non-descript, sexually ambiguous mom at the back of the pick up line, I am invisible.

So I don’t get to complain. I am not forced to wear to my labels like neon signs by accident of birth or right of passage. I graduated from college 7 years ago, so my time for outrage is over. I don’t encounter hate and potential violence every day. For that I am grateful, don't get me wrong. But becuase I am not bombarded with anything other than ambivilace on a daily basis, but find myself in a state of outrage anyway, i don't feel justified in my anger, don't feel that my particular brand of oppression is validated.

 What I do get, is to come out of the closet every damn day of my life. To get blank stares when I refer to my “partner” instead of my “husband” or “girlfriend” or whatever the proper term is for whomever I’m sharing my life with at that moment based on who I am speaking with and where and when and whatever label feels least sticky at that time….

 What I do get, is completely ignored by all of the women and those elsewhere on the spectrum, that  I find so incredibly sexy and smart and desirable, because the gay-dar don’t beep when I’m come walking by.

 What I do get, is the assumption that I am slutty (though I have been known to be…) and down for a three way, or ready to let you watch…or better, not the kind of girl you’re going to want to take home to mom once you know the truth about who I am. Not the girl you want to introduce to your friends, with all those icky bi-sexual leanings…what WILL they think?

 What I do get, is a constant barrage of eye rolls, and head shakes, and ‘whatevers’ when I am forced to give a definition of who I am, and who I fuck, and why I do so. While I’m cool with out a label, no one else seems to be okay with out me having one. The labels that I am able to cobble together, a cut out ransom note of familiar phrases that seem to loosely fit emotions that i still don’t completely understand,  are some how unsatisfactory, less than just not quite neon enough.

 What I do get, is to hear some AWESOMELY offensive remarks, jokes, and stories because “I’m not one of THOSE queers” and when I am offended, I’m told to lighten up, “don’t be like THAT, one of those PEOPLE that take EVERYTHING personally”.  How dare I feel momentarily impassioned?

 I don’t get to be a feminist apparently, because I like being the one to cook dinner, raise the babies, and wear heels and an apron. So many forget that aspect of “choice” that is a central tenant of feminism, extends to those of us who CHOOSE a quiet life of making lasagna and folding laundry, those of us who find it kind of hot when their partner smacks them on the ass, calls them a bitch and demands another beer.  Those of us who do not see the need to deconstruct and politicize our every leaning and desire, and find nothing oppressive about watching porn in our marabou heels while eating meat and granola that may or may not be fair trade (but still feel adequately guilty for it later).

 I don’t get to be counted as a traditionalist, because my partner is of a non binary gender, so our relationship is somehow ‘less than’ in the eyes of other traditionalists. We don’t do the church thing, we let our daughter get a ‘boy’ hair cut, and we hold hands in public and smack each other with things in private. No child of theirs will be attending our tea parties. And yet, somehow, we are too traditional for the rest of the outsiders. What with tiny child in tow, non descript family sedan devoid of rainbow bumper stickers, and a sensible, wash and wear haircut, we are often left off the mailing list for the political rallies…not that we’d have time to go, the baby has a piano recital that day. Forgotten to be invited to the clubs, though we have to get up early the next morning to hit up the Costco before it gets swamped anyway…

 And so I toe the line, accidentally assimilated just by being myself. I feel the need to shout at the top of my lungs on a daily basis: “ME TOO! LOOK! OVER HERE! KINKY QUEER CHICK WITH SCADS OF LIBERAL GUILT! LOOK! I COUNT! CAN I COME PLAY TOO?! NO, REALLY! I SWEAR IT! LOOK, I’LL WEAR A RAINBOW BRACELET IF THAT HELPS?! HELLO? Anybody…”

 If only I didn’t look so stupid with a faux hawk….

Defending my Cervix

[caption id="attachment_702" align="alignleft" width="142" caption="Get it? I'm being judged"][/caption]

WARNING: Mom, this post contains information on my sexuality and descriptions of a gynecological nature, you might not want to read it!!

After much debate and weighing of various pros and cons, I have decided that it’s time to get back on the birth control. One of many recent steps taken to help me be a “responsible adult” or whatever, when it comes to my sexual liberties as a newly single person.  As Dude and I were trying for the last 2 years to have another pink headed potato, I wasn't too worried while we were married. After him, all of my partners have been women until rather recently, so this hasn’t been an issue.

Lately though, one thing has led to another and if I'm not a bit more careful, someone is going to end up with a potato they didn’t plan for. Since that’s how I wound up with the first one, I’ve decided to go ahead and exercise my right to easily obtainable birth control and head down to the local clinic to have my IUD put back in.

My gyno up and moved her practice to Seattle leaving me in the hands of the local not for profit sector and I was feeling a little nervous. I haven’t been to a gynecologist in sometime, about 2 years if I remember correctly. I haven’t been to the local Planned Parenthood since I was but a youthful college tramp, so this was going to be something of an adventure for me. Upon walking in I was greeted with the usual mishmash of progressive college students, unwed and possibly wed mothers, broke ass mothers to be, and terrified looking teens. I slid my ID under the bullet proof glass and was buzzed in once it was determined that I did not carry with me a pipe bomb or photo of a dead baby.

When I was called back to the sterile room I was asked a slew of pre-established questions regarding my visit today.
“Have you ever had an STD?” the earnest young CNA asks
“Does pregnancy count?” I chuckle
“No.” she is un-amused.
“Oh, umm then no” my joke going unappreciated
“Do you have any of the following types of sex 1) Oral 2) Vaginal 3) Anal?”
“Uhhhhh….(answer removed in case my mother decides to read this)”
“Do you sleep with 1) Men 2) Women 3) Both?”
“Both….” *starting to feel rather sheepish
"What are you currently using for birth control?"
"Um, well nothing actually"
"Nothing?" *insert quizzical look*
"Well, my husband and I...and then...umm, yeah, nothing" she shakes her head, makes a check, and moves on.
“Are you in a committed relationship?”
“Well that’s rather complicated, I’m going through a divorce and I live with this Vulcan but….”
“Yes or No please”
“Okay…no”
"Are you sexually active?"
"Define *active*"
"Are you having sex with one or more people?"
"Well, yeah...usually just one at a time...heh heh..." another joke goes unappreciated
“You’re getting divorced?”
“Yeah”
“Did he ever abuse you, 1) physically 2) emotionally 3) sexually?”
“Not officially I suppose…but you know it’s…”
“1, 2 or 3 ma’am”
“Uh, no then I guess”
“Have you ever been raped or sexually mistreated in any way?”
“Well, yeah…”
“Here is the number for the local sexual and domestic violence support groups please call if you have any questions concerns or thoughts of suicide. Please strip, put on the gown open to the front and drape the paper over your legs.”

Somehow I had managed to let a complete stranger into the inner workings of my insane lifestyle and sexual indecision, my sordid past, and my uncertain future all using form questions and without once looking me in the eye. I was feeling a smidge exposed and I wasn’t even wearing the paper shrug yet.

For a clinic that purports to be inclusive of all women, they do NOT make paper shrugs for the “full figured” lady of today, I can tell you that much. Desperately clinging to what little modesty I have, I attempt to close the thing over my breasts only to rip it and create an even bigger gap with which to expose myself. I opt instead to pull the paper drape a little higher and hope for the best.

Once I was adequately covered by itchy paper the worlds oldest Nurse practitioner walked into the room. This woman must have been scoping cervix's with stone tools at the dawn of gynaecology. She proceeded to work her way through the same list of exceptionally personal questions the CNA went through, this time with slightly more detail requested, but still using the 1,2,3 system and once again refusing to acknowledge my witticisms. Once I had given her the name of every person I’d ever slept with, their bank account numbers and names of their first pets we were ready to move on to the health history portion of the quiz.

Apparently, I am fat. So that’s been established now. She took a look at my BMI and habits; something she said was new, and was apparently was not an issue back when dinosaurs got pap smears. Now, I’m used to doctors telling me to lose weight and quit smoking, it is not the first time that a doctor has looked at me like a complete idiot when I tell them that I still, even in the age of almost $9.00 a pack, and a widely accepted link between my favorite habit and crippling cancer, smoke cigarettes. However, the look that Doctor Grandma Moses shot me, when I told her not only that this was NOT the heaviest I have ever been, and that yes indeed, I do smoke about half a pack of cigarettes a day, will forever be burned into my skull. I could have told her that I have been humping the devil himself and I don’t think she would have looked half as horrified.

After promising to continue losing weight and give up the cancer sticks, she was finally ready to inspect my nether regions and prep me for the eventual temporary sterilization I have requested. I realize has she's prepping the tools that I had forgotten to shave my legs, which is for whatever reason, more embarrassing to me than all of the other questions I was forced to answer combined. After a muffled apology, and wondering why they decided octopus gloves with tiny eyeballs were the appropriate stirrup covering apparatus, I was able to calm down and let her do her thing.

The rest of the visit went routinely, despite my rampant sluttiness and disgusting personal habits, apparently my cervix is just ducky, so that’s good to know. I go in next week to see the Cro-magnon gynecologist and get my IUD inserted. Hopefully they will have my fascinating sexual history neatly filled in on the form so I don't have to repeat the sordid facts of my past. I suppose if nothing else it will make for another amusing blog post!

Slack...such Slack.

!

Well, I guess so much for NaPloBloMo, the power went out at our place and our internet has yet to be restored. Things have been so nuts at work that this tiny post is all I'm going to be able to get out today.

So, instead of an acutal blog, as that would take brain space i don't have, here is a question of the day for my readers (you loyal few)

*Pornography, love it, hate it, feel its a tool of the man to keep women down or a fun filled way to spice up a night? Along with that, what makes something pornographic? Where is that line between "artistic documentary" and "soft core sleaze"?

Leave your thoughts in my comments section and if so inclined, blog about it, and track back to me.

looking forward to your responses

Are you Freaking Kidding me?

And we are ready to begin the first of many installments of my new sub-blog webisodes-titled "Are you Freaking KIDDING Me?"

The purpose of these entries will be to highlight some of the more outrageous violations of common sense and decency in these United States and eventually, abroad. I hoping to keep it to weekly, but we shall see, this is one crazy country!

So today's installment was pilfered from my friend Dan via facebook, and put there from Fox News.com, feel free to check out the original article "New Oklahoma Abortion Law"

The long and short of the issue is that Oklahoma state law is now requiring doctors and abortion clinics to list statstical information regarding each abortion they provide to be listed on a public access website. This information includes:

The paitent's age
Town
Income level
Race
Marital Status
Number of Live births
Number of previous abortions
and propably even more than that.

Now, i don't know how many of you have had abortions, how you feel about them, or what your politics/religious convictions dictate, but not taking that into consideration, leaving it completely out of the picture, we can admit the following about this mandatory reporting initiative:

1) This is blatantly against the Health Insurance Privitazation and Portability Act stature set forth in 1996. Paitent's have the right to say no, i do not want my private medical and statsitcal information set forth on the internet.

2) This list may be able to provide important statistical data that could be used for education and birth control and family planning resource allocation, and thats super, but lets face it, for every smidge of grant money that might be allocated (we'll see if that even happens) there will be some right wing nut job group hunting down people that have had abortions and looking for some way to make their lives miserable. Leaving this information open to the public puts the doctors, clinics, and paitents at risk. Abortion is still a volitale issue in the United States. As recently as May of 2009 Dr. George Tiller was shot and killed in his church in Wichita, Kansas for providing abortions according to Pro-Choic.org this along with a number of arson attempts, bomb threats, anthrax threats and a disturbing bout of Butyric Acid attacks throughout 1998. These instances are obviously the extreme, the relatively innocuous protesters outside the Planned Parenthood in my town annoy passer by and inspire shame and fear in potential paitents, but they don't neccessarily perpetuate acts of violence. But the fact remains, the violence is still alive and well, and the intimidation and hate that many anti-abortion (I will NOT refer to them as pro-lifers for so many reasons) have is strong and prominent and listing the information of women who have had abortions, and clinics and doctors that perform them on the internet for any kook to see is a terrible idea.

I just don't understand how anyone, whether they believe in the practice of abortion or no, would agree that it is okay to post private, potentially damaging, personal information, in a world as volatile as this, with people who are as unstable as we Americans can be.

And so I ask again, Are you Freaking KIDDING ME?

Get Me My Army Boots...

For the third time in a week I have heard or seen people, some that I actually respect, one that I supposedly love, look at me in horror, and protest adamantly that they are most definitely NOT a Feminist.

What?

In the words of my idol, Margaret Cho, "If you aren't a feminist, you should just kill yourself"

All genius of Ms Cho aside, there are few comments that leave me speechless, but this is one of them. Two of these people were women, and one was my husband. What is it with the fear surrounding the title, philosophy, army boot uniform procurement, of calling yourself a feminist.

What is the problem here? I think, as far as the husband goes, he has this idea that to consider ones self a feminist, one must be, well, a woman. Which is a common misconception among men. In anger and shock I yelled at him, "Did you come from, or in a vagina at any point in your life? Then you better be a fucking feminist." a little crass, but the point I was trying to make was that as a man who loves his mother, and his wife, and for that matter, his daughter, and wants them to live in a world where their voices are heard and they are treated equally, he is, unbeknown-st to himself, a feminist.

Him, I can understand to a degree, he still doesn't believe me, and I'm sure my emphatic use of the word "vagina" did not help my cause, but he continues to be a loving husband and father, and a man who recognizes his bawdy, brash, strong wife as an equal partner in their relationship and in the world, so I am willing to forgive his ignorance.

Now, we come to the women.

COME ON GIRLS!

Why, as independent, strong willed, mothers of daughters, and intelligent women of the new millennium would any of us deny, or even be offended by, being called a feminist? When did feminism become a dirty word?

A post I was reading on The F Word tonight summed it up

"While few women would disagree with the need for gender equality, a wedge has somehow been driven between this and the cause of feminism, the two are no longer synonymous. To most, the mere mention of feminism evokes rolled eyes or an indulgent chuckle, it is a caricature of its former self and deserted by my generation like a elderly parent forced to rely on the state for care in old age."

Is it the equation with extreme gender politics? The idea that marching is mandatory? Is it an armpit hair thing? Don't worry ladies, I just reviewed my handbook, and shaving is okay now! Thank you Third Wave Feminism!

It might also be this constant squabble between the various factions of feminism that I have been noticing a lot of. Within any movement, there is a tendency for rouge sects to form. But somehow within the feminist movement we have gotten on this kick of trying to out victimize each other, and that shit has GOT to stop.

A post i was reading awhile back, unfortunately I can't find it again, was talking about all of mommy bloggers out in the blogosphere and how our voices, while important, we not as important as the childless feminists out here in the blogosphere, and how those who were childless were being marginalized by those that chose to have children. oh please. I'm way too busy wiping stuff off my ceiling to marginalize you. But then the comments came in, from the lower socioeconomic blogging moms, the blogging moms of color, the queer blogging moms of color, the queer Latina one legged blind childless dog aficionado male identified blogging feminists. What is with this need to assign a taxonomy to ourselves? Maybe this is my white, lower middle class, child choosing privilege talking, but why aren't we uniting to boost ourselves up, instead of dividing to tear each other down? If any thing would give me pause to keep from claiming the moniker of "Feminist" that would be it, I don't want to be seen as 1) a victim or 2) one who victimizes of my fellow women.

I'll admit, I'm a lazy feminist, I haven't protested a damn think outside of my living room and the occasional re-post on facebook, I haven't donated money to any kind of cause, and I've haven't taken a stand publicly about the thousands of images of abuse and exploitation that bombard my television every night, but regardless, I am still willing to claim the title, that's my little contribution to the cause, take it or leave it.

If you are one of those many women that shudder, or roll your eyes at being labeled a feminist, or a man that is convinced you have to have a vagina to respect someone that has one, take a look at the list below and see if there is even one thing you relate to, if you do, "You just might be...a Feminist" embrace it, and shave your legs, I won't tell.

Why I am a Feminist, by Amy Hickel

10) I firmly believe that women, of all colors, sexualities, and socioeconomic classes, have been overlooked, demonized, demoralized, sexualized and exocticized in the media for the benefit of giant advertising dollars. It has been time for that to stop since the first beer add was chiseled on a cave wall with a cave lady in a skimpy saber skin bending over a wheel.

09) I believe that the voices of women are every bit as important, and in many cases, more important than the voices of the white male majority, or any other person. Not becuase we necessarily have better, or more important things to say, but becuase we have been left out of conversations that impact us directly for far too long. Regardless of your stance on reproductive rights, the ERA, or public health care, these things affect us, and our voices MUST be heard so that we aren't left out in the cold wondering where our birth control ran off to. Its about choice, the choice to wear your baby, or to not have one at all, to choose to stay home, or go to work, to know that some people don't get that choice and not begrudge them what they have to do to survive. To choose to wear pearls, or to fatigues, to march against, or for, your country, to know that no one else gets to make those choices for you and to keep it that way.

08) I believe that history was written by white men, advertised by white men, and taught for far too long by white men. There is so much more to history than the books we are given in school and the regurgitated rhetoric we hear from our grandparents. Taking it upon ourselves to learn what we want to know, and not accept blindly everything we are taught not only makes us more intelligent as a population, but stronger. Only by knowing our history can we keep from repeating our mistakes.

07) I love men, some of my best friends are men, good men, who, whether they want to admit it or not, are feminists. I love men so much that I want them to have the same voice that I want in my government, in the media, and in the history books. I love men so much I want to work with them everyday, be the boss of some of them, and even let one or two be boss over me. I want to be paid the same for doing the same work and I don't want that to have to even be a factor in the decision making process when I am hired. I want men to have paternity leave, and benefits, and to not feel bad about how they look, or whether they cry when they watch the Notebook, you would have to have a heart of stone not to cry at that movie its so freaking sad! Men are not the problem, women are not the problem, the problem is that we have been taught, by people who were taught, that were taught by other people, that the status quo is okay, that standing up for yourself, your rights, and the way the world views you is somehow unpatriotic or uncouth. Well, it isn't, lets un learn those lessons.

06) I love balls. Baseballs, softballs, soccer balls, volleyballs, you name it, I'll hit kick or put it. There is a whole generation of women out there that need female role models that play with balls, and show them that playing with balls is okay, and a hell of a lot better than doing drugs, getting knocked up, or using your body to get what you want. Those women that like balls need to show the little girls that like balls that you can play sports, and be feminine, and that feminine, does not always mean hairless and coated in makeup, but if that is what your idea of feminine is, then go for it. Along with allowing you to play with balls, allowing you to define your own femininity is just as, if not more, important.

05) I Don't want to hate my body. I struggle with it, who doesn't? but I really want to be able to look at myself in the mirror and thing "cool". I want to see women that look like me, or, at least a more interesting and together version of me, on TV, and not always as the "Fat but quirky friend" I want to be the STAR DAMMIT. I know so many actresses, writers, drama nerds, and musicians that are amazingly talented and beautiful, trying to break out of their small town theater groups, but are too afraid to try becuase they don't have "the look" whatever that look may be at this moment. I want my daughter to turn on the freaking WB one day and see a tall, gangly, pink headed smart ass with buck teeth and think, "I want to grow up to be just like that".

04) I want real choices for my daughter. I want her to find a way other than by using her body, to be loved. I want her to know that her voice is important, and that her brain, sass, and manners, are what will help her get ahead in life. I don't want her to think that her worth lies in the eyes of a man, or another woman, or a group of them. I want her to know that feeling pain is not the only way to feel. I want her to know that being a feminist is not only okay, its kick ass! And if she wants to grow up to be a princess, or a doctor, or a princess doctor like she said last week, she has just as much of a chance of doing it as anyone else does.

03) I don't want to be afraid to go out alone at night, or in the city during the day, and I don't want hate or fear of the unknown to extend to my family. I don't want my son (well, future son hopefully) to think its okay to call women "bitches" "cunts" or "whores" or anyone a "fag" or "queer" or use the term "that's so gay" becuase teaching our kids that words have power is just as important as teaching them to read. When they use these phrases, they make someone else small, and leave that kid just a little bit dumber than he was before he said it. I don't want dumb kids, Sponge Bob is doing enough to turn them stupid, I don't want language doing it too. I want them to know that words can hurt, and words can heal, and words can lift up. Instead of commenting on someones fat tummy they can comment on their nice eyes. Or they can say hello to that person and get to know who they are and judge them on their merits once they have given them a chance.

02) I don't want to apologize for myself. In college, every woman in my class would preface her answers with "I don't know but, " or "I'm sorry but..." before answering a question. Why? I don't think we need to apologize for wanting to contribute to the universal dialogue. I refuse to ask permission to contribute my say in my marriage or at my job, especially when the decisions being made directly affect my happiness and well being. I think 98% of men don't feel we need to ask permission to participate in class, or at work, or in our families, stop asking permission, stop apologizing for having a voice, use it!

01) I am a woman. I was born a woman, and by the grace of whatever God is out there I was put in the right body at the right time. We are a society on the out edges of a technological Renaissance. Lets stop wasting it on Viagra and boob jobs please? Ladies, pen a sonnet, sing a song, start a blog, just get your voice out there. Men, do the same and support your women and they will support you. Being a woman does not make you inferior, and admitting that women are equally important in the advancement of society does not make a man less masculine. Use these new technologies to support each other, create things, share them with each other, and learn more about the world than what is piped in by Comcast every night.

I'm good with being a woman, a chubby, plain, loud mouthed, smooth legged, opinionated feminist Mommy that doesn't see anything wrong with being who she is, most days any way, and wants to embrace that F word, Feminist, I'm takin' it back.

Are you?

Neon Pink World- Trying to raise a feminist daughter

My daughter, the pink headed nightmare of any grown up tomboy, Helen Reddy singing  mother.

I read the Myth of Motherhood, I read and re-read CUNT, and BITCH and BUST and Hip Mama. I highlighted and circled The Secret Lives of girls, and Little X. I listened and listened hard during my Women's Studies lectures on the evils of gender specific marketing, Barbie, Disney, Nickelodeon, et.al.

I truly believe that girls, and boys, should be allowed to play with and how they want regardless of gender stereotypes and mass marketing campaigns. So, when I got pregnant I was so ready to put it all into practice. I did want to learn the gender of my unborn fetus,  mostly becuase i was tired of calling my belly "little bean" and I couldn't wait to write it in the baby book, which was yellow and blue and covered in gender neutral jungle animals, just like the nursery.

Of course, as soon as I told everyone the news (I have a big mouth) the pink started rolling in. I tried to discourage it, raving at my family that "Just becuase she is a girl does NOT mean that she will like pink, ponies and glitter!" but, as a poor soon to be mother, I certainly wasn't in a position to turn down free swag, so I figured I would supplement all the sparkly pink stuff with the green and blue stuff my friend gave me from her son and just let the kid wear whatever was clean and play with whatever she fancied. My resolve was solid, she would be a child with balls, (soccer, football, baseball) and little to no mass media affiliation, in her toy box.

So then, along came Lily.  As a baby, when her wardrobe and toy choices were relatively in my control, she did just that, play with trucks and balls and bears and so on, wore what was available, and due to a rather lucrative baby shower, I didn't actually have to buy clothes or toys for nearly two years!

Around the time of her second birthday we found that she had finally outgrown the last of the baby shower booty (those women really thought ahead and I love them for it!) and it was time to go pick out some new clothes, and since her birthday was coming up, I thought we might take a stroll through the toy aisle and get an idea for gifts.

Again, becuase I am poor, and kind of lazy, I admit that I did take her to the local Evil Conglomerate Super Store, something I swore I wasn't going to do when I was a Righteous Babe with a pixie cut and rock solid principles in college, but, as cute as the sturdy,  locally made wooden toys are at the non-chain,  locally owned toy store are, I just can't afford them. That,  and becuase there is usually a 3 to 6 month window of interest in toys that you buy for a two year old, I justified to myself  that my youthful principles were not that important, (this was not the first, nor the last time this happened, more on that in the future) and that cheap and plastic would be fine.

So this is probably where it all went wrong.

We took her to the clothing aisle first, looking at the overalls, jeans and stretch pants, I saw my little person toddle away from me at her typical blinding speed. I hightailed after her and found her there, clutching a sequined purple belly shirt about four sizes too big and bedazzled with the phrase "Diva" or something equally ridiculous.

At first, I laughed and said "well isn't that a silly shirt!" reaching down to return it to its hanger. But when my hand reached the sequined monstrosity, I found that something was holding it back, hindering its replacement on the hanger next to the other inappropriate clothing for women not working a corner in Reno.  Assuming it had to be caught on something,  I looked down to free it and found instead, a two year old with a look of resolve and longing on her face I have only seen on mothers lifting cars off their children. "I need it, it's pretty" she says.

"Honey, it's too big and it isn't practical, lets go look at the jeans, over here" and I start to walk away, naively assuming my child will buckle under my simple reasoning.

"No... I need it, its...Pretty..." she says, slower this time, so that her mother, who is CLEARLY an idiot, will understand her attachment to this now entirely necessary piece of clothing.

"Lil, look, this outfit is silly, you are 2, you can't be a Diva, its not possible, and all the sequins will fall off in a day, how can you run around and climb trees in sequins?" forgetting, as I often do, that two year old's are not rational beings when they want something and want it now, I again assumed the matter would be closed. I picked her up, with the shirt, and placed her back in the cart, assuming that she would find something more interesting to play with once we reached the toy aisle.

I tried, once again to pry the offending item from my daughters' grasp and was greeted with "MOMMY, I NEED IT, IT'S PRETTY!" She says for a third time, this time with an air of panic in her voice, seeing that despite her pleas I was not in fact, getting the urgency of the situation.

"Lil, you are not getting that shirt so give it up alright? Lets go pick out a new book?" I say, never above bribery.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" and it begins, the kicking, the screaming, the general "I need it now and you are not doing as I say" temper tantrums two year old children are notorious for throwing in the middle of shopping centers. As she kicked and screamed I was able to pry the shirt from her grasp, throw it on a pile of something else and make a break for the toy aisle, hoping that perusing the board books would distract her long enough to figure out what to get her for her birthday.

We started in sporting goods, the tantrum beginning to subside, and I naively assumed that this was simply a momentary lapse in her judgment, that she was some how only attracted by the shininess of the shirt, that it did not equate to a closet full of booty shorts and platform heels by first grade. I had not lost her yet, we were okay.

We passed through the ball aisle, I showed her tiny mitts and soccer balls and basket balls in all shapes and colors, and she turned her nose up at every one.

So next came the cars, nope, legos? not a chance, educational video game toys? mmmmmaybe...but only if they're pink...(what?) and then...she see's it, her eye lighting up at the neon pink glow emanating from across the store, my nightmare, Barbie, babies, bottles and fairies.

"Mom, I want to see!" she shrieks, tossing the board book on animals of the barn yard to the floor.

"What harm can it do?" little did I know. I let her down from the cart and she toddled as fast as her nearly two year old legs could carry her to the nearest baby doll and toy vacuum cleaner. She cleaned, she cuddled, she said the words I had hoped I would never hear "Mom, I want the GIRL toys".

Oh the shame. The humiliation. The failing grade in Women's Studies.

"Honey," I said gently "These aren't just for girls, boys can play with babies, and girls can play with trucks, toys are just toys! And wouldn't you rather look over here at the jump ropes and explorer sets?" I smiled and nodded, picking up a toy magnifying glass and butterfly net to reinforce my point. "Mom, those are for boys!" she said with a look of disgust on her face. "I want a BABY!" Oh God.

And she never went back. After discussing it with my husband, my friends, my sisters, and my mother, I came to the conclusion that if the kid wants a baby, whats the harm in letting her have a baby? Well, I'll tell you, babies are gateway toy's. They lead to unicorns, fairies and that plastic bitch herself, Barbie. (Which I have manged to keep out of her hands successfully for the time being) Which bring on the princesses, the tea parties, the dress up clothes, the fake make up and the plastic purses and cell phones, all pink,  that color I so firmly hated and rebelled against in my own awkward youth.

Its not just the toys either, her room went from cheerfully gender neutral, to pastel pink and purple in a matter of months, her shoes, once awesome flamed converse, are pink sandals with Dora stamped on the front. I hear every day "That's what boys do mom" or "I want the girls to win" and while I try to encourage a healthy sense of female unity, I worry that this whole "boys vs. girls" dichotomy she is setting up will create such mystery and fear surrounding the opposite sex that she will either be terrified or fascinated by them during puberty, and frankly, I'm not thinking either choice is a good one.

So, as I pushed and pushed for my pink haired sparkle princess, tea party daughter to embrace the world of sports and bugs and puddle jumping I started thinking.
"What really is the harm?"  And though I had said this before with disastrous results, this time, I remembered something that I gleaned from on particular Women's Studies class so long ago, that Feminism, is about choice.

That's right boys, as much as you could have SWORN it was about oppressing men and taking over the world with your balls in our hands, that just isn't how it works.

To be a feminist yourself, and in particular a feminist parent, you have to realize that at the very core of this movement, Third Wave Feminism in particular, is the ability to choose ones own destiny, and that forcing a non-conformist or alternative point of view on a child that just doesn't want it is as equally oppressive and stifling as forcing them to conform to the traditional definition of gender roles and identity.

We truly want a world where our daughters can play sports, be good at math and science, not be forced to take Home EC, be the president of a company, or even the US, and have all the opportunities that are extended to the boys of our culture without the oppression and double standards that have traditionally accompanied any sort of progress.

But we can't forget that there are some girls and women out there that really LIKE baking pies, really want to stay home raising babies, and feel good about themselves when they wear pearls and pink sparkles, and may do all three while playing basketball or running a fortune 500 company. And that does not make them any less of a feminist than it does any other woman, in some ways, isn't that what the fight is all about?

I resolved that if Lily wanted to play babies and dolls I was happy to let her express her imagination and nurturing side, but would avoid the ones I really felt strongly about (like Bratz, seriously, those bitches need jobs) And when she spouted those antiquated notions such as; "I want to be a princess because they are pretty and being pretty is what makes people like you"

I would respond with something other than a ranting speech on the merits of brains and threatening to burn her video collection. Instead, I say "being pretty is really fun Lily, and you are super pretty, and look at what a good friend Cinderella was to the little mice, they were so ready to help her when she got locked up! You're a good friend too, remember how you helped Adam find his Sponge Bob toy? or Look how smart and independent Jasmine was not letting her daddy tell her she had to marry someone she didn't like, I'm so glad you're smart and independent too." and I think it might be starting to work.

She still likes to vacuum in her pink sparkle heels, but sometimes she wants to play baseball in them too! We have started playing more games and watching fewer movies and television shows, and talking more about the shows and movies we do watch, hoping that with constant dialogue, and opportunities to correct what we see that we don't agree with, she will be able to spot those in equalities and untruths for herself one day.

I have no idea what she will be like when she's older, she could throw me for a complete 180 and be a white faced black haired goth demon, or she could bleach out her hair, join the dance team and start speaking valley girl (kill me) but, at least I will know that if she does, it will be her choice and she will be able to own it. How much more feminist can you get?