March 8th marks International Women’s Day.  I have decided to set aside my cynicism (at least publicly) and be positive.

That we shouldn’t need a day doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have one; we still need it.

I have many hopes for all who identify as women.  I look forward to a time when:

• what makes us different is celebrated and valued
• we are all free to make our own choices without fear of judgment and persecution for not meeting gender role expectations
• we are free to be proud of our gender and what it affords us
• we can stop feeling pressure to meet the male standard and seek sameness, but change the standard to include and value what makes us women
• we can all possess ownership of of our bodies and reproductive potential
• we can all express ourselves in ways that we deem appropriate
• we all have access to equitable opportunities, pay, and acknowledgement
• the unpaid work that we do is valued as much or more than the paid work we do
• we all receive recognition for what we contribute to the world in which we live

I look forward to a time when we don’t have to designate a day to celebrate our worth.

What are your hopes for those of the world who identify as women?

I just read this post by Maria at Bored Mommy.  The following was a comment that was left on her blog (unedited).

“Why is it that you call yourselves “mommies”? It’s infantile, like being called a girl instead of a woman. If giving birth (or adopting) and raising a child is so important, why don’t you insist on the dignity of the word “parent”? Or “mother” — if you insist on focusing on gender as well? I am a parent and I was “mommie” only to my children and then only when they were young. No wonder men and childfree women don’t take you seriously: You are endlessly self-absorbed, boring, juvenile, and have nothing to say for yourselves beyond your reproductive status and childrearing.

I take issue with a lot of what is in this comment, some of which I’ll tackle, some I won’t dignify with a response.

First of all, I call myself “mommy” because that is what I am – that is what my son calls me.   There are many words that describe me, but at this point, I am most proud of mommy.  Call me mother, mommy, mom, mama, ma… it doesn’t change who I am and what my relationship is to my son.  I don’t consider any one more dignified than another because they all boil down to the fact that I am responsible for raising the most amazing kid I’ve ever known.

I rarely refer to myself as mommy in the public or online sphere – mostly because my blog preceded my endless self-absorption and preoccupation with my reproductive status and child rearing efforts.  I don’t discourage it or shy away from it, though; I talk about being a mommy, about my son, about what I’ve learned from him; I share stories of his growth and his milestones…

There is no job that I have ever taken more seriously than raising the human who calls me mommy, and if there is anything  infantile about the word, it is because it is tailored to children who are learning to talk!

Yes, I am a parent, but I prefer to not be called that.  I have no interest in being gender-neutral.  There is nothing wrong with my gender, in fact, I embrace it.  I am a woman – you can even call me girl for all I care, just don’t strip me of my gender identity.

Ultimately, this comment left on Maria’s blog is not about me; it is about the woman who left it.  However, to her I say… I am one proud mommy.

Over the years, I have acquired quite the collection of dolls from all over the world – but they are not dolls for playing – with porcelain faces, hands, and feet.  When Q was a baby, I put a few out on shelves his room.

He started noticing them a couple of weeks ago, pointing to the dolls and saying “Baby? Baby, please?”  I would take them down and hold them while he stroked their faces and gave them gentle kisses.  I knew it was time to get him his own baby to hug and to hold.  I also knew that it would be easier said than done.

As I set out on my quest, I realized just how difficult a task it would be.

I had 2 criteria for his doll:

1. Not white
2. Gender-neutral (although I was willing to settle for a ‘boy’ doll)

Every store I went to had aisles of white dolls that boasted various features and fancy gimmicks.  The few black dolls were all decked out in pink.  The gender-neutral and ‘boy’ dolls I found were all white.

I went to 5 stores in 3 different cities with no luck and figured I had 2 options.

a: Go to the US and hope to find one there
b: Buy one off the Internet

Neither option worked for me.  That I had would have to go to another country or order online (when I could pick a doll up at any Dollar Store for my white nieces) was absurd and abhorrent to me.

Sure, I could have gotten Q white doll, but my son deserves to have access to a “baby” that resembles him.  It is important to me that his toys and books reflect a balance of racial representation that he will not see on TV, in school books, or (evidently) in his local toy store.

Q's Baby

In the end, this is what I got him.  It barely meets either of my criteria (although it is darker than it looks in the pic),  but he couldn’t wait.   Every night, he was more desperate for a “baby.”

I know that the fact that I haven’t had to deal with (or even encounter) this until my 30s is evidence of the privilege that has been afforded me because of my racial identity.  For my entire life, white privilege has given me access to dolls that resemble me (although ironically, most of the dolls in my collection are neither white nor ‘girls’).

When I brought the doll into the house and Q saw it, his face lit up!  He gleefully screamed “Baby! Baby! Baby!”  Q doesn’t know what colour his “baby” is or what that means, but I hope that this doll (and those to come) contribute in some way to his self-worth and sense of identity.

My son hit a milestone today; his hair is finally long enough to pull back into a ponytail!!  His dad and I have been waiting for this day since his hair’s been long enough to tangle!  Cutting it has not been an option for a few reasons, so we’ve been managing with hair picks and detangler and tears and struggles.  But now… oh, NOW we can tie it up and keep the tangles away (at least until he’s old enough to sit still for braids).

Anyway, I was super-excited to comb his Don King hairstyle into a bitty sumo bun.  He didn’t seem to care about it at all – shockingly, he barely noticed.  All was well. 

And then we went out.

In public.

The woman checking us out at one store asked me how old she was and told me that she‘s a very well-behaved child.

This struck me for a few reasons.

1. He’s never been called a girl. Ever
2. He was wearing blue jogging pants, an orange t-shirt, and white sneakers (with red and blue stripes); for better or worse, not something I’d ever see on my nieces or his girl friends.

I found it interesting that had his hair been down and curly, she would never have called him a girl. This got me thinking… his “gendered hairstyle” trumped his “gendered clothing!”  The ponytail influenced her assumptions more than his clothes did.

I didn’t correct her.  I’d like to say it was because I didn’t want to embarrass her, but it was actually because I didn’t want her to wonder why I put the poor boy in a ponytail.  No mother wants her credentials questioned.  It was none of her business, anyway. I don’t really care if she thinks he’s a girl.

Today reminded me of just how arbitrary our society’s binary gender designations are… the slightest alteration and people question, misinterpret, or become confused.  The boxes are so small that one little hair elastic changed Q’s gender. Weird.

Dear Q,

Human identity is almost  entirely based upon the physical form – the body.  Our gender, our race, our ability status, our age, our sexual orientation, our sexuality, etc, are attributes of our physical selves.  Everything except what we know is attached to our physical form.  Our physical form determines our worth.  Right or wrong, that is what I know about the world in which we live.

Our physical form embodies us.  It makes us visible and gives us shape.  Our bodies enable us, and they limit us.  You will not be able to escape the labels that people put upon you based upon your physical form, but remember that it does not represent the essence of you.  It is temporary and when you leave Earth, it will stay here.  You will still exist.

Love,
Mom