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Raising a Feminist Child: A Journey Through Parenting
“I want to be a nerd,” my 5-year-old daughter exclaims. It’s amazing how the term has transformed; now, being a nerd signifies intelligence, attitude, and awareness. She adores watching Big Hero 6, especially the part where Hiro designs superhero costumes, which fascinates her and her older sister.
“I want to be someone who builds things,” my 7-year-old declares.
“You mean an engineer!” I respond, beaming with pride.
“YES, AN ENGINEER!” she repeats for days on end. The Barbies lay forgotten on the floor, and she refuses to buy a back-to-school dress, insisting it would slow her down. I give her a high-five; I feel like I’m doing everything right. I am Every Mother.
At my sister’s house, I overhear my youngest telling her cousin that colors aren’t just for boys or girls—they’re simply colors, and she can love green if she wants to. I can’t help but boast to my friends, proud of my little feminists in training!
However, the Parenting Gods are quick to remind me to stay humble. I tread carefully, as pride can lead to unexpected challenges.
My 7-year-old dives headfirst into the world of Minecraft, constructing castles and roller coasters, and yes, even deep mines full of wolves (Why wolves?). She hunts animals for food (it’s gruesome but also strikingly realistic) and discusses her strategies for defeating zombies. My husband raises an eyebrow at her violent gaming, but I counter that he wouldn’t mind if she were a boy. We hit a stalemate.
She passionately yells at her tablet—a budget-friendly knock-off that I got her for her birthday after hearing about how Minecraft enhances problem-solving skills. I try to ignore my discomfort as she yells, “Die, zombies!” These words feel so boyish and tough coming from my sweet girl, and I find myself wrestling with my own biases.
“Run away like the little girl that you are!” she growls at the screen one day, and I can’t help but be taken aback.
“Where did you get that phrase?” I ask. The phrase “#Likeagirl” should mean strong and powerful, but not to her.
“Camp,” she replies casually, where she hangs out with 12-year-old boys—where girl power slogans have no weight.
“Do you think little girls run away?” I challenge.
She rolls her eyes. “Mom, it’s just an expression.”
My confidence starts to crumble. I’m up against a culture that tells her girls are lesser. My voice feels lost in the echo chamber of societal norms.
Yet, I can’t remain silent. “Don’t you think boys get scared too? And that sometimes girls stand their ground?” I press, but she brushes me off.
Later, we watch The Sandlot, a movie I cherished in my youth, but now I see the layers of sexism and inappropriate language that I missed as a child. Then it happens—the line that stings: “You play ball like a girl!” This is the ultimate insult, and I hold my breath, watching my daughters.
My oldest glances at her younger sister, smirking. “Um, whatever. We’re better than those guys, right?”
“Right!” my 5-year-old agrees, as they clasp hands and glare defiantly.
It’s a moment of solidarity.