“I want to be a nerd,” declares my 5-year-old daughter. In today’s world, being a nerd is celebrated. It signifies intelligence, sass, and a connection with the present. This shift in language is a beautiful testament to how words evolve. She is enthralled by “Big Hero 6,” particularly the moment when Hiro designs superhero costumes, a scene that captivates both her and her older sister.
“I want to be someone who builds things!” my 7-year-old exclaims.
“You mean an engineer,” I respond.
“YES, AN ENGINEER!” she echoes, and I swell with pride. The Barbies lie abandoned on the floor, untouched. She even refuses to buy a back-to-school dress, claiming it would hinder her speed. I give her a high-five.
I believe I’m doing everything right. I am the quintessential mother.
At my sister’s home, my youngest confidently tells her cousin that colors have no gender; they are simply colors, and she can choose green if she likes it. I can’t help but boast to my friends about my accomplishments in parenting.
But the Parenting Gods are unforgiving. Pride is a tricky emotion, something to be handled with care, like dipping your toes into a chilly lake.
My 7-year-old has transformed into a Minecraft enthusiast. She constructs castles and roller coasters, delves into deep mines inhabited by wolves (Why wolves? I wonder). She hunts animals for food, which is horrifying yet eerily realistic. She discusses strategies for defeating zombies—“There’s so much killing involved,” my partner comments. “You wouldn’t be concerned if she were a boy,” I argue. We reach a stalemate.
She shouts at her “iPad,” a budget-friendly knock-off tablet we got her for her birthday after reading about the benefits of Minecraft for problem-solving skills. Competence is my priority.
“Die, zombies!” she yells, and I try not to wince because that would be hypocritical. Yet, these words from my sweet girl seem so boyish, so rough. I grapple with my own biases as a feminist mother. My doubts swirl, but the world around us is louder than my voice.
“Run away like the little girl that you are!” she growls at the screen one day.
“Where did you hear that?” I ask, taken aback. #Likeagirl is synonymous with speed, strength, and power.
She shrugs. “Camp.”
Camp—with 12-year-old boys—where hashtags of girl power mean little.
“Do you think little girls run away?” I inquire.
She rolls her eyes. “Mom, it’s just a saying.”
All my confidence evaporates. I’m fighting an uphill battle against a culture that tells her girls are inferior. My voice seems to fade into an echo chamber of doubt.
Yet, I can’t remain silent. “Don’t you think little boys run when they’re scared? And little girls can fight back sometimes?” I push. She disregards my questions.
Later, we watch “The Sandlot,” a film I adored as a child, though it’s filled with sexist undertones and profanity, perhaps too mature for my daughters. As I brace myself, a scene I had forgotten pops up—the one where Porter, the brash, freckled boy, yells, “You play ball like a girl!” The crowd gasps; it’s the ultimate insult.
I hold my breath, casting a sidelong glance at my girls.
My oldest smirks at her sister. “Whatever. We’re better than those guys, right?”
“Right!” my 5-year-old chimes in. They clasp hands, their jaws set, eyes narrowed. They appear genuinely indignant.
It’s a beautiful moment.
This article was originally published on October 24, 2015.
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Summary:
In this reflective piece, the author shares her experiences raising daughters with a focus on fostering their independence and resilience amidst societal pressures. Through moments of pride and self-doubt, she navigates the challenges of instilling feminist values in a world that often undermines them. Ultimately, the story highlights the importance of encouraging girls to embrace their strengths and defy stereotypes.