Tempered Fragility

Disclaimer: I am not a parent. I just read a lot of blogs written by mothers.

The next time I read a blog post in which a parent worries endlessly about the new phase their child is going through, I’m going to post ‘YOUR LITTLE DARLING WILL SURVIVE. AND WILL PROBABLY GROW UP TO BE JUST AS ANXIOUS AS YOU.’ just like that, with capitals and everything.

Because frankly, I’ve had enough.

Children go through phases. Their tastes change as quickly as their moods. They are growing, and developing, and becoming real little people from the minute they’re born. Your boy-child may well like My Little Pony and playing tea-party with his stuffed animals when he is three. He might be climbing trees and catching all sorts of disgusting things for you by the time he’s four.

That’s called growth. Development. That thing that kids do.

If your daughter likes Disney princesses instead of Dora, then let her enjoy them. You have years to teach her about morals, and peer pressure, and inner beauty. There will be plenty of opportunities to show her that beautiful can mean many things, that she shouldn’t depend on men all the time, that she should make her own decisions. She’ll probably be more receptive when she’s out of nappies, anyway.

Likewise, if your son wants to do nothing more than dig in the dirt and play with toy cars, let him. Stop worrying about him thinking pink is for girls, or not wanting to play with dolls. He won’t always think like that; I’m sure you’ve matured somewhat since you were three. If you show him that men can be gentle too, that they can wear pink and cry and even feel, I think he’ll be just fine.

In short: if you’re laying awake at night wondering why your three-year-old isn’t challenging gender stereotypes at every opportunity, then you’re doing it wrong. Gender stereotypes are generalisations and they don’t apply to everyone. Stereotypical behaviour doesn’t guarantee that your child will be a helpless slave to their gender and everything it entails, either.

You, as a parent, have the most influence over the adult your child becomes.

Disclaimer #2: There are posts all over the internet where mothers (such as Her Bad Mother and Uppercase Woman) talk about this ‘issue’, but the real inspiration for this post were the hundreds (seriously) of comments left on various blogs where mothers everywhere worried, obsessed and stressed about how their little boys and girls weren’t quite the well-rounded individuals that mummy and daddy felt they should be.

Shit. This post sounds angry. I’m not angry. I’m just sick of parents worrying over every tiny thing, about stuff that shouldn’t even be an issue. When I was five, I loved wearing flouncy dresses and pretty shoes. When my grandmother let me wear lipstick, it made my day. I smiled and twirled and tra-la-laed, even. I adored Disney movies. I played with Barbie dolls and baby dolls. I wanted a prince to save me.

I’m not like that any more. I grew up; I became a different person. I like to think that I’m strong, that I can think for myself. I don’t need a boyfriend to be happy, or believe that I’m worth something. I understand that women and men are equal, and I hate stereotypes, as you may have guessed. I believe that I can look beautiful without makeup and a princess dress, too.

Growth. It’s a wonderful thing.

Also? TV will not kill your child. They won’t get turned away from college because you let them watch an extra hour of whatever brain-numbing show they happen to love. Everyone watches TV. EVEN YOU. So stop worrying that you’re going to rob your kid of the chance to be the next Einstein.

Last weekend, Tiffany saw a skywriter for the first time. She asked me all about them.

I told her about the first time I remembered seeing a skywriter. I don’t know how old I was, but my cousin Mark and I were standing in his backyard, and we watched it draw straight, tall letters for what seemed like hours, struggling to guess each letter before it was complete. I remember that it took us a long, long time to actually figure out what it said, what it meant.

I couldn’t remember what the skywriter had actually been advertising for the life of me, though.

Then, last night while I was taking two and a half hours to get home, I read a short story in The Sleepers Almanac (No. 4) titled ‘Small World 2001′ by Andrew Preston. And right there, in a short story written by someone I’ve never met, in a book that I only know about because of my course, was this:

“After having a coffee, they walk along St Kilda pier. They hear a buzzing above them. Looking up, they see a light plane doing some skywriting. What will the writing say? Will it be a message of love, or something like, ‘Jesus Saves’? No, nothing of the sort. It says ‘Agfa Film’.”

Of course. How could I not remember? Agfa Film. I remembered, when I read that sentence, the way the words were framed by clouds. I remembered wondering how the pilot had managed to find that clear, unbroken patch of sky in which to write his message. I remembered thinking why film, of all things?

It was bizarre, finding that tiny piece of information so unexpectedly.