Monthly Archives: August 2009
When it comes to Baby E, C gets congratulated on two main things – 1. That Baby E is so adorable (of course!) and 2. That Baby E is a boy.
Apparently girls are harder to raise than boys, what with all the worrying about preserving their chastity and all [insert massive eyeroll].
Honestly, raising a boy scares me. It would be so easy to sigh and say “boys will be boys” as he grows up but my feminist ideals won’t allow that. I believe that in order achieve true gender equality, our sons need to be raised to be true participants in the process.
So how do I successfully raise this boy to
– respect nonviolence when he will be encouraged to display aggression?
– respect women as having inherent rights that don’t require male approval when he’ll be told that paternalism is for the female good?
– not be afraid of his emotions when it’s only acceptable for him to be angry or show aggressive excitement?
– be aware of his male privilege when living with that privilege is akin to breathing air?
I worry that despite my best intentions and best efforts I won’t be able to avoid those negative societal forces influencing my son in some unwelcome way. Yet, I know I can’t squirrel him away to some uninhabited place until he’s grown up. I know that there’ll come a time when I won’t be the biggest influence in his life. I also know that at some point he’ll be responsible for his own decisions.
Yeah, this parenting thing is hard. I haven’t even gotten into what it’ll mean to be raising a little black boy in America.
In the meantime I will do my best to raise a “good man” and hold on to him until I can’t hold on to him anymore.
I love cheese. I like tasting the samples at the supermarket. I like melting cheese on bread in the oven. I like eating cheese on crackers. I like cheddar cheese from England or Ireland. Dang it, I like cheese!
I have to give it up.
I’m committed to breastfeeding and it appears that Baby E gets tummy trouble when I eat dairy products and eggs. He doesn’t sleep well when his tummy hurts. Lawd knows his mama has a hard time seeing him stretch and squirm and arch his back with the most uncomfortable expression on his face.
Just a glance at that little face should be enough to quell any temptation to indulge. Unfortunately, you never seem to want something more than when you’re actively trying to avoid it.
So goodbye bagels and cream cheese; goodbye cheesecake (true heartbreaker); goodbye pizza; goodbye shirred eggs; goodbye peach milkshake from Chik Fil-A.
Vicarious living here I come.
This weekend I had a conversation with my four year old niece, B, that went something like this:
B: What’s the baby doing?
Me: He’s eating.
B: What’s he eating?
B: Milk isn’t food, it’s a drink.
Me: Ok, then he’s drinking milk from his mommy.
B: Milk comes from cows, not mommies!
Me: Well milk can come from cows and from mommies. In fact, cow’s milk comes from cows that are mommies. They make it for their baby cows but we drink it too.
B: Nuh uh!
Me: Yeah, mommies make milk that helps babies get big and strong. When you were little, you got milk from your mommy too.
B: (look of disbelief) No, Auntie, (shakes her head) milk comes from cows!