Central Casting
For just a few minutes last week I actually wished that gender stereotypes were true. It was a fleeting wish that popped into my brain while Badger and I were waiting for the nurse to put a cast on her arm.Because, you see, if the stereotypes were true, I wouldn’t be sitting in an Orthopedic medical office having my little girl’s arm put in a cast for the second time...this year. She wouldn’t have abrasions running down the side of her face from her hairline to her jaw. She would be sitting somewhere, looking pretty and clean, acting sweet and gentle.
Yeah, uh, no…not so much.
The Rise of the Action Princess
I mean, I wasn’t a wilting lily as a kid –most people labeled me a “tomboy.” Not ever really liking that label, I coined a new one for my ferocious girls, “Action Princess.”Why did I feel the need to make up a label, and one that included the word ‘princess,’ you might ask? Couple of reasons. First, the number of people, mostly older people, who refer to little girls as ‘princess’ when talking to them – especially when they have big eyes, round cheeks, and curly hair. Second, because it gave my girls an alternative label when someone, usually an older person, referred to them as ‘tomboys.’
I am still amazed by the number of people who believe the old stereotypes about boys and girls are true. The number who think there's something wrong with a girl who's active, feisty, or dirty. The amount who tell me how much luckier I am to have three girls rather than three boys because girls are easier.
Seriously. They do. They say...
“Oh, you’re so lucky. Girls are so neat and clean, and helpful, and they’re much less active...”
Shut the fuck up. Then, please come spend a day at my house.
These girls are raving adrenaline junkies. If they’re not jumping off something, they’re riding on something they shouldn’t be – sometimes each other – or climbing something, or balancing on something, or cartwheeling in the house.
We’ve had to separate them several times since the casting because they’re roughhousing with the kid who just broke her freaking arm, and she’s the instigator.
It's a Girl!
Every time I see one of those lists, “20 ways to tell you’re the mom of boys” or “15 things only the mom of boys knows,” I roll my eyes so hard I can see my brain. They include things like: Your kids are always grubby and bruised. Your house is a mess and your kids are always dirty. Their room smells like sweaty kid.Uhm, yeah...so, girls are not born with a dusting rag in one hand and air freshener in the other. If you’re not constantly yelling at them to be clean, girls get as dirty as any other kid. No, they are not naturally tidy – some are more particular than others, but that’s a personal inclination that has nothing at all to do with gender.
And, frankly, the rest of the lists are bullshit too. You know how you know you’re the mom of boys, because your child was born with that equipment and they feel like they’re a boy. Likewise, for girls – the ultrasound tech or doctor said, “Hey, looks like a girl!” And there you go.
So far, all three of mine identify as girls. Badass, feisty, unique, individual girls.
And, about that whole, girls are less active and less aggressive thing – yeah, that’s not gender-specific either. I know boys who are not active or physically aggressive at all. My girls...everyone thinks my middle one is quiet and shy and not as adventurous as her sisters. She’s also the biggest risk taker who climbs higher, jumps farther, and will kick your ass if you mess with her (but right now she’s sitting and weaving a scarf).
I’ve worked diligently to teach my girls how to take risks safely – I yell “bend your knees when you land!” so often they now yell it at other kids. They admonish other kids for not wearing helmets too. We teach them safety and lecture them about calculated risk. And then they turn around and jump off the furniture, leap from the trees, flip off the playground bars, and bash themselves up.
The Score…So Far
2 broken noses – Quokka + Badger (playground injuries both times)2 knocked out teeth – Badger (running up stairs, bonus points for not getting blood on the carpet)
3 broken arms* – Quokka 1 + Badger 2 (1 scooter crash, 2 playground injuries)
2 facial scars – Quokka + Athena (Q got 3 stitches – kid hit her with a rock, A’s brow-bone was glued shut – split open jumping over pile of toys and missing the landing)
Innumerable abrasions, bruises, contusions, skinned knees, scars, and interesting stories
They run, they jump, they roll in the dirt, they play, they fight, they climb trees, mountain bike, snowboard, and sometimes make crafts. They clean when we force them to. They frequently smell. Their bedroom has a permanent odor of ‘locker room’– when it begins wafting across the hall I make them rip the room apart and clean it thoroughly.
They’re rough, tough, and beautiful. They’re smart and creative, and frequently filthy.
They’re girls. They’re themselves.
But I will admit, there are times when I’d really like them to stop fucking breaking things. Themselves or otherwise.
I mean it. Just…Stop. It.
These are the fleeting moments when I wish the stereotypes were true because it would be easier than this – multiple trips to the Urgent Care, repeat trips to the Ortho in the same damn year, sitting on hollering girls while digging festering splinters out of hands, feet and faces.
The Irrepressible Badger
The doctor walked up and asked Badger how her arm was feeling. She shrugged, “Eh, it’s not bad.”He gently ran his hands over her forearm, and poked the swollen bit where they x-ray showed a crack running in a jagged line across then curving to run vertically up the bone.
“Unfortunately, you do.” The doctor countered.
Badger heaved a big sigh, “Ugh, all right, if you have to.”
She’s herself, my little Badger, so much herself.
I guess I don’t want that stereotype after all.
*Update - we're up to 4 broken arms since Badger decided to try cartwheeling down the big hill at the park. The torque was too much for her right arm this time and she cracked the bone just below her elbow. Sigh.
