Slutty Babies

 I am a woman and now I have a daughter. Sometimes this makes me very, very scared. I have squeezed myself into ridiculous clothes and I have done sit-ups during every single minute of an episode of 90210. I have cried because a boy doesn’t like me, I have cried because a girl doesn’t like me. I have done things with boys because I wanted them to like me. I have done mean things to girls because I wanted a girl to like me. I have had bad haircuts and worn ugly jeans. I have done all those somewhat clichéd things and I know you will too, but I don’t want you to. I want things, even just one of those things, to be better for you. I want you to feel pretty the way you are and not be afraid to talk to the guy who isn’t on the hockey team because he seems nice. I want you to be okay with having acne and reject any pants that cause yeast infections. I don’t want you to be 21 before you even hear the word “feminism” and I want the glass ceiling to be a ridiculous notion by the time you choose a career.

Why am I thinking these things? Well, because I spent an entire day talking about how cute you were because someone gave you an outfit with a big strawberry on the bum. I even went so far as to point out your bum to your brother and say it was “adorable,” then I felt sick. What the hell did I just say? That my baby has a cute bum? Oh, dear. Then I started thinking about it and looking through your drawers. You had 5 outfits with decals on the bum, most of your summer tops are tank tops (as opposed to t-shirts) and you actually have a strapless dress – take a minute and think about this… what holds up a strapless dress? Boobs! Most of these clothes were gifts and I don’t fault anyone for buying them, they are what is in the store. And yes, if you don’t think too hard, they are cute. But when you dig a little deeper and compare them to a little boy’s closet you see some very LARGE problems. Even if I wanted to, I would never find shorts for your brother with a kitty cat on the bum, nor would I find animal prints or a tank top with a heart pattern that said something along the lines of “heartbreaker.” Eww. Just eww. Children aren’t heartbreakers; they are little asexual blobs of dirt and yogurt.

I have also made a conscious decision to stop talking about your looks so much. Yes, you are cute, and will likely be pretty as an adult, but I don’t want your brother hearing this talk. I don’t want to say to W, “You are smart! You are brilliant!” and then turn to his sister and say, “You are adorable! There is fruit on your bum!” I am definitely not saying anything new here, but merely realizing that even as an educated, employed, empowered woman, I have to stop from time to time, dust off my Naomi Wolf, and give my head a shake.

 The Mother's Prayer for its Daughter by Tina Fey. Watch here.

-Tightrope Mama