This happened
One night, when my oldest son was three years old, after I’d finished reading to him, as I leaned down to kiss him good night, he reached up and gave my beard a quick, gentle tug. And well, it made me feel, well, like a father; so I said to him in my most fatherly voice, “You know, son, when you grow up to be a man, you will have hair on your face, too.”
He looked at me with some doubt, “Daddy, when I grow up, I will be a woman.”
Well, uh, --I was surprised. I stood there, mostly speechless, trapped in a three year old’s concept of gender. I weighed my response, considered whether at bedtime it was worth trying to explain the permanence of basic human anatomy to my three-year-old son, because parts are parts. My oldest son who now planned someday to become my oldest daughter interrupted my thought with a merry, “You never know about me.”
I responded with, “Uh, well, I, uh.” I decided, okay, if he really wants to be a woman, I can come to terms with that, and as I switched off his bedroom light, he said, “Or I will be a firefighter.”
My second son is two-and-half years younger than his brother. One Saturday when he was three years old, I got down on the floor to play with him. And as I sat there among the toy trucks, he reached and tugged on my whiskers just as his brother had done two years previously. And, so, I said to Jamie, I said again in my most fatherly voice, “You know, son, when you grow up to be a man, you’ll have hair on your face, too.”
He began to shriek. He ran away. He was inconsolable until I explained shaving.
Then he said, “Oh. Ok.” And everything was fine.
I’m embarrassed to say that when she was three, I couldn’t wait for my daughter to reach up and do the same thing. I kept leaning down making my chin hair available. She did not, however, take the bait, and I really couldn’t wait, so one day at the community swimming pool, without any prompting, I sat down next to her, and I told her: I said, “You know, sweetie, when you grow up to be a man, you’ll have hair on your face, too.”
She didn’t even blink. She set her dreamsicle down on the picnic blanket, she looked me dead in the eye, and she said, “Daddy, you are crazy!” Then, she got up, gave me a swat on the head with a sticky hand, picked her dreamsicle back up, and strode away to sit next to her mother.
Well, uh, --I was surprised. I stood there, mostly speechless, trapped in a three year old’s concept of gender. I weighed my response, considered whether at bedtime it was worth trying to explain the permanence of basic human anatomy to my three-year-old son, because parts are parts. My oldest son who now planned someday to become my oldest daughter interrupted my thought with a merry, “You never know about me.”
I responded with, “Uh, well, I, uh.” I decided, okay, if he really wants to be a woman, I can come to terms with that, and as I switched off his bedroom light, he said, “Or I will be a firefighter.”
My second son is two-and-half years younger than his brother. One Saturday when he was three years old, I got down on the floor to play with him. And as I sat there among the toy trucks, he reached and tugged on my whiskers just as his brother had done two years previously. And, so, I said to Jamie, I said again in my most fatherly voice, “You know, son, when you grow up to be a man, you’ll have hair on your face, too.”
He began to shriek. He ran away. He was inconsolable until I explained shaving.
Then he said, “Oh. Ok.” And everything was fine.
I’m embarrassed to say that when she was three, I couldn’t wait for my daughter to reach up and do the same thing. I kept leaning down making my chin hair available. She did not, however, take the bait, and I really couldn’t wait, so one day at the community swimming pool, without any prompting, I sat down next to her, and I told her: I said, “You know, sweetie, when you grow up to be a man, you’ll have hair on your face, too.”
She didn’t even blink. She set her dreamsicle down on the picnic blanket, she looked me dead in the eye, and she said, “Daddy, you are crazy!” Then, she got up, gave me a swat on the head with a sticky hand, picked her dreamsicle back up, and strode away to sit next to her mother.
posted by J Martin at 12:11 AM
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