I’m so angry right now. Angry with parents, angry with myself. Just angry, angry. And hurt. And frustrated. And ashamed.
I took Saoirse to her preschool open house today. She was so excited about it she couldn’t sleep last night, woke up talking about decorating her bucket (which the kids use instead of backpacks to lug their stuff to and fro), and was so anxious to go see her new classroom (“What’s a classroom?” she asked) she burst out of her carseat when we got there, yelled “Yay! Preschool!” and ran for the door. We were one of the first people to arrive (when does that happen?), so she had a full view of the room before she immediately headed for a table filled with cars and trucks and started playing alongside another boy. I met her teachers, stood around uncomfortably, and helped Quinn practice her walking while we waited for the room to fill up.
A half an hour later, I was wishing it hadn’t. I met a lot of the other parents, mostly moms, and we filled the time with a lot of that stilted small talk you make with somebody when you know that the person on the other end of the conversation will be someone you most likely will end up seeing a lot, maybe even become friends with. It’s like speed dating, just with less cleavage on display. As I watched SK bounce back and forth between the car table and a Sit n’ Spin, I thought, wow, there are some nice moms in this class. I started to feel a bit more comfortable.
Then the moms saw Saoirse, in her little ponytail with the pink flower, pushing some cars around a table, and the questions started.
“So she likes cars and trucks? I guess [since you have girl toys] there’s not much at your house for her to play with, then?”
“Oh, then she’s a tomboy? Well, with two girls your husband must be so happy there’s at least a little bit of boy in her.”
“Can you believe how into dress-up these girls are at this age? All of the frills and princesses, can you believe it?…Oh, no? Um, huh…” (The mom them moved her little girl to the other side of the room. I’m not making this up. I am not strange looking, nor oddly hairy in places I shouldn’t be, nor combative or loud. I just said she’s not into dress-up).
I am furious. Not so much with the other moms, because for the most part they were very sweet, and their daughters like what they like, just like mine likes what she does. It’s the assumptions that infuriate me, and the generalizations. And me. I’m angry at me, because I didn’t stick up for SK more, or act more proud of her. I am proud of her. I love that she’s so fascinated with how cars work, and asked me to explain chassis and axles and wheels the other day. I get a kick out of how she insists on picking out her own clothes every day, and invariably chooses a dress or a skirt–the frillier the better–only to get them all wrinkled by lying down to zoom Lightning McQueen around the playroom floor. But I couldn’t say that out loud when talking with the other moms. That tomboy comment? SK heard that. And she didn’t hear me say anything to contradict that mom. Because it was small talk. And I was feeling small.
Marriage made me a hypocrite. Motherhood has made me such an even bigger one, I’ve turned into a hippo-crite (get it?! Because hippos are huuuge?). I’ve always been of the I-am-woman-hear-me-roar variety. I used to be quite proud of myself when I could shovel six feet of snow off the roof of my car in the winter, or handle the creepy guy who always said something to me on the walk home from work (naiveté also works wonders sometimes, but still). I liked that I was quite capable of hefting my own Christmas tree up six flights of stairs to my apartment, thankyouverymuch, or putting together all that IKEA furniture in record time. I was independent, and on my own, and working very had to conquer my chunk of the world. And then I got married, and forgot how to take out the trash. As I type this, David is working outside in the heat (90 degrees, according to the computer on which I’m working while sitting, on the couch, in the air conditioning). He’s been busting his you-know-what (if you don’t…