If motherhood were a university, my class ranking would not be somewhere between the stoners and the six-year-seniors. At my moms group, someone mentioned having read, “Super Baby Food” and three other moms chimed in while I totally fake-nodded, acting like I read it, loved it and Ebayed the t-shirt. During one of my high school debates, my intense opponent who attended debate camp said, “And according to Black’s Law, blah blah blah I’m smarter than you…” and I thought, “Black’s Law? That’s a little racist.”
And this is a long and nonsensical way to confess that I bought Nathan a girl’s car seat. I was set on purchasing a Britax Decathalon, but the online store that had peddled it for $219 was sold out. So I opted for a Marathon at the same price but only the Luau fabric was available.
I didn’t think anything of it until last night’s Gilmore Girls when Lorelai and Christopher were strapping in Gigi in her car seat and I realized that it was the exact car seat I had just purchased for my Y-chromosomed boy.
I can pass it off as a Pacific Islander choice, since he’s half Chamorro, but why do I even care? It’s a car seat, not a sweater. After all the vehicular drama this week, it’s the safest one I could buy. I can just imagine what the other moms might say, “Mona, nice car seat, where’s your daughter?” And I would come back with, “Whatever’s clever,” because in my head, if rhyme were a drug, I’d sell it by the gram.
When one of my professors became pregnant mid-term, she admitted that she was happy that she was having a girl because, “It’s difficult to raise a feminist boy.” And how do you raise a feminist boy? Mike and I have this sort of laissez-faire philosophy that if Nathan wants to play football, then great, Mike knows everything about sports (he goes to sleep listening to the sports radio station and when the Seahawks are on TV, he flips between sports talk and the television announcers) and he’d be a great, positive role model, not one of those idiots who live vicariously through their pee-wee league sons. If Nathan wants to spend his days with me watching Gilmore Girls, that doesn’t make him a tulip, that makes him fucking awesome.
I didn’t intend to talk about gendered parenting, but I’m tired of going to stores and seeing all the pink bibs with “I love Mommy” and the blue bibs with “I love Daddy” and no neutral colored clothing saying, “I appreciate my parents equally for what they have contributed to my life.”
And what I really wanted to say was, “Did you see Gilmore Girls last night? What happened to the Lorelai of yore? The one who wouldn’t do anything without Rory!” Can I get a witness, internet friends?