“I want to be a nerd,” declares my 5-year-old daughter. Today, the term “nerd” is embraced as a badge of honor, symbolizing intelligence, sass, and awareness. It’s remarkable how language evolves. She’s captivated by movies like Big Hero 6, especially the scenes where Hiro creates superhero outfits, which keeps both her and her sister engaged.
“I want to be someone who builds things,” my older daughter, now 7, states confidently.
“You mean you want to be an engineer,” I respond.
“YES, AN ENGINEER!” she echoes, her enthusiasm evident. For days, she repeats her aspirations, filling me with pride. The Barbies remain untouched on the floor, and she opts out of a new back-to-school dress, citing her need for speed. I give her a high-five.
I believe I’m doing everything right; I feel like the ideal mother. At my sister’s home, I overhear my youngest explaining to her cousin that colors have no gender—anyone can like green. I share this with my friends as evidence of my success in parenting.
However, the Parenting Gods are quick to remind me that pride is a precarious emotion, much like dipping a toe into the icy waters of a Great Lake.
Now, my 7-year-old has transformed into a Minecraft enthusiast. She constructs castles, roller coasters, and deep mines filled with wolves (Why wolves?). She engages in the game’s more brutal aspects, like hunting for food, which is both alarming and surprisingly realistic. “There’s so much about killing here,” my husband remarks. “You wouldn’t mind if she were a boy,” I counter, and we find ourselves at an impasse.
She often shouts at her tablet—an inexpensive off-brand device we got her for her birthday because I read that Minecraft enhances problem-solving skills, and helping her build competence is my priority.
“Die, zombies!” she yells, and I feel a cringe rising within me. To react would be hypocritical, yet hearing my sweet girl express such aggressive sentiments feels so contrary to my values. My internal conflict is compounded by the cultural narrative that tells girls to be softer.
“Run away like the little girl that you are!” she growls at the screen one day, and I’m taken aback. “Where did you hear that?” I ask, surprised. The phrase #Likeagirl has come to symbolize strength.
“Camp,” she shrugs, referring to her time with 12-year-old boys, where girl power hashtags hold little relevance.
“Do you think little girls run away?” I press. She rolls her eyes, “Mom, it’s just an expression.” My confidence crumbles—I realize I can’t compete with a society that perpetuates the notion of girls being lesser. It feels as if I’m trapped in an echo chamber of uncertainty.
But I refuse to remain silent. “Don’t you think little boys run when they’re scared? And that some little girls stay and fight?” I ask. She ignores me.
Later, while watching The Sandlot—a film that I adored as a child but now recognize is filled with sexism—I find myself on edge. The moment arrives that I had forgotten: “You play ball like a girl!” one character taunts, and the crowd gasps, as if this is the ultimate insult. I hold my breath, glancing at my daughters.
My oldest looks at her younger sister, smirking, “Um, whatever. We’re better than those guys, right?”
“Right!” my 5-year-old replies, and they clasp hands, their expressions determined and fierce.
It’s a powerful moment, a dance of defiance.
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In summary, raising a feminist child involves navigating the complexities of societal expectations and cultural narratives while instilling a sense of strength and independence. Encouraging girls to embrace their aspirations, regardless of traditional gender roles, is essential for their development into empowered individuals.