“I want to be a nerd,” declares my 5-year-old daughter. In today’s world, being a nerd is celebrated—it’s synonymous with being smart, sassy, and in-the-know. This shift in language is one of the joys of evolution. She’s captivated by “Big Hero 6,” especially the part where Hiro creates superhero costumes.
“I want to be someone who builds things,” my older daughter, who’s 7, chimes in.
“You mean an engineer,” I tell her.
“YES, AN ENGINEER!” she exclaims, repeating it for days, filling me with pride. The Barbies lay untouched on the floor. She refuses to buy a back-to-school dress, insisting it would slow her down. High-five!
I feel like I’m nailing this parenting thing. I’m every mother.
At my sister’s house, I overhear my youngest tell her cousin there are no colors specific to boys or girls, that she can love green if she chooses. I can’t help but brag to my friends about this progress I think I’ve made.
But the Parenting Gods, they are quick and fair. Pride can be as treacherous as a cold plunge into a Great Lake.
My 7-year-old has become obsessed with Minecraft. She constructs castles, roller coasters, and mines filled with wolves (Why wolves? Who knows?). She hunts animals for food—horrific yet oddly realistic—and discusses strategies for defeating zombies. “There’s so much killing in this game,” my husband muses. “You wouldn’t care if she were a boy,” I counter. We reach a stalemate.
She yells at her “iPad”—the budget kids’ tablet we gifted her because I read that Minecraft sharpens problem-solving skills. Competence is my priority.
“Die, zombies!” she shouts, and I fight the urge to cringe, knowing that to do so would be hypocritical. But these words, coming from my sweet daughter, feel so aggressive. So rugged. And honestly, she’s so beautiful. My ingrained biases clash with my aspirations for girl power. I’m torn. Yet, the world’s noise is overpowering.
“Run away like the little girl that you are!” she growls at the screen one day.
“Where did you hear that?” I ask, surprised. #Likeagirl is meant to convey strength and power.
“Camp,” she shrugs. Camp with 12-year-old boys, where girl power hashtags hold no weight.
“Do you think little girls run away?” I push gently.
“Mom, it’s just an expression,” she rolls her eyes.
All my confidence evaporates. I’m stuck. I can’t compete with a culture that insists girls are inferior. My voice feels muffled in this echo chamber of doubt.
And yet, I can’t keep quiet. “Don’t you think little boys run when they’re scared? And that some little girls stand up and fight?” I persist. She ignores me.
Later, we watch “The Sandlot,” a film I adored as a child, despite its outdated themes and language that might be too mature for my girls. Then comes a line I had forgotten, one that cuts sharply as a mother. “You play ball like a girl!” a character taunts, and the crowd gasps as if it’s the most devastating insult.
I hold my breath and glance at my girls. My oldest smirks at her younger sister. “Um, whatever. We’re better than those guys, right?”
“Right!” my 5-year-old replies, their hands clasped, jaws set, eyes fierce. They look almost angry.
And just like that, it’s a dance of defiance.