Don’t give me shit.
The main conversation during my parents’ visit to Denver was pretty much what I thought it would be. It started with my mom coming into the kitchen where Ben, Soren, and I were hanging out doing something. She was all serious. “I’ve decided,” she said, pausing for dramatic effect, “that I’m not going to show any pictures of Soren to my friends until he gets a haircut.”
I’m trying to imagine a universe where I give a shit whether my mom shows pictures of Soren to her friends. I’m failing.
I hate to admit to being so predictable, but it’s pretty much guaranteed that the more shit you give me because you think I should do X, the less likely I’ll ever do X.
Maybe you can blame the days of my youth spent listening to the Dead Kennedys.
Whatever. I think he looks cute. I mean sure, it gets a little old when 90% of the people you encounter in public refer to him as “she” or a “cute girl,” but whatever. I refuse to adhere to your outdated conformist ideas regarding what males, toddler males in particular, are “supposed to” look like. In other words, bite me. I’ll never limit what my child can do or who he can be because he’s a boy. The point of being a kid is being able to do or be whoever you want. That’s the only way you’re ever going to figure out who you are. And you have to figure out who you are, because that’s the only way you can be true to yourself and live an awesome life. Oh man I could get super preachy and go on about this shit forever, but I really believe that rigid gender roles have no place in childhood. Or society in general for that matter.
Rock on with your long hair, dude. Maybe next year you can dress up as Clay Matthews for Halloween and tackle anybody who calls you a girl.
