Backgrounder: I'm doing this 30-Day Blog Challenge. This is blog post #3, covering the "A problem you have or have had in the past" topic.
I was talking with a colleague of mine at work today. She's about 4 months pregnant, and I asked her if she knew whether they were having a boy or a girl. She told me that while they weren't going to find out, she knew one thing for sure - her husband was absolutely petrified of having a girl.
Totally get it. To most soon-to-be dads, girls represent the unknown. Girls think differently and act differently; they have hair that needs to be tied, often in weird configurations like pony tails or pig tails; they like glittery art-and-craft-stuffs that make most of us cringe; they wear cute little dresses that we never know how to put on properly. That can be a lot for a guy to wrap his head around, and I didn't even mention the ultimate kicker: feminine hygiene pads. [Shudder.]
Personally, before the girls were born, I was in the "healthy and happy" camp. As long as everything was where it was supposed to be, I would be happy. I knew that, eventually, with coaching and genuine enthusiasm and a whole bunch of trial and error, I could learn the lady ropes. And then, when the girls were born, I realized that really, there isn't much of a difference between having a baby boy and having a baby girl. Pee-pee tents and hair accessories aside, it's all the same.
But, while the differences between having a baby boy and baby girl are subtle, the difference between having a teenage boy and teenage girl are astronomical. And that's the thought that makes me just as petrified as my colleagues' husband.
I've been thinking a lot more about these differences lately, after Amanda Todd became a household name in Canada and around the world. I've been thinking about the video she made and about the incessant abuse she faced for months before making a truly tragic choice.
I fear that my girls will face challenges that I will never be able to understand. I fear that girls use different tactics to put each other down; that we as a society have allowed the physical to dominate our judgement of others, especially in and amongst our little girls, and that teenage girls more so than boys feel the need to 'fit in' at the expense of another girl being marginalized. And I don't know how to handle that.
I know what my approach would be with a boy... teach him to throw a mean right hook, and to never start a fight, but to always finish one. It might not solve all of the problems, but it's a good place to start.
With girls, though, the challenges they face are unlikely to be physical. Girls play psychological games with one another. They harass and torment and ostracize one from the others. Their attacks often leave no visible bruises or cuts, but internal wounds.
My point isn't to say girls have it worse than boys. No matter the gender, bullying of any kind hurts and is unacceptable. My point is that I believe things are different between the sexes. I have an idea - good, bad, or otherwise - I have an idea as to how I would approach things with a boy. With two girls, the abuse they could potentially face as teenagers is foreign to me. Therein lies my petrification.
So, I've decided that my approach will be to remind them as often as I can that their self-worth has nothing to do with how they look or about what they wear.
I will remind them as often as I can that their self-worth isn't allowed to be dictated by anyone else's opinion of them.
I will remind them that it is never acceptable to treat anyone with anything less than complete respect.
I will remind them as often as I can that there will always be people who want to be ahead of them socially or academically or physically, and that's OK. Let them think that way; just be comfortable with who you are, and in the end, nothing else matters.
And most importantly, I will remind them that I will always be there for them. 'Cause that's good to hear, no matter what challenges they face.
10.17.2012
2.10.2012
Back to the Future
Backgrounder: I'm doing this 30-Day Blog Challenge. This is blog post #2, covering the "Somewhere you would like to move/visit" topic.
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Remember, I was just out of
university, hence the horrible
jacket, shoes and unsightly
neck fat.
|
At work today, a coworker and I were talking about travel. We were discussing the importance of having that next big trip to look forward to, as a coping mechanism to get through a particularly busy stretch in the office.
She is fortunate enough to be heading to Rome in a few months. She's going to stay in a villa, live life like the locals live, and bask in the glory of the cultured country that is Italy.
I, on the other hand, have no big trip on the horizon. Consequently, I no longer like my coworker.
I have been fortunate enough to have done a fair bit of travel though. After university, my wife (then girlfriend) and I did the backpacking thing, spending time in:
- England (London)
- France (Paris)
- Italy (Rome, Venice, Pompeii and sort of Milan... a long story)
- Spain (Barcelona), Switzerland (Innsbruck, Salzburg)
- Germany (Munich)
- The Netherlands (Amsterdam... try walking through the Red Light District with your girlfriend... it was amusingly horrible).
It was only 3 weeks, but it was awesome.
Since the Europe trip, I've also been to:
- Cuba
- Peru
- Argentina
- Hawaii
- Beautiful Saskatoon, SK
- Breathtaking Buffalo, NY
Argentina was amazing. Peru was fascinating. Buffalo was... interesting. But if I could go anywhere again, to live permanently, it would be London, England.
When we visited London, we stayed with friends in a hamlet called Gypsy Hill. That alone makes it cool. We took the train in and out of the city every day and absorbed all that London has to offer. The pubs were real pubs. The subway was an actual and legitimate mode of transport. And the history and architecture were da bomb.
Start sidebar...
Did I use that term correctly, da bomb? I think it means 'the history and architecture were great.' Do kids still say da bomb? Is the fact that I said something is da bomb automatically make it lame? Do kids still say lame? As in, 'Oh God, my next post should be about how lame I have become; a caricature of a man, really.'
End sidebar.
After we returned from our trip, my wife (then girlfriend) and I talked a lot about going back to London to live after we got married. Years went by, careers were established, and now we are firmly and happily rooted in our home and our life and our routine.
So, if the idea of moving somewhere new if off the table, where would I want to visit?
London. Let me explain.
My notion of London is based on a memory of what the city was to me at that moment in time. I was free from school. I hadn't yet started working. I literally had nothing to worry about, which automatically made the entire trip that much better. I could sit in the pub all night long, without a worry. I could accidentally ask for a mint julep instead of a mojito and play off my disgust with youthful naiveté.
Now though, things are different. I am older. I have different views and a different understanding of life. Surely, the city itself has changed. And at this point in my life I would curse the wasted money spent on a foul mint julep. As a result, I often wonder whether or not another trip would be just as memorable.
That's why I picked London.
Plus, travel in the EU is much easier and cheaper than it is here, and London is fairly central to make side trips to Edinburgh, Dublin, Athens, Prague, Lisbon and Cannes. I could revisit my London memories, and check out the places I missed the first time around.
So, shout out to all the sociologists out there, who need someone to help provide research on travel regression theories. I'm your guy.
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Did I use that term correctly, shout out? ...
1.31.2012
I'm awesome
Pea: Dad, there's a piece of Pooh missing.
Me: BAH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA (etc.)!
Pea: What are you laughing at?
Me: BAH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA (etc.)!
Wife: (under her breath) You're an idiot.
1.25.2012
Eighteen, going on old
I'm a music fan. I like a little bit of everything, from country to indie rock to hip hop to folk, and all points in between. I rarely turn down an offer to listen to something new.
Like many people, I think, my musical taste varies depending on what I am doing.
If I'm getting pumped for a big hockey game, I'll throw on some Offspring or Rage Against the Machine. If I'm quietly toiling away in the office, it's gotta be Ray Lamontagne, Basia Bulat or City and Colour.
If I'm in the car, it's hip hop... all the time. A little Drake; a little Jay-Z and Kanye; a little Common. It's the big bass... literally enveloping me in the confines of a car. It puts me in a good mood.
Now, I know listening to loud hip hop with lots of bass makes me a bit of a douche. Especially when I'm stopped at a light, and cars beside me can see the bass rippling through the air (ok, it's never really that loud... let's just say they know it's there). I guess doucheyness is like an occupational hazard that comes with hip-hopping in the car, and I can deal with that hazard.
Ok, I could deal with that hazard.
As I learned recently while I was on my way to pick up Pea and my wife at dance class, the douche factor increases tenfold when there's a friggin CAR SEAT in the back seat of the car! What a wake-up call I had when I turned around at a stop light, looked at the car seat, and realized that I'm not 18 anymore.
So, from here on out, the volume is coming down and it's talk radio 24-7.
Sigh.
1.18.2012
I predict a riot
While cleaning up tonight, I found a single, solitary monkey from Pea's Barrel of Monkeys, sitting alone in her play area downstairs.
The actual barrel, as well as the rest of the monkeys, were upstairs in our bedroom, in the emergency toy stash we keep for those Saturday and Sunday mornings when Pea wakes up just a little too early (read every weekend).
The actual barrel, as well as the rest of the monkeys, were upstairs in our bedroom, in the emergency toy stash we keep for those Saturday and Sunday mornings when Pea wakes up just a little too early (read every weekend).
On my way upstairs, I brought the lone monkey with me to put away in the barrel where he belongs. As I tossed him in and closed the lid on the barrel, a vision ran through my mind... I pictured all of the monkeys rejoicing at the sight of their long-lost monkey cousin returning to the barrel from whence he came. Tears of joy flowed down monkey cheeks. Monkey prayers answered at last. Perhaps, monkey lovers reunited?
Then, and I must emphasize that I actually thought this, I wondered if perhaps one of the monkeys was angered by the sudden return of his plastic yellow counterpart. A love triangle re-engaged? A rivalry renewed?
So then, naturally, my mind wandered to that aggressive reunion between former enemies... at best an uncomfortable greeting... at worst, little plastic monkeys hurling little plastic feces at one another in a show of dominance, with all kinds of other innocent monkeys running for cover from flying monkey plops. Was I responsible for monkey armageddon within that barrel?
Then, I thought, what the hell is wrong with me? Inanimate plastic monkeys causing me undue stress and anxiety?
Stupid plastic monkeys.
Stupid plastic monkeys.
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