Owen, age 8
Me, age 41
My son
and I are sitting at the kitchen table, eating breakfast.
As I skim
through the paper, Owen points to the prominent photo of Hillary Clinton
on the front page. “Who’s that?” he asks, shoving Cream of Wheat into his
mouth.
“That’s
Hillary Clinton,” I reply. “She just announced that she is going to run for
President of the United
States
In
general, Owen asks me a lot of questions, so I assume he’ll launch into an
inquisition without haste. But I am mistaken. Instead, he starts to laugh.
“She’s not running for president,” he says.
“She’s not running for president,” he says.
“Yes, she
is,” I say. “And why are you laughing?”
“BECAUSE
A LADY CAN’T BE PRESIDENT,” he says. As if this is common knowledge.
I take a
deep breath, setting aside my Cream of Wheat. This is war.
“YES, A
LADY CAN ABSOLUTELY BE PRESIDENT,” I say. When Owen realizes I’m not joking,
his jaw sort of falls open. Over his bowl of Cream of Wheat, he looks baffled.
And, much to my dismay, appalled.
I spend the
rest of breakfast outlining the basic principles of the American political
process, underscoring that a woman is every
bit as eligible and capable as a man of serving as our nation’s leader. A few
minutes into my lecture, Owen’s body language tells me that he regrets ever
opening his mouth, but he has hit a nerve and I am not backing down.
Like many
of my friends who have sons, I try to teach Owen to respect everyone,
especially girls. My goal is to raise up that charming and magnificent type of
young man who doesn't just open doors for women, but also honors their rights
and ambitions. Perhaps I am not doing a sufficient job, because – come to think
of it – Owen and I shared a similarly unpleasant and anti-feminist moment a few
weeks ago.
I was
folding laundry in the family room when Owen strolled in and loudly announced,
with no preamble whatsoever, “I AM SO GLAD I DON’T HAVE A PAGINA.”
“Do you
mean ‘vagina’, Owen?” I asked.
“Yes,” he
said.
“And why
are you so glad you don’t have one?” I asked tersely, setting off a
nonsensical, immature, and ridiculously circular argument that left both of us
dissatisfied and frustrated. (I’m ashamed to confess that I ended the quarrel
by stooping to his level and hollering, “WELL, I AM SO GLAD I DON’T HAVE A
PENIS!” while firing a balled-up sock at his head.)
Where have
I gone wrong? I try to model girl power in everything I do. (And this is no
small feat because, ironically, I'm responsible for 90% of our domestic
chores and am forever folding laundry.) Take, for example, the time when my
daughter said that her gym sub told one of her classmates that he “ran like a
girl.” I had a major conniption and made sure all three of my kids understood
that comments like this are not just rude but also incorrect and sexist.
Furthermore, we have participated in more than a few discussions, my children and me, about how I work
part-time in addition to doing everything I do to keep our household – and
their lives – running smoothly. I don’t head to an office in heels and a suit,
but I write on my laptop at my desk or at Starbucks, fundraising and doing communications for a bunch of non-profits. Clearly, my kids don’t get that I am
attempting to model female independence and strength. “That's not a REAL job, Mom,” Owen says, patting my arm. “It’s OK, though.”
***
I think
about these dispiriting scenes as I try to finish my Cream of Wheat, but I don't have much of an appetite anymore.
But then
I look down at the picture of Hillary and observe the glint in her eyes. She
knows what it’s like to prove herself to the boys, time and time again. Carly
Fiorina, too, whose photograph I bet we’ll be seeing on the front page very
soon. Nancy Pelosi, Condoleezza Rice, Janet Napolitano, Loretta Lynch. All of
them. I don't care what political party they come from: their steely determination is awesome.
