When the girl was born, I had some ideas.
One of them was the idea that I didn’t necessarily have to raise her to be girly.
She had an older brother, so there would be boy toys around to play with. Boy videos to watch.
And boy clothes to wear.
I dressed her in navy, red, green, yellow.
But then, people, nice, well-meaning people, started giving her gifts. Pink gifts. Pink sleepers, pink blankets, pink shirts, pink bibs, pink hairbrushes, pink if-a-baby-needs-it-she’s-got-it-and-it’s-pink.
And I used it.
Because I was tired. I was tired of people, complete strangers I cared not for, peering into her stroller, and asking,
“Is it a boy, or a girl?”
And I thought, “I will dress her in pink. And that will fix all their little red wagons.”
If I had to do it all over again, though, I’d dress her in beige, all the time.
And when people asked if the baby was a boy or a girl, I’d answer:
“Yes!”, and nod, enthusiastically.
“”You know, it’s the damndest thing, I kept meaning to look, but I got busy…”
“Neither,” and then use my pointer fingers to make little Satan horns on my temples.
(The funny thing is, dressing her in pink only cut the frequency of questions by half. Nosy people, apparently, don’t see so well, either.)