Growing up, I was the youngest of three. I would say, 99% of my clothes were hand-me-downs. There would be the rare occasion a family member would buy me a new sweater for Christmas and I could actually call it my own. But other than that, I’m used to wearing used clothing.
So when I found out I was pregnant with my second, I didn’t bother shopping for new clothes.
Whatever my daughter wore, the sibling would wear as well. Since the day my son was born, he has worn all the colors of the rainbow. From frills, lace, ruffles, onesies with the word “Princess” written on them to bright pink leggings, he’s had it on.
When he was small, I went on a lot of walks with him. It was just me and him, a blob of flesh bundled safely in his stroller. We went to the parks, playgrounds, and malls.
I remember the first time a stranger thought my son was a girl.
She and a friend were walking by us when they stopped in awe of my son. They both cooed, “Aw aren’t you the prettiest little princess hanging out with mommy? Are we going to have a tea party today?”
I immediately corrected them: “Oh, he’s actually a boy.”
They both shrug and nod, “Oh, we just assumed since he’s wearing pink. Sorry, he’s adorable.”
I continue to explain, “My older one is a girl so you know, to save money and of course, it’s better for the environment … he’s wearing all her hand-me-downs.”
They say in unison, “Oh for sure. You take care now.”
Then it happened again and again.
There was one time I saw an elderly couple come up to us and before they could say anything, I blurted out: “He’s cute. Isn’t he?
After, I stopped to think about why I was adamant about making sure people knew my son was a boy. How come I was so bothered when they thought he was a girl?
And why did I care about defending my decision to use hand-me-downs, trying to justify why they may think he is a girl?
I asked myself, “If my first was a boy and my second was a girl, would I feel the same if people thought she was a boy?”
I don’t think I would feel as strongly.
Growing up, I prided myself on defying gender stereotypes.
While other girls grew their hair long, I deliberately cut mine short. I wore shorts, T-shirts, and sneakers, threw rocks, climbed trees, played sports, and lifted weights. I excelled at math and science.
As I got older, I valued speaking confidently, taking the lead, making decisions assertively, competing, being independent and tackling goals for breakfast. You know, anything men can do, women can do too (and better). I was so focused on closing the gender gap and trying to catch up to the “big boys” that I was inherently idealizing masculine characteristics.
Feeling offended when strangers think my son is a girl is a reflection of the toxic gender stereotypes that I hold.
These are beliefs that I have been trying to break my whole life. My need to defend him from being emasculated highlights my outdated views on gender expression. And I realized that’s something I need to learn and understand more about.
Because when I think about it, do we really know what our kid's gender is?
Sex is determined anatomically, but their gender is for them to define.
And until they can articulate that and have the ability to choose how they want to express themselves, there isn’t a definitive answer to whether what they wear actually represents their gender. Until then, clothing serves only one purpose: to keep them warm.
Lastly, it really doesn’t matter what a stranger thinks.
Whether they think boys need to wear blue and girls need to wear pink isn’t my concern. I own my decision to use hand-me-downs along with all the other choices I make as a parent.
