I overheard a mom at story time a few days ago mutter, “Oh, your daddy will like that,” after her young son chose a piece of pink construction paper for a craft project.
Her voice dripped with sarcasm, and it made me think.
Although Mojo chose a green piece of paper on that particular day, he likes pink, too, and easily could have taken the very piece that resulted in the aforementioned maternal scorn. And while I wouldn’t have said a word about it – I stand firm (so far) on letting him be his own man – I might have cringed.
It’s not that I care that he likes pink. That doesn’t bother me in the least. Some hours it’s his favorite color is green, other minutes it’s blue and the following day he might swear by yellow, and honestly, as long as he’s not painting the kitchen walls I don’t care what hues he prefers.
It would bother me because I’m aware that there are people like this woman’s husband, and there are people like this woman, who judge little boys on the color of their construction paper. They might someday judge MY little boy. Lord knows life is hard enough without people looking down their noses at you because you like the color pink.
What’s the big deal, really? I mean, pink is pretty, but so is pale blue or soft green, and no one would bat an eye if a little boy chose one of those shades. (Would they?)
My husband and I have never talked about this color thing, so I asked him how he would feel if his son’s favorite color turned out to be pink.
“No. But I don’t think he would say it’s his favorite color.” (Okaaaaay.)
I asked a guy friend if he would be bothered if his [hypothetical] son chose pink. He said it wouldn’t bother him early on. I pushed a bit, and he admitted it might start to bother him if his imaginary son still picked pink around age 8. And then he rethought his answer. “No,” he said, “I don’t think it would bother me. I mean, pink is probably Donald Trump’s favorite color.”
In other news, I almost lost my lunch as my doctor showed me the photos of my insides at my post-op appointment a few days ago. (I’m squeamish like that anyway, but when she pointed out all the stuff she took out during the laparoscopy that was making me hurt … well, just yuck.)
She told me that my left ovary had been the same size as my uterus, which I gather is relatively gargantuan. (When that happens, they do something called “ovarian drilling” – sounds pleasant, no? Mine went back to its normal size when drilled and was still normally proportioned at my post-op appointment.) She also said that my left tube was blunted because of the endometriosis, and that although it’s open, she’s not sure it’s functioning the way it should. So, if I am lucky enough to get a positive HPT anytime soon, I get to go in for an early ultrasound to rule out an ectopic pregnancy. Score.