Boys vs. Girls

As a kid I was a bit of a tomboy. I went through a sweat pant phase for most of fourth grade, played with Transformers (*they killed my only Barbie*), got sweaty and muddy on a daily basis and ritualistically rejected showering in favor of time better spent playing sports, catching frogs and playing video games. Ok - maybe that doesn't make me a tomboy. It just makes me gross. The point being that I would sooner have died than have been caught in a dress, with anything pink, with long tendrils of blond hair or accused of being comprised of sugar, spice and/or anything nice. I had no concept of what an accomplishment this was on behalf of my parents until I had my own son. It is friggin' impossible to shelter this child from gender stereotypes or cultural agendas. I've tried. I fail on a daily basis. Even before he was born, a trip to the myriad of baby clothes retail stores yielded all things blue for boys and all things pink for girls. Each of these places is divided down the middle (more or less - girls tend to have more) boys on one side and girls on the other like a grade school dance. On a more granular level, it looks like all things sports and cars and jungle animals on one side and a pink princess explosion on the other.

My child has been offered a vast assortment of different toys to choose from. He always chooses trucks. Let me put that another way: HE. ALWAYS. CHOOSES. TRUCKS. "Truck" was one of his first words. It beat out "Mama." He spends a good portion of each day positioned at the window pointing at trucks and telling us all about them. God help us if a truck goes by the window and he isn't there in time to see it. He can hear those damn things coming from the basement amid the din of the Leaptop computer sing-songing alphabet.

(*Side Note* I constantly feel as though this Leaptop computer is judging me.  When we first input baby C's name the computer processed it and now repeats it back with the inflection of a question at the end. Like, "Really? That's what you named your kid?" I figure it's got no ground for a winning argument - I didn't name him after a food, celebrity, exotic place or super hero. So it can just keep it's lame opinion to itself).

I've asked C's daycare provider if he pays any attention to the "female-centric" type toys. The conversation went something like this:

She looks at me skeptically and asks "You mean, does he play with dolls?"
"Yes. I want to know if he plays with dolls."
She shrugs "Sure, if by 'playing with dolls' you mean using their heads as mallets."

It was at that point that I envisioned my son angling a rifle from a belltower. Or driving a monster truck.

Bottom line: when my child bleeds, he bleeds trucks. We went to ToysRUs last weekend and this child picked out two things: an obnoxious race car recliner and a HUGE ride-in fire engine. I was inclined to get both - the recliner was comfy and he only wanted to push the firetruck, not ride in it, so I figure, hey, free ride! But, sadly, we couldn't convince Dad and so I had to drag toddler in question away from the firetruck, under my arm, in full on meltdown mode, kicking and screaming and hitting that high squeal that makes my brain curl up like a window shade. Suddenly I find myself running - desperately running - what will stop the screaming???! And then it happens, before my curled up brain can even realize my mouth is making sound I'm dashing through ToysRUs screaming "Where's the TRUCK aisle? Don't worry...we'll find the trucks....why are there so many doll aisles?? Where are the trrrruuuuccckkkksss????!" It was about that point (the point where I was racing my son through a ToysRUs looking for trucks with the same desperation and drive that I would have used had a bone been portruding from his leg and I was searching for a tournequit) that it occured to me that I just might be feeding into these gender casts. It wasn't a good feeling.

A worse feeling came over me after the whole ordeal had ended and my son went home with a new talking Tonka truck. Worse still - he insisted on sleeping with the new talking, light up Tonka truck. So, as he shunned his beloved stuffed owl for the first time in months, he lay his little head down to sleep with this truck tucked firmly under his arm and I sat there listening to his monitor...every so often this thing would spout off another catch phrase and it didn't take me long to come to yet another startling conclusion: this truck was a total douche. Over the soft hush of the white noise it'd burst through, leeking bravado and male prowess with gems like "Step aside boys, let a real truck do the job" and "OOOooooohhh yeah, boy!" and "Now THAT's power!". It was whispering male typecast phrases into my son's softly sleeping ear with the subtlety of a jackhammer on a loud speaker. I'm not certain but the longer this thing went on the more my mind started to further construe and translate it's tag lines until I think I heard: "Step aside nancy boy" followed by  "NOOOOOoooooohhhh fat chicks." Pretty sure this truck is a homophobe.

So what now? I realize the grievous error in judgment - what with my hasty grabbing of a Tonka product to alleviate a twenty month's old rage without pre-screening it's commentary. And do not be fooled by this truck annecdote - the vast majority of C's collective toy and book catelogue are gender neutral. A few stuffed toys (ranging from lambs to penguins), a host of Eric Carle, Margaret Wise Brown, Robert Munsch and Sandra Boynton books (and thank you Miss Boynton for starting the now very popular "Beebo" craze in our household), balls, blocks and musical instruments. So, this ToysRUs incident aside, it feels as though this "boy toy" preference is inborn. Do I let him go with his natural instincts (in the same manner my Mom let me go with my hockey preference over ballet despite cracking both front teeth in half?) Do I intervene and try to deplete the vast garage of truck/car toys he seems to be amassing before they turn to GI-Joes and baseball cards? Is this really stemming from a predisposition to boy things or has Elmo snuck some subliminal messages past us both? (He's got to be at fault for something - his voice is like baby crack.) It's a tough call. It's your move, Elmo. Your move.