We made our way to the counter when our number was called. Dylan tugged at my shirt. "Excuse me, mom. I want to whisper something to you."
I leaned down and he stood on his toes, "Tell the lady that the fabric is for my Elsa dress."
I agreed and without hesitation told her, "I think I'll need about 2 yards. I'm making a Queen Elsa dress."
The lady smiled and knew exactly what I was referring to, and even told me where to find the pattern. She was older, but she probably had a grandchild that told her all about the movie that has possessed every child on every continent.
She looked at Dylan with excitement and asked him in a childlike voice, "How exciting! Do you have a sister? Is the dress for her?"
My subconscious scowled and became defensive, "Stop asking questions, lady, and just cut the cloth!"
I calmly replied, "No, he doesn't. The dress is for him."
The look she have me and the pause that followed lasted an eternity. She said nothing. She didn't say a word to us except for some business about the receipt and coupons.
I could barely pay attention. She became cold as ice and it was as though Dylan was no longer standing next to me.
He's five and was disregarded. Shamed.
He was so excited to share his plans, and she was...what?
I coached myself silently.
"You're only being defensive because you know the world doesn't accept a five year old boy in a princess dress."
"Maybe her husband left her for another man...it could be a touchy subject."
That was a stretch, but you never really know what's going on in another person's head. I know nothing of her.
I wanted to fuel the fire and ask her where I could find felt so that I could sew the letter 'A' onto my blouse.
I walked away and tried to not well up with tears. The only thing that really mattered was my son's happiness, and the freedom to be himself.
Being a parent of boys, I can see that there is far too much pressure placed on them. Throw a tiny suit on a girl...or a stethoscope, a uniform...the world is her oyster.
Let a little boy shuffle around in glass slippers and he'll be made fun of...and mostly by adults.
Every other week someone asks him about his sparkling blue cape, "Oh, what superhero are you?"
Oh, I must have missed the 100th comic book movie with a superhero in a shimmery flowing cape. There are so many different incredibly boring super heroes that I must have just not noticed.
I cannot protect my kids from the cruelties (or stupidities) of the world, but I can certainly provide them with the securities of a positive support system...which can be hard to find...it can feel like taking a machete through a corn field. It all looks the same...dull and dry.
So much swirled in my head.
I had half a mind to shape and mold his desires...brainwash him with only what is acceptable in our culture, but I just imagined him rebelling against such established norms and telling me...
No Right, No Wrong
No Rules For Me