My 4 Year Old, The Raging Sexist

“Mommy, go into the kitchen and make me dinner.” Says my four-year-old son as if he’s an incompetent husband circa 1932. It doesn’t take much to observe that my kid may be a raging sexist, but I’d like everyone to know that this wasn't something he picked up at home. Haters will say that’s impossible because children are innocent sponges that mimic what they hear and see, but guess what? It ain't true. The boy was born a male chauvinist. Before he was even rolling over he was already displaying prejudices against women, refusing to get near them without emitting banshee scream protests. And as his mother, he barely tolerates me. Seriously. 

“Excuse me Dylan?” I ask, half-amused by the little fuck's macho meal request. 

“I said, MAKE ME DINNER!" 

Okay, hold up. Am I mistaken? Are these commands merely the pleas of a hungry, ill-mannered preschooler? Well yeah, sure. But beyond the “make me a sandwich" barks, there’s a solid history of Dylan displaying sexism. For instance, at six months old the boy decided he’d rather starve than breastfeed. Yes, he quit ME. Okay…that’s not exactly sexist but it was rude. He did however comment that mommy isn’t the boss because only daddy can be a boss, since "girls can’t be cool, only boys can be cool." 

“No Dylan, that’s not right. Girls are bosses and they are cool too.” '

“No mommy, you’re not right. Only daddy is right.” 

OH HELL NO, LITTLE TRUMP. 

I used to think that parents should have to answer for their little prick children, apportioning any ill behavior or crap attitude to the mom and dad behind the child. But now I know better (sorry) and understand that sometimes a prick is born a prick. And sometimes, that prick is matched to the exact family he needs in order to be unpricked. 

You see, what Dylan has yet to fully realize is that he was born into a girl power family. I have four sisters and all five of us were reminded on a daily basis that women rule the world, women are empowered, that men may try to play us down but they’re just silly ignorant boys that need to be shown their seat, something that both women and men are responsible for doing. So in our family, discounting women will get you nowhere, fast. 

Though it may take some time to scrub the chauvinistic nature out of Dylan’s genes, he’ll be scrubbing my jeans and making the whole family sandwiches by the time I’m done with him. For is it not my duty to set his domineering philosophies ablaze until he’s protesting for women's rights? 

So, should you or your daughters find yourselves on the receiving end of my son’s unsubstantiated bias, don’t worry, I’m on it. However, it does take a village, so feel free to show my silly little boy to his seat. 

Terrible Twos...Still Beats Having a Baby

As I trudge through the thick of terrible twodom, I find myself delving for reasons why my tot’s current state of tantrums, mood swings, and bossiness is way better than the good old days of tummy time and pincer grasp. Because during fits of temperamental madness, like when a staring contest concludes with being head-butted, pulled down, and spit on by a 2 year old, I need all the reminders of sleep deprivation and teething I can get. And I’ve done such a good job figuring out why I prefer being wrestled to the ground by a three foot demon than I do swaddling an angelic newborn that I almost believe: 

When they fall down, it’s not so bad anymore. Infants are so much more fragile and they don’t catch falls like experienced toddlers do. Just the other day Dylan fell down cement steps, bled from his nose, and cried…because the cookie he was holding broke in half. Phew! 

We understand each other…kind of. I’m not saying that the kid listens to me or follows even half of my instructions, but he very specifically tells me what he wants and can even answer questions like, “Are you hungry?” It’s nice not having to guess everything all the time. 

More sleep for everyone!!! Announcing that it’s time for bed is how meltdowns are born. But once the dust settles and all 13,000 bedtime stories have been read, there’s a solid night’s sleep ahead for both toddler and mom. Take THAT cute swaddled babies of the world! 

I’ve grounded the chopper, mostly. Even in controlled environments, hovering over a baby is an inescapable reality. But with a toddler, I can sit down and watch him play at the park from a distance. I’m not saying that he lets me, but in theory, I have options. 

Toddlers contribute. When I finish wiping Dylan’s ass, he throws his own diaper away. He also tosses his plates in the sink, feeds himself, and picks up his toys (if I ask nicely). But babies? They make you do all the work. 

I’m less worried. Between their undeveloped immune systems coupled with limited care options, on top of their helplessness, infants are a recipe for premature graying. But toddlers? They get sick, they get better, then they get sick again. And the cycle? It’s desensitizing. 

Personality. There is a legitimate person in that little toddler body with a personality that’s unfolding daily. My tot pretends to be asleep for backrubs, crawls like a dog for under the chin tickles, dances to any hint of rhythm, and likes to say, “Good job mommy!” when I do something he approves of. Swoon. 

So sure, I might sweat bullets and face public scrutiny as I power-walk home from the park with a screaming, protesting, evil 36 lb flailing toddler under my arm, and I may have to justify a second serving of wine after dinner with “I earned it,” but at least I get a full night’s sleep, a bit of help, some conversation, and a little praise every once in a while. I mean, it could be worse. I could have a baby.