Where is the Girl in TomBoy?

Another post on gender issues, it is that time for me in parenting...I've heard a word that I thought was long dead a few weeks ago:  "TomBoy"..Suddenly, I've heard girls describe themselves and others using this word. Girly-Girl has been around and is used frequently, but tomboy, I thought. had seen its demise, I was wrong. I've heard it from three different children, in different settings  I like neither of these words, because they are an attempt to put a developing person into a box, a category, before they are done exploring who they are. It limits them and changes people's expectations.

The first time I heard the word tomboy was from a girl describing herself.  It made me pause.  Previous to this, I had considered this child to be very bright, active, with a tendency to consider rules to be suggestions rather than mandates. I was taken aback to hear such an old fashioned term applied to someone whom I considered to be quite a modern girl.  Another parent had described her as "a little wild", which pretty much fit, but I found that with a proper adult attitude the rules would be followed.  (She doesn't come by as much these days...I wonder why?)  After not seeing her for a bit, my family attended a school event where some of this girl's musical  accomplishments were showcased.  I thought it very interesting that the self-described tomboy was up on stage wearing a muli-tiered, bright, pink sparkle dress, about as girly-girl as you can get.  I was glad to see that she didn't feel trapped in the tomboy box she had drawn for herself.

The next time I heard the term it was from the girl next door, who was plopped down in "the red chair" by the window, sitting as one should in the red chair, with her legs over one arm and her back leaning on the other.  She used the word tomboy to describe another girl, and she, knowing me, back-pedaled and said, "I know you don't like the term."  I don't recall telling her that, but she has heard my opinions on labeling people in other ways. I talked to her about it for a minute,  about how often a girl could do something considered girly-girl one moment and do something that could be called tomboy behavior the next, and suggested that it all be considered normal girl behavior and let girls paint their toenails with little flowers and climb trees and not judge them (she paints her toenails and climbs trees).

The third time I heard the T word was from my own daughter describing another girl in her class. At this point I thought I had heard it enough. What is it about being on the outer edge of womanhood that makes people so judgmental? There is no girl in TOMBOY, it is a boy's name paired with the word "boy".  It is about a girl's behavior, and noting that it is less feminine than some arbitrary standard.  It is often used as a negative term, especially as a girl grows older.  If we want women to progress and be accepted by society in all the roles that they can possibly play, it is time to stop judging them by a long out of date standard. If they want to collect bugs, dig in the dirt, play football at recess, or whatever other behaviors that were once considered masculine in the dark, old, repressive days of the mid- 20th century, let them and  don't judge them.  Ask to see their collection, the soil horizons, or which position they play, next week they may dye their hair three different colors and wear skirts everyday and the following week they may take their bikes over jumps and build a tree fort.  It's okay, its all girl stuff.

The Green Dress of Every Generation

Here it is after 11 PM and my brain is somehow still going, despite the 6 AM run and a busy day.  I went to bed for a bit, my body seemed tired, but my brain wouldn't shut up. So, here I am sitting at the computer, in a quiet house, listening just to the sounds of the moths and stinkbugs throwing their bodies against the screens trying to touch the lamp in the room trying to figure out what to write about.

Maybe I'll start with my desktop background (we change it every few days to whatever image catches our fancy, it creates family conversation), a painting that I really seem to understand.  I don't know if they will throw a conniption if I put it here, but I'm going to, with a reference, of course. The artist is Kelly Reemtson the painting is called Orange, the website where I found the image is
http://files.indiesart.com/assets/image/248/420/Orange.640x960.jpg
 There is a whole series of these paintings, I love them!



The dress the jewelry and all that were all a part of my media upbringing, not my everyday upbringing, but the one that happened on Saturday afternoons when the old movies/shows played.  The women all wore dresses like this, seemingly everyday.  It was the message about womanhood: parties, makeup, jewelry, and men, it all seemed so foreign.  My mom had one of those dresses tucked in the back of the closet, dark green taffeta, it seemed like a remnant of a secret past life.( Now I know it was the maid of honor dress for both my mom's and my aunt's weddings.)  The womanhood I knew from experience was very different.  The adult women I knew wore pedal pushers, sneakers and a shirt.  They poured concrete, chopped wood, cleaned house, cooked dinner, tended the garden, made applesauce, shoveled snow, used the chain saw and spent every Wednesday evening going over the bills and budget.  The party dress didn't figure into it, a little lipstick, but certainly not taffeta and chiffon.  The second part of the painting is the part of womanhood I clearly recognize. Hedge shears, yes and rototillers, crow bars, hammers, screw drivers, they have always been a part of my image of womanhood.  My dad used to chuckle when asked what attracted him to my mom, he answered that he figured that any woman who could shingle a barn must be a good catch. He was terribly afraid of heights, so it definitely was a good thing for him.

I think this is all going through my head because my daughter is now having to shop in the junior department because she is just too darned tall for the girls' department.  Her preadolescent mind is trying wrap itself around all the low cut t-shirts on the racks, the low cut jeans, the dress code that says that she can't wear leggings to middle school, since she has always worn them (she hates scratchy jeans).  The no pockets in women's clothes bothers her as much as me, we're supposed to have a purse with us at all times, I guess. She is trying to wrap around the lists of activities that are considered masculine and feminine.  Sports are for boys? But she has been playing soccer for five years. (Just try to find a card appropriate for a female soccer coach!) Tools are for boys? But Mom is usually the one using them, You need make up and jewelry, but most of the adult women she knows wear little of either.  The weaker sex concept was completely foreign, her response was somewhere in the neighborhood of, "Huh?  Who made that up?"  I think she even snorted  a little.  It is like watching a movie of myself thirty-six years ago.  In thirty-six years from now, will my daughter be writing about the green dress in the back of my closet ( my wedding dress)?  Why does society persist in doing this?  It keeps telling girls that they are ornaments to sit on the shelf, when really life is a lot of work and being ornamental might get you noticed for a few fleeting years, but it is shallow and boring. It is a life on the side lines rather than in the game, or the garden, or in the workplace.  I'm going to stop now, I need to figure out how much lumber I'll need to rebuild the permanent chicken coop.

Love Summer, Dread Summer

Summer is coming.  I'm looking forward to it and I'm somewhat dreading it.

The pluses:

My alarm won't go off every morning to make sure that all household members (furry, feathered, and otherwise) have breakfast and are properly equipped for the day and that certain members of the household are out the door on time. Mornings have a slower pace, nice, because I've never been much of a morning person.

Organized activities are minimal, no soccer or basketball practice messing up dinner or chopping every Saturday and  Sunday neatly in half, so that we get nothing done.

I am able to spend more time with my daughter, who is good company.

The farmer's market is open, and it is warm enough to enjoy it.

My garden is in full swing, collards, kale, scallions, cilantro and strawberries are ready now with other cool things to come.

Camping, got to have at least one venture to primitive living and escape the house. When I'm away from home I don't think about the trim painting that needs to happen, or have to look at the nasty white floor in the kitchen that looks like it needs to be washed despite the fact it was just washed. (Personal rant: Who are the sick people who install white floors in homes??? We garden, some of us ride horses and we have a large dog, the floor is never clean for more than fifteen minutes.)  Cooking with wood for a week is fun and it sure makes me appreciate the microwave and the oven when I return.

The dreads:

The cats become my alarm, usually they come and sit either on my pillow, so that I breathe fur while they yowl at me or the sit on my chest and rub their noses and whiskers across my face.  They know I don't "do" cats in my face.

Organized activities are minimal, so every day my daughter tries to see what she can come up with to entertain herself, usually involving friends who live several miles away or activities that are expensive and a minimum of a half hour's drive away.  She isn't old enough to drive, so I become "chauffeur extraordinaire."  and "the mom who says, "No!."" (sometimes I get the urge to say "nee." but she wouldn't get it--she is finally of the age when she can be introduced to Monty Python, she'll get it).

Though my daughter is good company, sometimes I just want to talk to adults or just plain old don't want to talk.  That introvert thing gets in the way of parenting, that's why I have only one.

Camping, I hate the packing.  Last year, I forgot the dog food (I remembered everything else!),  but she didn't mind eating leftovers.

Sweat.  Living in humid-land, life is hot and moist and a bit smelly.

______

Chick update:  The girls are doing well, they are more active now and have little feathers growing in on the tips of their wings.  Since it has been hot, they have been able to go outside briefly (they are supposed to be kept between 85-90 degrees at this point), they seem to enjoy it.  They are perching on my daughter's hands, much to her delight.

New Peeps

I have been missing having chickens.  I miss their crazy antics, the silly way they walk, their ninja kicks at each other over the grubs I toss from the garden and just looking up from yard work to find a tilted head with curious eyes pondering my every move.  I also miss the eggs, though Fluffy and Zebra our long-time companions gave the bittiest eggs, they were by far the tastiest I've ever had.

With a bit of trepidation, I jump back into the poultry raising pool.  I quickly became attached to the last crew only to have all of them gone in a moment, but that is life, isn't it? Changes in a moment never to be the same again.  I still feel a bit of guilt over the last bunch, but it is time to move on and try again.

So, meet the new peeps with names chosen by my bibliophile daughter:

Athena, (Buff Orpington) the goddess of wisdom, courage, inspiration, civilization, law and justice, just warfare, mathematics, strength, strategy, the arts, crafts, and skill. Thus far, I can tell she naps well.

Athena

Lucy (Buff Orpington)  named after the youngest child in The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis.

Lucy

Ursula, (Australorp), not sure where she came up with this one, I don't think it was The Little Mermaid and she hadn't remembered that it is her Nonna's middle name.

Ursula

and Paisley, I named a piggy bank (only because she said it required a name) that my daughter gave me as a gift, Paisley, because of the pattern on its back. I seem to remember a character in a movie somewhere with that name.  Anyway, she seems to like the name and has bestowed it on a bitty barred rock chick.

Paisleu

The yellow chicks seem to already understand how to pose, I just plopped them down, they looked cute and I snapped the pictures.  The black ones turned their backs and had to be re-oriented repeatedly to get a sort-of-okay shot.

These girls already have the beginnings of pin feathers on the tips of their wings, their cute as a button fluffy look won't be around next week.

Gardening Breather

Japanese Maple

It is dumping rain outside, so I have put aside my efforts to get my garden in for the day.  I've made so many trips to the horse farm that I have lost count.  The slippery clay soil in my back garden has taken on a darker, more organic hue.  I am incorporating 8 inches of manure into the top 8 inches of soil and then the following year I am top dressing with even more manure, I started this process on a small part of the garden last year, but I didn't have a good source of manure.  The garden beds end up being raised. The paths are mulched with straw and as soon as the soil heats up a bit more (it has been a cool spring) the beds will be also.

Back garden, Egyptian onions, Kale, Collards, Cabbage, Strawberries and Potatoes.

First Strawberry of the season.

Last year, I mulched the paths and never quite got around to doing the beds, I was a bit distracted with other projects that came up with the new house, like painting most of the interior, including the forty year old kitchen cabinets.  When I emerged from my projects to get back to the garden, the weeds had won.  At that point, I would go out to weed for and hour or so and there would be a small cleared area in the jungle, by July 4th I had pretty much given up and was a bit embarrassed when the BBQ guests asked to see my vegetable garden.  Food production was very low.(photos taken this morning between downpours)

This year, I have been making an effort to spend an hour, if not two on the gardens each morning, some of that time is spent hauling manure and some of that is spend picking out those weeds while they are still tiny.  For the new front garden, I am using the lasagna method, laying layers of cardboard for  weed suppression and layers of organic matter on top.  I planted it with squash and cucumbers and within 24 hours the squirrels had unplanted it.  I replanted the plants and most of them survived, but I lost a few Armenian cucumbers.  I am currently extending it bit by bit, so that I can plant pumpkins and watermelons.  I still need to build a trellis for the cukes and small pie pumpkins...

The fig's first leaves!

On the chicken front, I called the feed store to confirm that the Buff Orpington chicks would be in on Friday and the gentleman told me that in  a couple of weeks four different breeds were due in and he had no knowledge of Buff Orpingtons, even though he was the same person who told me about them in the first place.  The store manager called me back, right as I was typing this line, the Buffs and Barred Rocks will be in late next week and we may be able to score an Australorp in June, if not we'll get another Barred Rock.

Flower bed in front with plants imported from MA last year.

Luxury of the Bubble

crab apple blossoms

As I was writing yesterday about the Cherry Blossom Pink Bubble, I kept thinking that I was so privileged to be be able to have a bubble at all. I live in a bucolic setting, far enough away from urban centers to shelter me from much of the violence in the world.  I had one reader privately comment on how we as a nation have a big bubble.  Sure, there are urban spots in this country that have higher body counts than some war zones, but those are by far the exception.  We live in a bubble, sheltered by our physical isolation from the rest of the world by two enormous oceans.  Most of the people who slip over our borders on the north and south are looking for a way to feed their families, not for a way to blow us up.

Crab apple

The people of Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, Mali, and the Central African Republic do not have the luxury of a bubble. They face violence regularly, they face bombs and gunfire on their way to buy their groceries or worse, while sleeping.  I just have to keep my kid out of the woods during deer hunting season and face an occasional pan handler working the parking lot of the supermarket, a luxury.

Now it is time to stop peering out through the walls of my bubble and turn inward, the vegetable garden needs water, the seedlings need potting up, weeds need pulling, the mowers need gas and belts, the dishes need washing, the hole for the gooseberry (due within 24 hours) needs digging and the newly opened crab apple blossoms need admiring. 

The Cherry Blossom Pink Bubble

Spring has arrived in full here, the weeping cherry is in full bloom, the crab apple is just a few rays of sunshine off of blooming, the dogwood has and the quince, the early riser has peaked.  The seeds have germinated (except the cantaloupe and eggplant) and some seedlings have their second set of leaves.  The cold frame is full to protect them all on chilly nights, all is quiet and growing.

After yesterday's event in Boston, it makes me feel like I'm living in a bubble.  The closest thing to violence around here yesterday was when the cats decided that the dog had done something horribly wrong, just standing there in the kitchen, then on some cue they growled, hissed and chased her to the living room.  The only things that make the bubble tremble are the military aircraft from a nearby base that fly overhead from time to time and the groups of Harley's headed for the beach..

I've walked through Copley Square along Boylston Street, I've taken the T from Kenmore to Park, many times, it is a place with shiny buildings and Copley Plaza with goods so expensive that I was afraid to even look because I felt like I had "poor college student, raised in the woods, quite clueless" written on my forehead..  Those memories are many years ago (mostly the 80's), almost a different lifetime it seems.  I'm sure that many others would prefer to remember Boylston Street that way.

Far from Boston in my little bubble, we know that there is a man with a bad haircut in Korea posturing about nuclear war, we know that the son of a friend finished the marathon well before the blast and left, we know about all the earthquakes and crooked politicians, but we are in our bubble and we also know that the local feed supply store will be receiving a shipment of Buff Orpington chicks and maybe some Barred rocks on May 10th and we think that temporary quarters could be established for a few little pullet puff balls. We also know that a box with a gooseberry plant is due any day and that the apples and the rest of the blackberries should be here mid-next week.  There is much darkness in the world, but here in the bubble it is cherry blossom pink.