The Frog Pyjamas

Two mums, one blog, two takes on parenting


Leave a comment

Why I want more for my daughters than girls’ clothes

“What a lovely little boy.”
“She’s a girl, but thank you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” [Peers closer.] “Oh, she’s got pink on her vest. Of course she’s a girl.”
“Er- no. SHE HASN’T GOT A PENIS, so of course she’s a girl. It’s got nothing to do with the colour of her vest.”

Alas, only three-quarters of that conversation actually happened. The last bit is just what I wish I’d said.

My blue-eyed, fat-cheeked nine-month old is regularly mistaken for a boy. That in itself wouldn’t trouble me: at that stage, left to themselves, they mostly just look like babies. However, I am bothered that people feel they have to apologise for the mistake, as though I’ll be hurt that she doesn’t look ‘feminine’ enough. And it is irritating – because of what it implies – that this happens every time she’s dressed in anything that isn’t stereotypically girly. (And never, of course, when she is.)

Because it’s not only when she’s in her cousins’ bluer hand-me-downs that this happens. (That, at least, would be unsurprising, if still a bit depressing.) Rather, it seems that there’s no such thing as gender neutral anymore: almost everything I naively thought of as unisex is assumed to be (and sold as) boy-wear. A baby is only allowed to be a girl if she’s wearing pink, lilac, pale purple, flowers, birds, or butterflies. Or sometimes kittens or rabbits. Oh, or a dress. Obviously. Everything else – most colours, almost all animals, and (of course!) anything transport related – is for boys.

And I use ‘allowed’ advisedly. If I correct people on my baby’s sex, I get accusation almost as regularly as apology. An aggrieved: “But she’s wearing blue/dungarees/a picture of a truck.” Like I’ve been false advertising.

All this is annoying enough, but it’s even more disturbing when combined with another trend on the baby circuit: baby girls sporting bandanas decorated with a bow or flower, in lieu of long hair. Just to make sure, presumably, that no-one could mistake them for a boy.

This depresses me. Of course I’m not saying don’t do it. It would be the height of hypocrisy to complain about being told how to dress my girls, then lecture other mothers on how to dress theirs. I’m not suggesting we should all be like the couple who not only eschewed all gendered clothing and toys, but refused to disclose the sex of their child until he was five years old. Far from it: I have lots of fun putting my girls in dresses and flowers – it’s just not all I dress them in – and I would love plaiting my three year-old’s hair if she would let me.

But I see these headbands so often that it seems like yet another thing we’re expected to do. I’m starting to feel as though boys are the default, and it’s taken for granted that parents of girls will mark them out as different. Often, even more annoyingly, in intensely impractical ways. There’s no way I could get my wriggling, grabbing, crawling little monster to keep anything like that round her head for more than ten seconds. The sunhat is a battle enough.

Of course, that’s my real bugbear. It’s not just about colour coding. It’s about, effectively, curbing what girls can do. And it only gets worse as they get older. Take the other week. Scene: a major supermarket. My quest: sandals for my three-year-old, for an outdoorsy holiday and charging around the garden without picking up any more splinters. Not too demanding, you would think. But you’d be wrong, reader, because my three-year-old is a girl.

There they were: the shelves of shoes next to one another, one heavily pink, the other mostly blue. I’d expected that. But it went further. The girls’ section featured what looked like fashion sandals. Perfect for attending a party (at least, if it was a sit-down-and-play-with-dolls kind of party); hopeless, as far as I could see, for muddy running, paddling, or climbing. The boys section was a different story. Two sturdy pairs of sandals, securely velcro-strapped, ready to withstand plenty of dirt, and altogether much like a mini version of those sold in outdoor shops. Clearly designed for just such fun as my intrepid Little A. had in mind.

Even the waterproof sandals, presumably both intended for beach-holiday paddling, were starkly gender-divided. In the boys’ corner, closed toed, robust. In the girls’, flimsy, strappy things that promised nothing so much as a sprained ankle at the first scramble over boulders or race up a pebbly shore.

I can’t express how cross this makes me. I was expecting the same outdoorsy shoes in both sections, only with the girls’ ones covered in flowers and pinkness. That would be annoying enough. (Message to my adventure-loving, climbing, jumping daughter: “OK, you can do these things so long as you look pretty at the same time.”) But not having a girls’ equivalent on display at all? That’s basically saying to my girl and all those like her that she shouldn’t be doing those things, full stop. And saying that to her at three years old. What will it be like – what will she expect, of the world and of herself – by the time she’s ten?

Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. What she’ll expect, after all, is exactly the kind of society she’s growing up in: one so packed with double standards that women can still be required to wear high heels to the office. But of course that only makes me more furious.

No doubt there’s more I should be doing about this. Petitioning the excellent Let Toys Be Toys campaign group to turn their attention to clothes. Barraging the offending stores with indignant emails. I’ll try both. In the meantime, I did what I often do anyway, and bought from the boys’ section. My daughter now has a pair of sturdy, multi-terrain sandals in her favourite colour: blue. She loves them.

 

 

Advertisements


Leave a comment

Can’t sleep, won’t sleep: Surviving postnatal insomnia

“Sleep when your baby sleeps.” Yeah, right.

Everyone warns you about disrupted nights, though nothing prepares you for being woken, some nights, every 45 minutes. From two to seven months, two hours was a long sleep for my younger daughter. Even her big sister – no perfect sleeper – had left me totally unready for that.

Nobody warns you that you mightn’t be able to sleep even between those imperious alarm calls. That, as if this amazing, impossible motherhood lark wasn’t challenge enough already, you can be let down by your own body.

Nobody tells you about lying next to a sleeping baby, zombie-tired but irredeemably awake. About the time sliding by as your thoughts run in unproductive but unstoppable circles. Exhausted frustration to near-resignation. Then another cycle of almost-but-not-quite-dropping-off. Finally, sobbing panic at the thought of the long, fast-approaching day. A day with two infinitely valuable, infinitely demanding little persons to be kept alive and fed and happy.

No-one tells you about listening for your baby’s slightest movement. One moment hearing her stir and deciding it’s pointless trying to sleep when she could wake any second. The next panicking because you can’t hear her, and waking her yourself to ascertain that, yes, she is still breathing. About how sometimes you will end up waking her to feed, hoping the ensuing sleep will be a chance to sleep yourself. (It wasn’t, usually.) Or how you will tell yourself what a terrible mother you are to have disturbed her. (Those are not the hours for rationality.)

At least, nobody told me. I hadn’t heard of postnatal insomnia until I had Little L. Then, frantically Googling (usually at 2am), I found only brief mentions on the official websites, usually as a codicil to postnatal depression. It was only by trawling through the message boards that I found other new mothers grappling with it as a standalone problem. (Or perhaps not entirely standalone. Looking back, I can see how easily that tear-drenched middle-of-the-night panic could have spiralled into PND.) But, because it is a very real problem, and in the hope of helping someone else, here is how I got through my months of sleep deprivation.

Co-sleeping. I never planned to do it: it rang all the alarm bells in my risk-averse head. But when I only had to wriggle across to feed L. to sleep, then back to my side of the bed, I didn’t ever have to wake up all that much. And – an unexpected benefit – I loved it so much that I wished I’d done it first time round. (Tip for the similarly cautious: under-the-sheet bed guards. They stopped her rolling into me and under the duvet, but I could lie across them to breastfeed.)

Talking books. I tried some of the standard insomnia tips. Prescription and even over-the-counter drugs are, alas, incompatible with breastfeeding. So I was left with camomile tea (For weeks, I kept it by the bed.) With not staring at a screen before or in bed. (The 2am Googling: bad idea.) A hot bath. (Like, when exactly?) I even tried downloading what claimed to be a self-hypnosis insomnia cure. (I ended up more awake than ever, but distracted by planning methods of torture for the deeply annoying narrator.) Talking books actually blocked out that unproductive escalation of worry. Books I loved, but knew inside out already. They tricked me into sleep because I wasn’t thinking about it. It didn’t always work, but it did more often than anything else.

Early nights. For the insomniac, it’s a case not of sleeping when the baby lets you but finding out when you can sleep, and moving heaven and earth to make space for it. For me, that meant going to bed almost as soon as my toddler did. Then, I could grab a few straight hours while L. was carted round the house in the sling on her dad, or cuddled by whichever aunt or grandparent was to hand.

Friends. Girls I could text after a bad night, begging them to come round, warning them I was liable to burst into tears at any moment. Friends who showed up in twos or threes, loaded with cake and their own toddlers to entertain mine, who carried Little L. around when she cried, picked up A. when she tumbled over, and barely let me get out of my chair. Those expensive antenatal classes we did the first time round? Totally, totally worth it: they brought these indispensable ladies into my life.

Acceptance. The single most useful piece of advice I found in all my obsessive online research was that there is no miracle cure. Two friends saying of the two hourly wake-ups: “That’s just what it’s like when you are exclusively breastfeeding” was about the most helpful thing I could hear. After that, I wasn’t constantly thinking: “Oh I can’t wait to crack the sleeping so I can enjoy parenting again.” I was relishing her already. And it means so much, looking back, that I didn’t let the sleep crap undermine that.

The truth is, we can deal with it. Even a double whammy of insomnia and a six-feeds-a-night-baby. Once I found I could cope even with only an hour’s sleep, I was spared that 5am how-will-I-get-through-the-day panic. Yes, there was more Peppa Pig than I ever thought I would countenance, and I felt – and still feel – terrible at how much snappier the tiredness made me with my adorable A. But I knew I could keep both girls fed and cleanish and mostly cheerful, even if I was on reserve battery myself. Armed with the swat team of friends and cake, I even laughed my way through some of those zombie afternoons.

And while insomnia has nothing going for it, there is something to be said for the baby-led night-time wake ups. With a toddler and a houseful of chores, quality time with a second baby is thin on the ground. From that first besotted night in hospital, thinking how crazy I was to worry I couldn’t love a second baby as much, the night feeds have been just for me and Little L. For all the tears (mine and hers), there are memories that I will treasure. That moment when she stops raging and begins her trusting, shut-eyed questing. Her happy, snuffling noises. That warm, cuddly intimacy, even through the haze of exhaustion.

L. is nine months old now and at least starts the night in the cot. Her dad handles some wake ups, she’s down to two or three a night, and I (mostly) sleep better. I wouldn’t say I’ll be sad when she eventually sleeps through, but there will be some things I’ll miss, after all.