I am not what one would call “classically feminine.” Some days I think the only thing that makes me female is my anatomy. I still have lip liner dating back to the Clinton administration and the last time I wore a dress was for my job’s holiday party and that’s because it was the only nice thing I owned since I was five months pregnant.
And I’m fine with it. I don’t mind the fact I own more jeans than skirts or that Cosmo may as well be written in German. I’ve been a tomboy my whole life and have learned to embrace it.
But I have a daughter. And there are nights where I lie awake wondering what on Earth I’m going to do If she grows up to be a lady who loves all things pink and frilly. Here’s a list of just ten of the reasons why I may possibly suck at raising my daughter.
1. I can’t braid. I have a super short pixie cut because I can’t do anything with hair other than run some gel through it and call it good. If I braid my daughter’s hair, I guarantee it will look like she just rolled out of bed. And not in a cute “just rolled out of bed’ way. More of a “doesn’t your mom own a hairbrush?” way.
2. I’m terrified of bugs. I have an out of control fear of flies and spiders and even ladybugs for crying out loud. If it has more than four legs, or if it flies, or if it scuttles across my dining room floor, I am freaking out. I am calling neighbors to come over to kill it for me, waking my husband up to remove it, etc. And I don’t want to pass that on to my daughter, but… that would require me conquering my fear and that ain’t gonna happen.
3. I can’t get maxi pads with wings off of my underwear without a feat of strength and inevitable destruction. Does that adhesive have super glue in it or what?
4. I know nothing about make-up. If it’s not lip gloss or mascara, it’s a mystery to me. I have a whole treasure chest of brushes and powders and creams. I paint my face with all those artifacts a couple times a year and it takes me forever to do it. If my daughter comes to me and says she wants to wear make-up. I’m shipping her off to her aunt’s house because all I’ll do is stab her in the eye with the mascara wand.
5. I don’t know the proper way to shave my legs. I’m 31 years old and, more often than not, I exit the shower with SO MUCH BLOOD running down my calf. There’s gotta be some secret to it which was never revealed to me.
6. I don’t know how to pluck my eyebrows. My eyebrows have two states: Caterpillars mating or “Why did you shave your eyebrows?”
7. I can’t walk in high heels. You know those nature shows that show new baby animals being born? And you know how they lean and wobble and stumble before they learn how to actually walk? That’s me every time I put on heels.
8. I don’t have a clue how to talk about the heavy stuff. Body image, menstruation, boys, sex, birth control, what? I don’t like talking to my friends about these things and at some point I’m going to have to talk to my baby girl about it? When the subject of pubic hair first came up in sex ed, I thought they said public hair and kept wondering what the big deal was. Talk about ill-prepared.
9. I don’t know how I feel about Disney princesses. They’re American icons, but are they good role models? My only opinion on a Disney princess is Cinderella’s choice of wearing a glass slipper. Not only would I be unable to walk in them (see above) but if I were wearing glass shoes, the Prince would surely notice I’ve never had a pedicure in my life and there would definitely be no happy ever after.
10. I don’t know how to get glitter off of all the things. Us moms of girls need to pull together and figure out how to eradicate that stuff forever.
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