Girls

It finally happened. My son, age 4, started talking about girls. I could hear him last night, talking with my husband, who was putting him back into bed for the umpteenth* time.

"I don't like girls," he said.

What he was saying was, he didn't like girls in sports. And that makes me sad.

Oh sure, I'm a massive hypocrite. For years I've followed the men's national soccer team and not really the women's. And my local MLS team, but not the women's soccer team. But I hadn't talked about it in front of my son. I thought he was immune still to this bias.

The truth is, although he doesn't remember it, he actually seems to have more fun at WNBA games than at NBA games. There are more day games, so he's not tired and cranky. Tickets are less expensive so we can sit in the 100s rather than the 400s. There's fewer people at the games so there's more room to move around. (Sigh.)

The folding of the women's pro soccer league the WPS made me think about women's sports lately, so I guess it was already on my mind. If we'd had a girl and not a boy, I'd want her to see the WPS and the WNBA and know that if she was a gifted athlete and she worked really hard, that her dream of playing for a living could come true. It's so unfair that women have fewer options in this arena. 

When you're a kid and you're playing a sport, that dream that someday you could be on the court, the field, the pitch^ playing professionally is a dream that every kid should have. It can keep you going during practices and wind sprints and muddy scraped knees and that time you caught a softball in the face. (Ok, clearly I was never going to be a professional athlete of any kind but I was and I remain a world class day dreamer.)

I hope that right now my son's dismissiveness of women in sports stems only from his current age and fixation on categorizing and sorting and pattern-making. If not, I have a lot of work to do.



*That is the number my mother used to measure things when she was annoyed. "I've had it!" she'd say, "For the umpteenth time, put your toys away!"

^Europoseur

How To Be A Woman

I toyed with the idea of reviewing books, but decided against it primarily because my book reviews generally consist of me grabbing a friend by the arm and insisting they read a book because it is delightful or difficult or all-encompassingly awesome.

That does not lend itself to bloggery.

However, I am halfway through Caitlin Moran's How To Be A Woman and as I haven't left the house this week and am woefully short of forearms to clutch, I am writing a review. Sort of. Yes, I haven't finished it yet but unless she dedicates the last half to a discussion of Simon Cowell's chest hair or the genius of boy bands I can't imagine I won't love this entire book. Because, although this is the story of Caitlin Moran's life and beliefs of what being a woman means it contains thus far everything I get ranty about when I've had a bit too much to drink: knickers and porn and pubic hair and sexism and feminism and fat and honestly I would hug this book if it weren't sharp and pointy and generally book-like. I would have finished it days ago if it weren't for this stupid cold and the siren call of sweet, syrupy Nyquil. Ahh, Nyquil.

The book is funny and honest and stupendous and human. Please do consider this a virtual (and gentle and loving) arm-assault by me and consider pre-ordering this book. Amazon informs me it is available in the US starting July 17th.