On Daughters

So, a few weeks ago, one of the men I work with took the morning off to go with his pregnant wife to her ultrasound appointment. It was the big one—the one that let them know what flavor of baby they were expecting. When he came it, he was all atwitter with having seen his gilled little offspring swishing around in his watery, temporary home.

No, I’m not using the universal masculine here. The happy couple will be welcoming a bouncing baby boy in some few months, he will be their second. My co-worker was surprised, as he and his wife were both convinced that this baby was a girl. That doesn’t surprise me. I suppose when a woman finds herself playing host to the most perfect of strangers, an unknown so complete that the first indication of its presence is a pee-soaked stick, there is a certain desire to ascribe some sort of trait to it; to give the growing bump some sort of identifiable characteristics.

As Co-worker was discussing this unanticipated penis-enhanced state of affairs, he mentioned that he wasn’t disappointed. He was, in fact, relieved. Relieved that he would not have to worry about fathering a girl; relieved that he would endure fewer sleepless nights and headaches. Relieved because boys are easier.

*sigh*

Now, I feel confident that if Co-worker were in fact expecting a girl, he would still eagerly anticipate the arrival of the little hitchhiker and then devote his life to doing everything he could to make sure she turned out happy and healthy and whatever else it is that parents want for their offspring.

I also feel confident that Co-worker gave little if any thought to what he was saying. Hell, the vast majority of people never give thought one to the trite drivel that spills from their mouths. In his mind, I’m sure that he thinks it’s an accepted truth—girls require more work and worry.

I was vaguely insulted.

No. Not drag someone down to HR insulted. I wasn’t even sufficiently annoyed to point out to him the stupidity I perceived in his statement. Instead, I just thought to myself, “Damn. Do men think we’re made of spun glass or something? What could possibly be so much more difficult about helping one’s daughter become a functioning adult?” I also wondered if he realized he’d discussed the difficulty of girls in front of several women. Women who, by definition, used to be girls.

Like so many things, though, the whole thing became crystal fucking clear once I spent some time really paying attention.

Later that same week, many of us went to a Happy Hour to celebrate the monumental career mistake we all made by entering this particular job. Okay, that was the reason I was there and I won’t speak for anyone else. Whatever, doesn’t matter.

So anyway, there is a group of us sitting around the table. A woman with whom I work brought her husband along, and he was discussing his 17-year-old from a prior relationship. A different male co-worker (CW2) mentioned his own teenager.

As a matter of getting a acquainted, the Husband and CW2 sorted out the genders of their respective high-schoolers. Husband has a daughter, CW2 has a son. CW2 sort of laughed at the plight of Husband, pointing at him and saying “I don’t have to worry about mine. You do.” Husband communicated his agreement with the statement through his chagrined chuckling.

Schmuck.

So. This is all more of the “I am a guy/I used to be a teenaged boy, so I know how they think.” Apparently, because boys and men are lust-filled nincompoops, girls are harder to raise.

What. The fuck. Ever.

I will give CW2 the benefit of the doubt and assume that he has done what he can to teach his sons to treat girls and women with respect; that he has not in fact raised some little monster who after a few keg-stands will require a knee to the groin to take no for an answer. Rather, I assume that he just assume that it is the natural order of things that men are the hunters and women are the hunted.

Clearly, this dude has never seen me on my game.

Once I began spending time with men who could reliably identify and locate the clitoris, I was every bit as sexual as any man my age. While I will not argue that I always made the wisest decisions where men were concerned, I did always *decide*. No one ever “talked me into” sex. Frankly, I’ve yet to meet anyone that clever. Have men lied to me to get me into bed? I suppose so, once or twice I maybe even allowed myself to fall for it. Women do the same dishonorable shit, though, so this whole predator/prey mindset rings hollow.

I don’t want to hear about the catty nastiness of teenaged girls, either. Yes. Many, if not most, teenaged girls have a terrible streak of interpersonal nastiness. However, as I recall, the teenaged boys weren’t measurably better. They’re cruelty just took on a different form. Believe me, as someone who was homely and bookish in my early teens I got an up close and personal experience with the myriad varieties of teen cruelty.

The one thing I will give fathers (and mothers) is that their daughters are at much greater risk of being the victims of violence. Domestic violence; rape; murder, the trifecta of parental horrors and sleepless nights. All of these are much more likely to happen to daughters than to sons.

The solution to this problem, though, is not to welcome daughters with apprehension. Indeed, treating your little girl as though she’s made of fluff pretty much guarantees she’s going to be. If you treat them as reasonable and intelligent creatures, they’re likely to behave as such.

The other solution, obviously, is that parents to need to wake up and smell the 21st fucking century and stop this whole “boys will be boys and I don’t have to worry about my son” attitude. Maybe if parents of boys devoted a modicum of fucking effort to raising civilized human beings, the parents of girls could unload part of the burden of guaranteeing the next generation was not made up of uncivilized knuckle-draggers.