I’ve recently started up therapy again, and with that always comes new insight. This deep dive into my childhood up to today in combination with my psychology of diversity class has made me feeling extra grateful lately. I know this sounds odd, but just hang with me for a minute. In talking with my therapist, she keeps telling me that I am so strong willed and dedicated and empathetic because that’s how my parents raised me. I always knew this, but the details are important here. She says I am comfortable in my skin because my parents let me dress in stereotypically boy clothing as a kid. They let me play in the dirt and taught me football. They didn’t treat me like a little princess; they taught me to be self sufficient. They taught me that before we got a new toy, we got rid of two. They taught me that hand me downs are good because they’re already broken in and can get dirty. They taught me that helping others is fun and not about reward. My dad helped so many people that will never know it was him. My parents raised me in a way that I think made me turn out pretty good if I may say so myself. That’s great, but arguably more important than that is what they taught me through observation. They taught me that a woman doesn’t do the cooking and the man the yard work. Instead, they taught me that if one parent cooks, the other does dishes. If one parent cuts the grass, the other runs the weed eater. They taught me that working together is paramount and that it’s okay to argue. They taught me the value in showing up because they never missed a game or were late for a practice. This is where my psychology class comes in: They taught me that gender roles in the home are constructed because I always assumed how my house ran was how everyone else’s did, too. Sitting in my class listening to peers talk about their homes growing up makes me eternally grateful to have grown up in one that apparently wasn’t the norm. Dad taught me to braid and sew by hand. Mom taught me to cut the grass. Dad taught me to fix the sink. Mom taught me how to type. There were no gender roles in my house—just parents. That’s how it ought to be. I know people will see this and think it applies to them too (and I really hope it does!), but look closely at the roles in your home because your kids are more perceptive than they seem. If they only see mom do housework and dad do yard work, they’ll grow into those roles. They won’t see that they can be anything they want like my parents taught me. (Also—my parents taught me to think for myself rather than pushing any agendas on me and would hear my opinions and views even if they didn’t align with theirs. This is something that doesn’t happen enough.)
I’d like to think I’ve taught my parents some things, too—If they ever made a scene at one of my sports games, I told them I would walk off the field or court and never step back on. That seemed to work because they stayed calm despite my getting beat up a lot. As I said when I was throwing a temper tantrum as a toddler, “if you just give me my way, I’ll stop crying.” I think we worked around that one but it showed how strong willed I was and that when directed it turned out to be a good thing.
A special note for the best girl dad out there (aka a moment to brag about dad)—He was such a fierce supporter with a heart full of love. He let me paint his nails pink before I went on a trip to help me when I got homesick. He always had hair bows in the car for practice because surely someone on my teams forgot. He always showed up to my games with water and Gatorade. He always played football or soccer or basketball with me in the yard at night. He learned the rules to every sport I picked up so we could talk strategies. He tucked me into bed every night making sure I knew how loved I was. He did a lot, but the best thing he did was film. He filmed so much so that I’ll always have him a clip away. So that one day my kids will know what he sounded and acted like. So that my new friends still get to meet him.
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