(Above: Horus wearing one of his own designs.  He is standing in our pottery studio–which is, admittedly, quite chaotic– so please don’t email to tell me what a terrible parent or housekeeper I am!  And for the record, the kids are not “allowed” to come into the studio with bare feet.  It’s all about discipline, folks, clearly).

*

Horus will turn seven years old in October.  He still vibrates with a fervour and a physical tension and energy that sometimes seems to bely morality one moment, and then seconds later, veers  sharply towards compassion and sensitivity.  As his mother, I often feel fractured: guilty at times, and proud and lots of in- between.  Ultimately though, I have learned, as a parent, that little of who he is (who they are) is thanks to me.  Parents can instil habits, to a degree, but not personality.  We can create an environment that hopefully facilitates our children’s thriving, and we can help to shape perspectives, but we can’t really influence the matter of their minds, or hearts.  It’s complicated.  I love Horus so much it hurts, and he manages to invoke my wrath and outrage fairly regularly, (especially when he bullies his younger siblings, which is my ultimate trigger.)

*

Horus shines when one-on-one, or with all eyes on him.  I don’t want to indulge or encourage his sense of self-centredness, but I do want to give him my time and focussed attention.  Last week, I took him on his own, to see Fredericton’s outdoor performance of Hamlet.  We had so much fun, and it was also somewhat characteristically exasperating.  The production, I thought, was excellent—we wandered through the woods, trailing the prince, and the court of Denmark.  Being the brilliant literary guy that he is, Horus followed—the storyline, and the players—astonishingly well for a six-year old (and I did whisper to him snippets of plot summary, when necessary).  But he couldn’t resist looking behind the curtain (a grove of trees), or scrambling up the rock face after Hamlet and his father’s ghost: “I’m just getting a better view, mum!  I’ll be right back!.”  The poor stage-managers were beside themselves, and the audience was mostly unamused, even though he indulged his curiosity quietly and respectfully, albeit energetically.  Throughout, I was torn between exasperation, and wistfulness.  Will he, or does he already, feel like he doesn’t quite belong here?  In this cold conservative province, in this humourless twenty-first century world? There was a time when a play was a raucous public affair; when shouts  and hollers from the crowd were the normal thing.  This Hamlet was sombre, and when Horus took off running down the hill after Laertes, one of the ushers caught up to him right before I did, and said “That’s dangerous!  Please don’t run down the hill”.  Panting, I put my arms around Horus and whispered, “No.  It’s not dangerous at all—but it is upsetting to the other people who are here, trying to watch the play, and is therefore disrespectful.  You run as much as you need to, but just not right now, not here.”

*

I spent most of my own childhood feeling like I didn’t belong: born in the wrong place, at the wrong time, to the wrong parents, in the wrong body.  I didn’t have the same need that Horus does, to discharge energy in such a physically intense way, but I lived in my literary fantasy world for years and years, and I see many parallels between Horus’ theatricality and my own, somewhat more self-contained version.

*

I think back to my mother’s approach to parenting me and my two siblings through the eighties and nineties.  That time seems far-removed from the politics of parenting today, in many ways.  My mum, like many other parents from that generation, had made a conscious and concerted effort to provide us with gender-free playthings, and a supposedly gender-free future.  I was never terribly interested in toys (books were always my thing), but my little sister and brother played with rainbow lego, little cars and trucks, and dolls.  I played soccer, wore pants (and dresses) and I have clear memories of my mother saying to friends and strangers the equivalent of “No, Yolande is not a ‘tomboy’, she is a girl who climbs and plays and jumps, and she is strong and smart and powerful.”  In my family, “Tomboy” was recognized as the sexist, derogatory term that it is.

*

The world has changed so much, in such a short period of time.  Although we are told the opposite, I worry a lot, that the entrenchment of gender norms and stereotypes that is happening in our culture only narrows the scope through which we all see the world, and each other.

*

A couple of  years ago, I was driving home with the kids,  after visiting relatives in Carleton County.  Horus at that time was going through a period of interest, and even infatuation, with objects that are highly gendered as “feminine”.  Like my own mother, I make an effort to stay away from gendered things, in favour of simple neutral clothing, and basic toys (sticks and rocks are great).  But we live in a world of extremes, and I don’t want my own preferences or politics to mimic that extremity in the other direction.  So I try to be easy about it all (with varying degrees of success).  Whenever our younger daughter was gifted with aa dainty (read: “feminine”) doll, or a frilly dress,  Horus gravitated towards these things, and wanted to wear them, and prance around and shake and shimmy, and vogue and vamp for the mirror, and delight in the glittery gorgeousness of it all.  There was one particular pair of gold mary-janes that Horus *loved*.  He also wanted to wear pigtails.  My reaction to this propensity of Horus’s not to “conform” to his “gender” was this:  “Yes.  Yes!  You love these things.  I understand why!  I like sparkly things sometimes too.  I like to wear dresses sometimes too.  This is what you like, my boy, and I like you.  Yes—I do think you look wonderful!  I love you, and I love what makes you happy. “

*

And at the same time, I felt tiny twinges of concern.  Not because of what the neighbours or extended family would think, but of how they might make Horus feel about his aesthetic expression, especially considering the disappearing cultural distinction between sex and gender.  It is beautiful to me, that my boy is (hitherto) unashamed of his interests, his fashion-sense, his style, his personality.  I don’t want him to ever be hurt by the nastiness or bullying of others.  But of course, being a parent is to be crushed by what the world will do to our kids.

*

On that drive home from visiting family in Carleton County, Horus said to me from the back seat, “Mum, I wanted to wear pigtails and barrettes and a dress.  But G. said that boys don’t wear pigtails.  She said that only girls wear pigtails.  Mum, am I really a girl?”

*

My heart started pounding, and I pulled my car over to the shoulder of the highway, and I turned the engine off, and I turned around and faced my son.  “Oh Horus.  Let me tell you something.  G. loves you so much, and she is wrong.  Boys do wear pigtails.  All over the world, and for hundreds of years, boys have worn pigtails, and other sorts of hairstyles, just like girls.  It is true, that in Carleton County, and in New Brunswick, we don’t see many boys wearing pigtails, but that is only because we live in a world where people have specific ideas of how girls and boys should act and dress.  And this is because people are often fearful, ignorant, and so very unimaginative.”

*

“You are a boy, and you are perfect as you are.  In Carleton County, in New Brunswick, Canada, North America, and in most parts of the world, many people have strong ideas about exactly how boys and girls should behave.  People think that boys and girls should behave and dress differently from one another, in very specific ways.  I think this is wrong.  I believe that all people should have the freedom to wear clothes that they feel comfortable in, and to make their hair look any way they like, whether they are a girl, or a boy.  Did you know that one hundred years ago, women were not allowed to wear pants?  Can you imagine that? In fact, when Grandma Stacey was a little girl, she was *not allowed* to wear pants to school.  So you see, ideas about what is acceptable in the way of clothing, and behaviour, and attitudes, for boys, and for girls, changes from time to time and from place to place. What I hope for though, is a world in which people are all treated equally no matter what they wear.

*

You are a boy, Horus.  You are a boy, a male, simply because you have a boy’s body: a penis, testicles, and other male parts.  You will never become pregnant, or give birth to a child, but you may one day decide to be a father when you’re much much older.  Wearing dresses or  your hair in pigtails, or playing with dolls, and ponies, does not make you a girl–you will always be you, no matter what you play with or what you wear.  I want you to understand that you are so lucky to have been born with a perfect body, a boy body, and I want you to know that you *are* your body, and that your body– whole, and functional, and healthy as it is– is an immense gift.  And I want you to know that I will love you no matter who you love, no matter how you dress, and no matter what you like.  I hope you continue to love yourself, and to love your body just the way it is, and that the love, softness and compassion you have for yourself will extend to all the other people in the world.”

*

Horus nodded, getting it.  With that, I started the car up again, and the kids eventually fell asleep to the lull of the engine.  In the past several months, Horus’ interest in sparkly evening gowns has waned to mostly be eclipsed by his passion for entomology, and karate, and gymnastics, although he still enjoys a good prance in front of the full-length mirror, or making an appearance in the pottery studio while I’m working, in an “outrageous outfit” (as he gleefully put it) all his own (see above).

*

I look forward to knowing the man he becomes.  But I also can’t help but hope he stays a kid for a good long while.