<div>She had the most incredulous expression, my three-year-old, when I asked, “Why didn’t Manu and Nihar wear pink?” Just last evening, she had told me how the kids at the daycare had decided to be dressed in pink the next day. “Because they are boys, amma,” pat came the response. “So?” I persisted. “Boys don’t wear pink,” she declared. “Says who?” I countered. “Everybody,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. As luck would have it, just then a man in a pink t-shirt rode past us on a motorcycle. “That uncle was wearing pink,” I pointed out, smirk in check. “But that was dark pink. Boys don’t wear light pink,” she retorted, visibly exasperated.<br /><br />It’s conversations like these that make me wonder how I’ll ever ensure that my little one’s life is not coloured by sexist myths and misconceptions. How do I protect her from the insidious ways in which society ingrains seemingly harmless notions into fertile minds? The threat is as much from the well-meaning family who gifts her anorexic Barbies with stilettoes and makeup sets as it is from prying strangers who’ll judge her by the length of her skirt.<br /><br />The biggest challenge of being a parent, I reckon, is being able to find that delicate balance between letting the child make her own mistakes and trusting your instincts in guiding her towards the ‘right’ path. It’s like teaching them to walk – you can try to remove all the obstacles from their path and, perhaps, offer a helping hand. But, ultimately, they need to move those tiny feet by themselves and trust their body enough to go solo. And then, it’s just a matter of time before they start running, falling, getting into trouble!<br /><br />When my daughter was a colicky infant, I used to long for her to start talking. That way, at least, she could tell me what she was on her mind, assumed the poor, ignorant me. Little did I know what I was asking for! Now, the questions never seem to end. Why does that aunty (in the ad) use razor on her legs? Does she have a moustache there? Why can’t I dance in the rain like the aunty and uncle in that song? Why can’t girls be superman?<br /><br />I plead guilty to sidestepping quite a few of the tiresome queries. And every once in a while, I also resort to the age-old parental retort – because I say so. However, more often than not, I try to lend a patient ear and give an honest answer. So, she knows about women getting rid of unwanted body hair; the difference between reel and real life; and that girls can also have superpowers and be superwoman.<br /><br />But just as I get ready to pat myself on the back for my fine parenting skills, there comes the now-familiar realisation that the discussion isn’t over yet. So, does sup-erwoman wear underwear over her skirt? Whoever said being a parent was easy!</div>
<div>She had the most incredulous expression, my three-year-old, when I asked, “Why didn’t Manu and Nihar wear pink?” Just last evening, she had told me how the kids at the daycare had decided to be dressed in pink the next day. “Because they are boys, amma,” pat came the response. “So?” I persisted. “Boys don’t wear pink,” she declared. “Says who?” I countered. “Everybody,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. As luck would have it, just then a man in a pink t-shirt rode past us on a motorcycle. “That uncle was wearing pink,” I pointed out, smirk in check. “But that was dark pink. Boys don’t wear light pink,” she retorted, visibly exasperated.<br /><br />It’s conversations like these that make me wonder how I’ll ever ensure that my little one’s life is not coloured by sexist myths and misconceptions. How do I protect her from the insidious ways in which society ingrains seemingly harmless notions into fertile minds? The threat is as much from the well-meaning family who gifts her anorexic Barbies with stilettoes and makeup sets as it is from prying strangers who’ll judge her by the length of her skirt.<br /><br />The biggest challenge of being a parent, I reckon, is being able to find that delicate balance between letting the child make her own mistakes and trusting your instincts in guiding her towards the ‘right’ path. It’s like teaching them to walk – you can try to remove all the obstacles from their path and, perhaps, offer a helping hand. But, ultimately, they need to move those tiny feet by themselves and trust their body enough to go solo. And then, it’s just a matter of time before they start running, falling, getting into trouble!<br /><br />When my daughter was a colicky infant, I used to long for her to start talking. That way, at least, she could tell me what she was on her mind, assumed the poor, ignorant me. Little did I know what I was asking for! Now, the questions never seem to end. Why does that aunty (in the ad) use razor on her legs? Does she have a moustache there? Why can’t I dance in the rain like the aunty and uncle in that song? Why can’t girls be superman?<br /><br />I plead guilty to sidestepping quite a few of the tiresome queries. And every once in a while, I also resort to the age-old parental retort – because I say so. However, more often than not, I try to lend a patient ear and give an honest answer. So, she knows about women getting rid of unwanted body hair; the difference between reel and real life; and that girls can also have superpowers and be superwoman.<br /><br />But just as I get ready to pat myself on the back for my fine parenting skills, there comes the now-familiar realisation that the discussion isn’t over yet. So, does sup-erwoman wear underwear over her skirt? Whoever said being a parent was easy!</div>
