There’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing

How to dress your children for a Danish winter.

Undies
Singlet
Trousers
Long-sleeved t-shirt
Socks
Jersey
Snowsuit
Snow boots
Mittens
Hat

There is your list.

Dressed for winter snow
Dressed for winter snow

Oh, I’m sorry, you meant how do you get your kids dressed in all those layers and layers of clothing? My mistake.

How to dress your children for a Danish winter.

“Come hither my darlings. Let’s go exploring. Let’s go out and play.  Here let me help you.”

Your children come scampering over, eager to co-operate, knowing what fun is ahead. They already have clothes on. They get dressed promptly after breakfast. You lay their snowsuits on the floor, ready for them to step into. You know where all their mittens are. Everything is always kept in its proper place.

children-playing-snowsuits-autumn
Not just winter – we dress like this in autumn too.

You help AJ while MJ (being four years old) dresses himself. Their excitement does the get better of them briefly. MJ begins to spin in circles instead of getting his shoes on. AJ copies him.
“Ah ha ha” you say, sounding like the narrator from Maisy “What Fun!”
They fall over laughing, and remember that they are supposed to be putting shoes on. Little rascals! On go the shoes, hat, then mittens and, voila! You are ready to go out.

Sorry, sorry, that’s not right either.

How to dress your children for a Danish winter.

Oh shit. You meant to get ready ten minutes ago.

MJ is playing with Duplo. AJ has migrated from drawing on paper, to drawing on the drawing table. She’s wearing a nappy and t-shirt. You grab trousers for your daughter. She sees you coming and runs away yelling
“Chee-chi, chee-chi” Cheeky. It is adorable. Except obviously not right now.

Once you catch her and start wrestling, you ask MJ to also get ready.
“Do you need the toilet?”
“No”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Really sure?”
“Ye-es.”
“Really, really, really sure?”
“YES!”

Oh well. You’ll just have to accept the consequences of this decision later.

AJ is wearing trousers now, and you begin on her socks.
“MJ, you need to get some socks on.”

He doesn’t go and get socks. You go and get socks. Choosing a pair from the carefully curated sock drawer. Socks in one style, two colours: navy blue and grey. The only socks he will wear. Since they are sold in mix-packs, this is an improvement on the stage where he would only wear the blue ones.  Other socks are too scruffly. I can’t tell you what scruffly means. I can only tell you what scruffly is:

Scruffly is unbearable. Scruffly is something you feel at the depths of your soul. Scruffly cannot merely be said. It must be bayed at the lightbulb, head thrown back, like a wolf howling at a moon. Scruffly must ring out for all the world to hear. And while it echoes through your house, carrying its waves of despair with it, best practice is to throw yourself prostate on the floor and kick your bare feet.

(You have considered bulk buying these socks in enough sizes to last for years as a precautionary measure in case they are discontinued. Or the apocalypse happens and you survive but can only find scruffly socks whilst looting.)

The non-scruffly socks start to go on. There is a further complication. For some unknown reason the store decided to stitch the size in the bottom of the sock. This means tense moments where MJ arranges the sock with the numbers exactly in the middle of his sole. Thanks design geniuses. We definitely needed another hurdle in our routine.

Time for snowsuits. The best way to start is sitting down on the snowsuit laid out on the floor. Helpfully that is exactly where they got dropped yesterday afternoon. Legs go in, kids stand up – sleeves next. MJ can, and usually will, get his arms and legs in. AJ’s legs go in alright, but she needs you to do her sleeves. At this point, for some inexplicable reason her arm goes floppy. She is smiling at you sweetly, but honestly, now is not the time. You insert your fingers at the opposite end, groping up the sleeve until you find her fingers and then you pull.

She’s not smiling now.

You start on the second sleeve while AJ throws herself on the floor, legs flailing. She spins around, while you tug. Congratulations! You are now the epicentre of a toddler break dancing routine. Meanwhile MJ has got his suit on and is struggling with his zip and you can feel the despair building behind you, but you almost… have… the… second… hand… Done!

You offer to help MJ and narrowly avoid a disaster of scruffly-type proportions. Never touch the snowsuit without being asked. Touching it to help without being asked will result in removal of said snowsuit and a repeat of the procedure. You restrain yourself just in time, and look on while he tugs ineffectually at the zip. You hope he doesn’t break it.
“I could just hold the bottom while you pull?”
“Ooh. Yes.” He is pleased at your bright idea. As though this isn’t the same bright idea you use every day.

MJ starts on his boots, and even though you did shake out the boots, the minute he rips the velcro a puddle of sand appears on your minimalist Danish floor. AJ obligingly balances against you while you help her foot into her shoe. She’s relaxed again. Which is a shame as you need her to step down into the boot.
“AJ can you put your foot in the boot, please?”
The foot dangles resolutely at the top.

You try pushing the boot up onto the foot. The angle isn’t exactly right and she protests. You huff and puff, until finally she puts some weight on that foot and the boot goes on. One down. One to go. The process will work exactly the same because your children never learn, and neither, apparently, do you.

You turn to MJ to help him with the boot straps. The essential bit making sure the boot and snowsuit don’t separate and let cold air, or water, in. More sand and grit flakes off onto your floor as you run your fingers along the straps, tucking them under the boots. It is a delicate process. The trick here is to remember that it is impossible to walk with boot straps that are twisted. Impossible. MJ checks them suspiciously once you are done.
“Sådan” he declares, expressing satisfaction with your job.

Well, thank fuck for that.

You throw your jacket and boots on – that’s me done. Then their hats go on. Mercifully easily. Apart from the yelling, of course. As soon as they have their mittens on you can go.

Mittens… Where are the mittens?

Ten sweaty minutes later, you have found the mittens and operation Michelin-children is complete.

You open the door. It is like releasing a cork from a bottle. All the tension dissipates, your children fizz outside.

You are no longer a harassed mother and two young kids. You are no longer contained. Now you are explorers, adventurers, treasure hunters. You can see the possibilities.

walk-cold-appropriate-clothing
Ready to explore

The air crackles with ice-crystals. As the three of you roar, you melt it with your hot breath.

Here be dragons.

 

 

 

 

(Boys and) Girls Can Do Anything

Gender Stereotyping.

It is impossible to avoid.

It starts as soon as the hospital staff hand you the pink hat, or the blue boots.  The message is clear: this defines your child.

baby-shoes-1796582_640

Should we brush it off as harmless? Or should we fight it?

I fight it. I fight it because I believe this is the beginning of the same forces that trap boys in displays of toxic masculinity, bottling up emotion, at best leaving them unhappy, at worst leaving them prey to mental illness, or alt-right chat boards. Our daughters fare worse, at best trapped under glass ceilings or, at worst, victims of gender-based violence.

It creeps in though, it’s unavoidable.

The girl at my son’s kindergarten, who asks why his sister in dressed in a skirt with pirates on it? Pirates are for boys.

Or the books we love despite their depressingly dated sexism. Richard Scarry is a repeat offender. I give radical feminist interpretations of classic books like Dear Zoo, making half the animals ‘she’ instead of ‘he’. Even new books fall into this trap, like the current favourite about a boy and a dragon- a male dragon, of course. I call the dragon ‘she’ and ‘her’ and guess what? The book still makes sense.

MJ whispers, he wants to wear his ‘dancing skirt’, a pink tutu we were handed down. He spins and pirouettes on our bed, dancing even when the radio is between songs. Once wearing the skirt he loses any inhibitions but I wonder, where did he learn that we might not like him dressing in it? I cheer him enthusiastically, trying to chase any doubts away.

Yesterday MJ made a bracelet at kindergarten. Silver and white and brown and pink plastic beads on a piece of elastic. He was so pleased with it. Silver is my new favourite colour. He runs his finger over the beads, leans against me, tells me something his best friend said
“He didn’t like it, but then he said he didn’t mean it.”
Head bowed, I can hear the hurt in his voice.
“Even if he didn’t mean it, it wasn’t a kind thing to say, was it?”
He sighs, wounded. I kiss his cheek. He leans in further
“Vank you for my lovely kiss.”
I breathe him in, my boy who can roll out a danish ‘soft d’ like a native speaker but can’t always manage ‘th’. He might be my big boy, but he is small and needs me still.
“Would you like another kiss?”
I ask hopefully.
“No.”
I am disappointed, but I respect his boundaries, and don’t kiss him. And there you have it, teaching consent to 4 year olds is really not that hard.

Buy boys dolls they say. MJ likes to play knights with his sword and shield. Not just knights, his interests are diverse, he likes to play vikings too. He doesn’t have a doll. Have I failed? Am I inadvertently entrenching the idea that nurturing is a female occupation? I take AJ into a toy shop and she reaches for all the dolls, grabs at the soft toys. This is something MJ never did. He has a monkey he loves, and he adores his cuski, a flannel baby comforter with a squishy ball shaped head. Cuski baby, he calls it.  It is cuski he cuddles at night, and cuski who sits on cushions next to the table at breakfast, and cuski he pretended to feed while I fed AJ. He might not have a doll but his devotion to cuski shows his nurturing capabilities are intact.

I think back to when he was his sister’s age. He liked Maisy, and running to the window whenever he heard a plane, which was often because we lived under the flight path, and picking flowers. AJ likes Maisy, and running to the window whenever we hear sirens, which is often because we live near the fire station, and doing whatever her brother is doing. Their interests seem to have more to do with environment than any in-built gender differences. But what do I know, I’m a parent, not in marketing for toy companies.

I want the world to be a better place for both my children. I want their futures to be open, not confined by arbitrary roles. Gender stereotyping affects boys and girls. I want my son to imagine being a stay at home Dad, and my daughter to imagine working in STEM.

We’ve come a long way since my mother was told she could be a teacher or a nurse. Times change. Feminism has won, they say, you can do anything. At my intermediate school there was an extension math group, for ‘students’ who were good at maths. There were no girls in this group. I was sat next to a boy who was struggling in math class, expected to help. When I was asked why, they said because you are good at maths. Feminism has won, they say.

“Lets play Frozen” MJ says “I’ll be…” He leans in close, whispers “Elsa.” As though there is something transgressive about this idea. I marvel at him pretending to blast out ice. I usually play the ice monster. Roaring and chasing two giggling kids around the house. Why does he think I would mind?

My last conversation at the hospital with my mother, I don’t know how we got there, but I remember her saying girls can do anything.
“Yes” I replied “I’ll make sure I teach MJ that.”
She smiled, coughed, raised her index finger in agreement, “make sure you do.”
It is a promise I intend to keep.

There is just one thing wrong with that, I realise now. To teach him this, I need to teach him something else too. Boys can do anything.

 

And the papers want to know whose shirts you wear

It’s true that nowadays people are more accepting of the wide breadth of gender expression that people feel, rather than the strict gender binaries of yore. And while I fit into a fairly conventional gender role myself, I think it is really important that people have these freedoms. But I worry that our kids are being forced to define themselves much more narrowly than us adults. That while we dream about every colour of the rainbow, big business seems determined to tell how children how they should look.

Have you been into a kids clothing store recently? Where is the green? Red? Orange?

It’s pink. It’s blue.

And it isn’t that I think there is anything wrong with blue or pink. Or boys who like trucks, and girls who like ponies. My son has a very healthy obsession with various modes of transport. When M was born I quite happily stocked up on baby clothes from the boy section, mostly in blue, lots of cute puppies and robots. I love blue! I love robots! But as my son has grown I find the clothes are less cute puppies, more Angry Birds. I bought him a Batman t-shirt, but Batman looks quite frowny. My son loves flowers and cooking, and cuddling his little sister; he worries about growing up and being old enough to go for walks on his own because he will be ‘alonely’. It seems crazy to dress him as though his default emotion is rage.

Now I have a daughter, and my eye wanders over to the girl department, and they glaze over. I find myself frightened to enter. I swear those sparkly ponies are waiting for a chance to stampede. I swear if I squeeze through the aisle of pink frilly skirts I’ll get lost and end up in Narnia.

But what about when she is older? I want her to dress to please herself, not other people. I want her to know that she doesn’t have to look a certain way to be accepted. That she doesn’t have to look a certain way to have her bodily autonomy respected. I don’t want her to think she should look like a Disney princess. Or that looking like a Disney princess is somehow a reflection of inner character, and that all the baddies she meets in life will look like Ursula. That looking like Ursula means you are bad. Though tentacles would be unfortunate…

I want my children to know they are loved however they express themselves. I want them to wear a riot of colour, or black from top to toe. They can be as conservative or not as they like. But the messages all around them are so strong. The boys’ side, and the girls’ side of the clothes store. The shoe shop. The toy store.

And it’s hard. It’s hard to swim against the flow of that message.

And before you say, it’s just clothes, don’t you have bigger things to care about? The answer to that is ‘Yes’. I do have bigger things to care about than if dressing my daughter in too many of her older brother’s hand me downs confuses people. I have more important things to do than to shop once for a boy, and then do the same thing three years later when I already bought clothes that size, just because of a double X chromosome. I have more important worries than if a stranger thinks dressing my son in floral t-shirts because he loves flowers is ‘a bit gay’. Because frankly if he decided he was gay that wouldn’t worry me in the least. And also, that’s not how it works.

The wonderful thing about small children is how accepting they are. They are so curious, and can ask awkward questions, but when we show them things are normal, acceptable, they accept it. But they also take small samples to representative of the whole; my son saw one train driver, and since then every duplo train has a female duplo figure driving it. We need to stop dividing our children into dichotomies of girl/boy, beautiful/boisterous, nurturers/adventurers. Because if we teach them that this is how it should be, how can we expect true equality for them when they are adults? If we teach them these rules matter, how can we expect them not to conform?

I could choose to push hard myself against it. Choose to dress them defiantly. But them I’m forcing that. It has to come from them. I think living as immigrants makes it harder. M is the foreign kid at daycare; with foreign parents who, as one child charmingly put it, understand nothing (but I understood that!). He is a foreign language speaker, and although he is pretty fluent, danish is still his second language, and he has a slight accent. He gleefully wears his pink Hello Kitty glasses; even on dark winter mornings because actually they are eyeglasses, and ‘oh-oh everything is blurry.’ He wears t-shirts with dandelions and other flowers on them, because he loves them. How much more do we let him stand out before the wolves start circling?

It’s too early to know who my kids will be when they grow up. A is only eight months and her preferences are pretty limited so far. Three year olds change so quickly too. Every winter I quietly worry over how much my boy will change. So far each spring when the buds break through the soil my little florist returns to me. He wants to pick every flower. We are barely able to go for walks we spend so long collecting dandelions.

And this is how I want to parent. I don’t want to tell my children how to be. I want them to be. I want to nurture the best of them. To embrace and cherish what makes them unique. To keep it safe. Not in a glasshouse. Not dried between pages of a book. But wild, fresh and blooming for all the world to see.

New Zealanders – looking for gender neutral clothes for kids? This online store Freedom Kids is awesome.