Becky was my first editor at one of my freelance writing jobs for AfterParty Magazine. She's not only kind and lovely, but just an all around badass. I feel so lucky to know her even a little bit, and honored she would write something for this blog. So without further adieu, ladies and..ladies (probably), here it is!
I’m Trying to Raise a Son Who’s Not a Dick
By Becky Sasso
I’m not gonna lie. The day I found out I was pregnant with a boy I cried all the way home. Until that day I was certain my baby (which Pinterest told me was about the size of an avocado or apricot or some shit) was a girl. I had all kinds of fantasies about how I would be the most strong, positive, badass mom to a girl ever. I would finally have a captive audience for all my hard-won wisdom about how to do a perfect French braid and being a woman in a country that basically doesn’t give a shit about you unless you are a white man.
My fantasy daughter and I would rock matching hairstyles and she would be allowed to wear whatever she wanted—princess dresses or overalls, ballet flats or Doc Martens. She would never hear the word fat and learn to ride a tiny skateboard as soon as she could walk. We would be the best girl gang ever! Maybe we would even start a groundbreaking multi-generational girl punk band when she grew up. So, when the doctor told me I was having a boy I was shocked.
I was like, “What the hell am I supposed to do with a boy?” In the moment it didn’t occur to me that babies are basically genderless worms for the first year of life. The only difference is boys spray you with pee when you let down your guard and girls have an extra hole to consider when you’re wiping liquid poop at 3 am. All I could think about was, “Great, now I’m responsible for how a man treats women for the rest of his life.” My next thought made me cry even harder—with gratitude. It was something like: Well, if I must have a boy, at least he will have the absolute best guy I’ve ever met as his dad. Seriously.
I was so thankful in that moment for Planned Parenthood, the inventor of the birth control pill and the one tiny shred of common sense I had in my twenties that kept me from having a kid. All those drug addicts, morons and assholes I slept with would have been horrible dads (if they even stuck around, which is doubtful since most are in prison or dead now). They probably would have taught my boy how to fight, open a beer bottle with a cigarette lighter and taken him to get a neck tattoo at 15. My husband is nothing like those idiots—I knew he would be a great dad. It took me years of chasing assholes to appreciate a guy who is sincere, kind and treats me well. He’s a much better person than I am, so it works.
So, I knew my husband would rock as a dad. That left me feeling immense pressure to be good mom to a boy. How could I raise a man without ever really knowing what it feels like to be a man? I needed to figure out how to be the type of mom that teaches a boy to respect women without being a total hard-ass. I wanted him to depend on me for comfort and cuddles, but still take me seriously as a disciplinarian. Fuck—it was overwhelming. I tried to think of all the mannish things I was good at. I grew up in an orchard, so I’m pretty outdoorsy and don’t mind getting dirty. I love basketball and skateboarding. I was single well into my thirties, so I know how to mow a lawn, change a tire and operate a power drill. I can even re-light the pilot light on a gas water heater without blowing myself up!
Most importantly—how would I raise a son who is not an asshole? Men are taught that being a dick makes them seem strong. Our society values men who are decisive, outspoken and (often) totally full of shit. Women with these same qualities are considered loudmouth bitches. If you don’t believe me, just look at presidential race. It’s fucking scary. For crissakes—we live in a country and a time where it actually occurred to me to feel relieved I fell in love with a white guy. At least I don’t have to worry that the police are going to kill my black son for wearing a hoody.
When he was finally born, my son was just a baby. Surprise! He was just a wrinkled ball of crying and poop, like any other baby. He didn’t need anything but milk and cuddles. I made the decision to take a step back in my career stay at home with him. Don’t even get me started on how hard it is in this country for a woman to breastfeed, spend adequate time bonding with her baby and still stay relevant in her chosen field—it’s like I have five fucking jobs and four of them are unpaid. Anyway, it’s important to me that my boy learns about life (at least for the first few years) from people who love him. This puts me in the position where I am the primary caretaker. Basically, it’s on me to make sure he is not a tiny, budding asshole.
My kid is two now. He’s less baby and more boy every day. He questions things and pushes boundaries. He’s two—that’s his job. He hangs on every word I say, repeating them back to me when I least expect. Recently in the checkout line at Target he announced loudly “Ladies have milk in their boobs and men have muscles in their boobs”—because that’s what I told him hurriedly in a moment when he demanded an answer. So, I’m learning to be careful. I hug him and kiss him, but try NOT to tell him every day that that he is the cutest, smartest boy in the world (even though he is) because I don’t want him to grow up a narcissistic, entitled dick. I try to give him practical, process-based praise. Like, great job getting your Cheerios into your mouth with a spoon and you are excellent at singing Row-Row-Row Your Boat! Shit like that.
It’s a struggle. Each day I face another challenge in the ever-changing landscape of motherhood. It’s like riding downhill on a bike with no brakes, carrying a live grenade. Some days I suck. I get frustrated or tired, I let him eat sugar and have way too much screen time. Other times, I’m fucking awesome. Like when he sleepily says, “Thank you, Mommy” completely unprovoked as I sneak out of his room feeling like I’ve run a half-marathon after nursing for 20 minutes and reading the same book seven times. Like when he asked me if he is a man or a lady. I told him right now he’s a little boy and when he’s a bit older, he will discover for himself if he is a man or a woman and I will love him no matter what. He seemed to like that answer.
So, here I am with a little boy. I have no idea what it’s like to be a man, but I do know how to be a decent human being. I guess that’s really what I have to offer as a mom. And, for the record my son has a fabulous hairdo, plays with dolls and I reserve the right to dress us in matching outfits even though he’s a boy. There’s nothing either of us can do about the fact he was born with a penis, but I will spend the rest of my life trying to make sure he’s not a dick.
Becky Sasso lives outside LA with her husband and son, who are not dicks. She writes for AfterParty Magazine, tweets obsessively about TV and posts a million kid pics on Instagram. Follow her @bossy_joy
I’m Trying to Raise a Son Who’s Not a Dick
By Becky Sasso
I’m not gonna lie. The day I found out I was pregnant with a boy I cried all the way home. Until that day I was certain my baby (which Pinterest told me was about the size of an avocado or apricot or some shit) was a girl. I had all kinds of fantasies about how I would be the most strong, positive, badass mom to a girl ever. I would finally have a captive audience for all my hard-won wisdom about how to do a perfect French braid and being a woman in a country that basically doesn’t give a shit about you unless you are a white man.
My fantasy daughter and I would rock matching hairstyles and she would be allowed to wear whatever she wanted—princess dresses or overalls, ballet flats or Doc Martens. She would never hear the word fat and learn to ride a tiny skateboard as soon as she could walk. We would be the best girl gang ever! Maybe we would even start a groundbreaking multi-generational girl punk band when she grew up. So, when the doctor told me I was having a boy I was shocked.
I was like, “What the hell am I supposed to do with a boy?” In the moment it didn’t occur to me that babies are basically genderless worms for the first year of life. The only difference is boys spray you with pee when you let down your guard and girls have an extra hole to consider when you’re wiping liquid poop at 3 am. All I could think about was, “Great, now I’m responsible for how a man treats women for the rest of his life.” My next thought made me cry even harder—with gratitude. It was something like: Well, if I must have a boy, at least he will have the absolute best guy I’ve ever met as his dad. Seriously.
I was so thankful in that moment for Planned Parenthood, the inventor of the birth control pill and the one tiny shred of common sense I had in my twenties that kept me from having a kid. All those drug addicts, morons and assholes I slept with would have been horrible dads (if they even stuck around, which is doubtful since most are in prison or dead now). They probably would have taught my boy how to fight, open a beer bottle with a cigarette lighter and taken him to get a neck tattoo at 15. My husband is nothing like those idiots—I knew he would be a great dad. It took me years of chasing assholes to appreciate a guy who is sincere, kind and treats me well. He’s a much better person than I am, so it works.
So, I knew my husband would rock as a dad. That left me feeling immense pressure to be good mom to a boy. How could I raise a man without ever really knowing what it feels like to be a man? I needed to figure out how to be the type of mom that teaches a boy to respect women without being a total hard-ass. I wanted him to depend on me for comfort and cuddles, but still take me seriously as a disciplinarian. Fuck—it was overwhelming. I tried to think of all the mannish things I was good at. I grew up in an orchard, so I’m pretty outdoorsy and don’t mind getting dirty. I love basketball and skateboarding. I was single well into my thirties, so I know how to mow a lawn, change a tire and operate a power drill. I can even re-light the pilot light on a gas water heater without blowing myself up!
Most importantly—how would I raise a son who is not an asshole? Men are taught that being a dick makes them seem strong. Our society values men who are decisive, outspoken and (often) totally full of shit. Women with these same qualities are considered loudmouth bitches. If you don’t believe me, just look at presidential race. It’s fucking scary. For crissakes—we live in a country and a time where it actually occurred to me to feel relieved I fell in love with a white guy. At least I don’t have to worry that the police are going to kill my black son for wearing a hoody.
When he was finally born, my son was just a baby. Surprise! He was just a wrinkled ball of crying and poop, like any other baby. He didn’t need anything but milk and cuddles. I made the decision to take a step back in my career stay at home with him. Don’t even get me started on how hard it is in this country for a woman to breastfeed, spend adequate time bonding with her baby and still stay relevant in her chosen field—it’s like I have five fucking jobs and four of them are unpaid. Anyway, it’s important to me that my boy learns about life (at least for the first few years) from people who love him. This puts me in the position where I am the primary caretaker. Basically, it’s on me to make sure he is not a tiny, budding asshole.
My kid is two now. He’s less baby and more boy every day. He questions things and pushes boundaries. He’s two—that’s his job. He hangs on every word I say, repeating them back to me when I least expect. Recently in the checkout line at Target he announced loudly “Ladies have milk in their boobs and men have muscles in their boobs”—because that’s what I told him hurriedly in a moment when he demanded an answer. So, I’m learning to be careful. I hug him and kiss him, but try NOT to tell him every day that that he is the cutest, smartest boy in the world (even though he is) because I don’t want him to grow up a narcissistic, entitled dick. I try to give him practical, process-based praise. Like, great job getting your Cheerios into your mouth with a spoon and you are excellent at singing Row-Row-Row Your Boat! Shit like that.
It’s a struggle. Each day I face another challenge in the ever-changing landscape of motherhood. It’s like riding downhill on a bike with no brakes, carrying a live grenade. Some days I suck. I get frustrated or tired, I let him eat sugar and have way too much screen time. Other times, I’m fucking awesome. Like when he sleepily says, “Thank you, Mommy” completely unprovoked as I sneak out of his room feeling like I’ve run a half-marathon after nursing for 20 minutes and reading the same book seven times. Like when he asked me if he is a man or a lady. I told him right now he’s a little boy and when he’s a bit older, he will discover for himself if he is a man or a woman and I will love him no matter what. He seemed to like that answer.
So, here I am with a little boy. I have no idea what it’s like to be a man, but I do know how to be a decent human being. I guess that’s really what I have to offer as a mom. And, for the record my son has a fabulous hairdo, plays with dolls and I reserve the right to dress us in matching outfits even though he’s a boy. There’s nothing either of us can do about the fact he was born with a penis, but I will spend the rest of my life trying to make sure he’s not a dick.
Becky Sasso lives outside LA with her husband and son, who are not dicks. She writes for AfterParty Magazine, tweets obsessively about TV and posts a million kid pics on Instagram. Follow her @bossy_joy
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