My kids are kids. Happy, vivacious, energetic, clever, inquisitive, imaginative, creative kids. They like to play and to learn and to read and discover and talk and sing and dance and run and jump and ride and build and live. Both of them. They like to dress up and have their nails painted and play cars and compare scabs from all the falls off racing down that hill so very fast. Both of them. They like to cook and wear aprons and play their ukeleles and harmonicas so loudly it makes their mama's ears bleed. And they love to help dad with fixing the mechanics on the bicycles and get unbelievably dirty and jump in puddles and roll down hills and give dancing recitals for their parents. Both of them. And that's okay, because they *should* be able to be themselves and they *should* be able to explore and enjoy whatever it is they wish to explore and enjoy. Because a colour is just a colour and stereotypes are just silly. And who are we to stand in the way of their awe and wonder?
So stop being a prick and commenting about my son's sparkly fingernails, or making derogatory facial expressions when your hear he does tap dancing and has a baby doll that he cherishes. It's okay that he loves these things and it's okay that he loves trucks and legos and dirt, too. Don't make my daughter think that it's not acceptable for her to wear an outfit that isn't head to toe pink, or one that is. Or that there's something inherently dysfunctional about her love for ballet and earthmoving equipment.
Backoff and let them be kids, or I will go so ninja on your arse you won't even see the knitting needles coming.
Signed, mama bear.
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