Do not, I repeat, DO NOT maintain this Mystery.

I don’t check it often, but I occasionally fall down the vortex of advice columns at the Washington Post, reading Ask Amy and Carolyn Hax.

A question from a column last week piqued my interest, and I thought it would be interesting to survey our readers about the issues it raises.

The question, basically, is:  when, in a romantic relationship, is it okay for the mask to slip?   Even the staunchest feminist conditions her luxurious leg hair at the beginning of courtship, and might be careful that her unbleached organic cotton undies and bra match.  But no matter how careful one is, the realities of living in an animal body will intrude.  Contrary to conventional wisdom, girls do poop.  And fart and burp  and bleed and stink and flake and all the rest.  And what about all the maintainance?  The clay masks, the DIY highlights, the shaving and plucking and waxing?

But when do you reveal this to your sweet babboo?  (Is it different if your sweet babboo is herself a girl, and knows first-hand that we do these things?)  And are there some things that you never reveal?

It’s been a long time since I played coy about needing to pee in the middle of dinner, but even a dozen years later, Pee Time Is Me Time.  Door closed,  no foolin’.  Toilets aren’t for sharing.  I don’t care if he sees me flossing  or shaving, and burping is funny, but I’m going to secretly (or “secretly’) attend to any freaky hairs or weird bumps.  It’s not quite logical, but we understand the rules, even never having talked about them.

So how does it work for you?  Whether you’re dating/sleeping around, in the throes of romance, or an old partnered lady like I am, you deal with this stuff.  What are your rules?

And this week’s topic is thanks to the Dude, who has been doing his own languishing on the threshold between “sick” and “eh, just a little off.”   Every evening since Sunday, he has declared that he might call in sick in the morning, only to haul his run-down, scratchy-coughing tuchis into work each day.   I don’t know if it’s his sturdy, responsible, German-Lutheran heritage or his love of central air conditioning, but despite having racked up a huge amount of sick-leave, off he went, pockets full of lozenges.

And, starting Monday, although he is not generally a whiskey drinker, he ended each day with a hot toddy, even though it has topped 90 degrees all week.  He believes in the power of the toddy.

I do not.  But I have my own ideas about what works…depending on the ailment:  Advil (for any sort of ache or pain), saltines (for anything wrong with your GI system), and Dimetapp (for anything ear-n0se-and-throat).  The effect of the last, an OTC children’s cold remedy that I LOVED as a kid, is probably 95% placebo, but I don’t care.  Something about that awesome, fake-grape flavor is immensely soothing to me, regardless of my symptoms.  Likewise, the sharp-fresh smell and sting of Bactine for cuts and abrasions.   If my leg got lopped off by a chainsaw, I’d want some Bactine.  Logical?  Maybe not.  But it makes me feel better.

These may not work for you, but they don’t have to.  You’ve got your own.   Grandma’s soup, epsom salts, iodine…Windex?  This week, let’s talk about all the wacky, time-tested-but- perhaps-scientifically-dubious treatments we embrace. when we’re not quite sick enough to go see a professional, or just when we need a little extra TLC.   Give me your panaceas, nostrums, and magic potions.  If I run out of Dimetapp, what should I take?

Correction:  I shouldn’t expect much more than consternation and forehead-slapping.  Because that’s exactly what I got.

This article, Does a man’s salary matter?, is barely worth reading, let alone shredding, but the topic is worth discussing in a feminist space.  I’ll admit that money is a sensitive topic for me (that happens when you don’t have much), and one that is looming larger than usual these days, given my underemployed state.  Love and money are often fraught, even when they’re not all mixed up together.  And when they are?  Hoo-doggie.

I have multiple specialized degrees, and currently am unable to support myself in the field of my training.  (Or, it seems, any other field.)  The Dude has one specialized degree (a BFA), and has been consistently employed, and consistently better paid than me, in a small number of jobs that have absolutely nothing to do with his training.

While I’m mostly pissed that I a) was horribly duped about my prospects or b) am utterly worthless, professionally speaking, I’m also really troubled about being dead weight to this guy who threw in his lot with me lo these many years ago, when we both thought that at some point in the not-too-distant future I would be the steady one, earning enough that he could go and pursue his risky dream profession.  I appear to be, most unhappily, unable to make good on my plans.  We used to split everything 50-50, now I am in growing debt to him.  He doesn’t complain, but we can’t live in New York without a second income.

Even as I am deeply grateful to the Dude for supporting me with health insurance, and now subsidizing my very existence, I fucking.hate.it.   I’m not going anywhere, but having my own money is crucial to my sense of well-being, and not being self-sufficient is doing a serious number on my ego, if not my relationship.  I want to be cared for, sure, but not “taken care of.”  So I guess I don’t understand the bean-counting stuff the article mentions,  or any major concern with how much a prospective partner (regardless of hir gender) earns.  I mean, I get that you can’t eat love (boy do I), and that money does buy comforts.  And I know that partnering with someone who can’t hold a job, budget, or live within hir means is inviting grief.

But straight women not accepting a partner because he doesn’t pull down more than they  do?  The more I think about it, the more I think that’s some kind of weird, internalized misogyny.  If a man doesn’t earn more than a woman, he must be some kind of failure?  If he works in a field that isn’t well-remunerated (keeping in mind that many such jobs in the caring professions and the service industry are/were considered “women’s work”), he’s not attractive or sufficiently manly?

Of course, if you want kids, and you plan to take a break from paid work to do focus on them for whatever length of time, these considerations get a bit more complicated, but I think the point remains:  if earning power is one way we assess gender-compliance, and if women don’t buck the find-a-man-who-can-support-you bullshit they’re fed with their zweiback, it seems like we’re adding to the inequities that are built into our heartless, fucked-up,  kyriarchal-capitalist system, rather than questioning the system itself.  (Poverty is radicalizing me, yo!)

So, commenters, tell me about your experiences.  When dating, how much do/did you take your honeypie’s earning power into consideration?  (Do/did you even think about it?  I never did, although that could have been because I was young and idealistic.)  Do you expect–or even hope–that he’ll outearn you?  And if so:  why?  Because you’re a public school teacher, or a freelancer, or are some other ill-paid or financially risky job?  Or is there something else?   If you out-earn your partner, how do you think that affects your relationship?  What’s the financial dynamic in your household?

I’ve been with with the Dude for most of my adult life, and I only know what I know. Please explode my brain with your anecdata.

Anyway, here we are however many years later, and my mom, divorced since 1995 or so, is in some kind of relationship with a fella who is a widower of maybe a year, and is waaaay into mom, talking marriage and everything.  She seems to like his company, but is uninterested in his profession of life-long devotion and legal entanglement.

I was discussing this with Becky, whose family has its own anecdata to add to the pile of men-replace, and the Dude overheard me and  was really offended by the idea, saying “that’s just a stereotype!”  He claims not to know anyone (presumably other than MamaDork) who fits the profile.  Fair enough.  But then why is this one of those sayings?

Is this due to the fact that despite cultural messages about women’s desperate hunger for weddings and commitment and blah-blee-bloo, men need women more?  That marriage is actually better for men than women? That dudes always want a mommy? That in the dark all cats are grey? And is this idea on its way out, as marriage and gender relationships are changing?

I have lived by myself for three of the past five years, and loved it. But for various reasons, it’s time for us to take this step. I am optimistic that it will go smoothly–once we get situated. I happen to think the perfect living arrangement would be a duplex occupied by one partner on one side and the other partner next door. But we’ve got to save some money first!

If you have cohabited in the past, or live with your partner now, what did/do you think of it? Any advice for this first-timer?

Caveat: you get what you pay for.

So, today we’re introducing what might become a regular feature here at Harpyness.  We have on any number of occasions received comments or private emails from readers asking for advice, input, or an impartial opinion.  We’ve done our best to respond thoughtfully and respectfully.

But recently, a reader (who shall remain anonymous) suggested we address her question in a post, and then open up the floor for comments and suggestions from the commentariat.  Et voila:  Help Me, Harpies!  First, we’ll hear the the problem straight from the reader, then some of us will weigh in, then we can all have at it in comments.

So, the issue under discussion:  TEH SECKS.

My boyfriend has not been super-responsive to my needs in bed lately and every time I’ve tried to talk to him about it, he would either say okay and then not do anything, or get sad that he wasn’t satisfying me. We ended up having a really long talk about it today and I am hopeful for the future, but it’s been really frustrating to deal with because I felt like I couldn’t ask him for anything to change without him taking it personally and I just don’t know how to deal with it when he won’t communicate with me. Le sigh.  Is this something to Be A Bitch about?

BeckySharper: In this case, I don’t think Being A Bitch is the answer. I think most people–especially when they’re young–have major insecurities about whether they’re good in bed.  And our culture screws men over by telling them that they have to be STUDLY! and make the ladies go wild! Unfortunately what actually makes the ladies go wild is thoughtful, attentive, communicative intimacy, which is pretty much the opposite of every message men ever get from the media/Patriarchy.

PhDork: Becky’s right: men are generally socialized to think and talk about sex in an extremely limited, (usually homosocially bonding) way: “yeah, I’d hit that,” etc., and I know from my own experience that saying “hon, we need to talk about sex” is more likely to result in stony silence than productive conversation. It’s a sensitive subject in any case, but that’s no excuse for shoving it under the rug.

BeckySharper: Depending on what the problem is, I tend to go for the “show, don’t tell” approach. Move his hand where you want it to go. Give him specific directions, in the moment –”harder, softer, faster, over there”–and praise when it works. And feel free to use visual aids. If there are sex scenes from books or in movies or porn that turn you on, share it with him and say “hey, see what they’re doing…that looks hot! Wanna try?”  Now, if he’s the kind of guy who simply ignores directions or just blows off your requests, that’s a problem.  Learning how to communicate “this is what turns me on and this is how I get off” and then putting that into action will serve you well for the rest of your life, because any decent partner–male or female–should want to know and use that information. And, of course, you want to get that information from your partner too, so encourage him to talk about what turns him on and what he would like from you..

PhDork: I think show-don’t-tell can work in the bedroom, but you do need to make yourself clear at a time and place where you’re NOT in bed. (Not saying you haven’t, of course.) And if the problem is that the bedroom has not been seeing any action, that’s a different kettle of fish.  If there’s no action and no willingness to talk? “That’s a dealbreaker, ladies.”  Okay, not really. But it’s a big problem, and I don’t think Being A Bitch is a bad idea in that case. Of course, by Being a Bitch I mean being clear and concise about what it is you need. That might mean writing a letter for him to read, or just clearly and calmly saying your piece (“I feel/I need/This is unacceptable”) and NOT expecting an immediate conversation.

BeckySharper: It’s okay to have a conversation where you say “You know, this ain’t quite doing it for me”, but that’s almost inevitably going to lead to defensiveness (and really, if some dude told you that you were not pleasing him, you’d feel insecure and defensive and sad too).

PhDork: In my experience, guys are *fucking terrified* of women’s anger and disappointment. Like, pants-shittingly so. They need to get the hell over that, but I’ve found that giving a dude time to process your requests/thoughts can be productive.  In the 12+ years the Dude and I have been together, we’ve had periods wherein we’re all over each other, mutually quasi-celibate, and variously matched/mis-matched in desire. C’est la vie. We’ve had these conversations, and we’ve NOT had these conversations. It may be really hard, but NOT addressing the situation doesn’t make it a) go away or b) better.

BeckySharper: Totally second that: relationships have their ups and downs. Every LTR I was in–they usually lasted a couple years–had moments where I wasn’t feeling it or he wasn’t feeling it. There would be moments where one of us would say, “y’know, we haven’t…in a while…” and we’d discuss why–too tired, stressed from work, need some space, yeast infection, etc–and that was always helpful. But it was also always grounded in the mutual feeling of “hey, normally you rock my socks off.” If he’s never rocked your socks off, that’s a warning signal.

PhDork: I think a guy’s unwillingness to communicate is a much bigger issue than whatever sex-specific stuff is going on (not to say that sex is unimportant), and that’s a thing worth Being A Bitch over.

BeckySharper: And not that your dude is doing this, but if a man ever belittles your concerns or becomes verbally/emotionally abusive or manipulative when you want to discuss your sex life, then you should absolutely Be A Bitch. SRSLY. And then DTMFA (as Dan Savage says).

So, dear readers, what do you think?

If you like the idea of Help Me, Harpies!, let us know.  First, by weighing in on this edition’s query and second, by sending us your questions or concerns.  You can submit your question to us via email or through Facebook.  You will remain anonymous, unless you wanna give us a clever sign-off.

Awwwwwww Yeeeeeaaaaah. Via digiyesica @ Flickr

The Dude and I enjoyed a leisurely late breakfast out this weekend, and while lingering over our plates, we started swapping stories about all the pancake breakfasts we went to (willingly or not) while growing up as Midwestern Protestants.

There were church functions, Moose Lodges, all-you-can-eats down at the VFW Hall, follow-ups to 5Ks, fundraisers, and community gatherings…we have eaten our weight in pancakes many times over.

And in all that time, it never occurred to me to notice that every. single. one. of those pancake breakfasts was cooked by groups of men.  Of course, we’d both also been to all other types of communal meals (chicken-n-dumplings, pizza parties, pot-luck out the wing-wang), and all of those were executed by women; typically stout, aproned matrons.

The more I thought about it, the weirder it seemed–and continues to seem–to me.  And then I realized that in my own home, the Dude is The Breakfast Guy.  Pancakes, waffles, omelets, crepes, steel-cut oats…  I know how to make all those things, quite well, but they have, at some point, become his territory.  I’m not really complaining, since I’m only too happy to loll in bed, reading, waiting for him to bring a plate in to me.   But now I’m wondering what’s up with this affiliation.

My dad wasn’t a breakfast-cook, but he did have his specialities:  pizza from scratch, chile con queso, chex mix.  Fun food.  Occasional food.  And, of course, outdoor food: meat on the grill.  But the pot roasts and chicken-and-rice dishes and the soups and vegetable sides that we subsisted on were all Mom.  Or almost all her.

So, is it that breakfast foods are fun foods?  Or occasional (weekend only) foods?  Or that they’re not as difficult and involved as your average dinner-from-scratch?  Is there a sausage component that I’m overlooking in an attempt not to make a cheap joke?

Few families I know divide up the cooking 50/50 (we try, but…no), but have you noticed any particular patterns in your households?  And what do you make of this guys-do-breakfast thing?

Via Franco Folini @ Flickr.

There has been lots of news–mostly bad–about the fight for marriage equality in the States.**  Not only do I feel for my many friends who are prevented from legally wedding, I believe that institutionalizing same-sex marriage is crucial if we’re going to actually live our stated “and justice for all” values (the patriarchy-smashing aspect is good, too).

So why aren’t I married?  I’m always on about that Dude I live with, right?  We just celebrated our 12th Unniversary this weekend (if by “celebrated” you mean said “huh, twelve years…pretty crazy’”).  If I’m down with commitment, and I think the right to marry is so all-fired important for queer couples, why don’t I make it legal already?

I could jabber all day about why, but for your reading convenience, I’ll boil it down into three main reasons.  Walk down the aisle (of my thinking) with me.

1.  I fucking hate weddings.  I have always hated weddings, even before a undergraduate research project on the Wedding Industrial Complex revealed how far reaching and insidious it is.  Even if you think marriage is nifty, weddings are insipid frippery; they have nothing to do with being in a relationship.  I hate the froofed-up  pretty princess aesthetic, I hate the Passing of the Woman from dad to dude, I hate all the things you “must” do, like have a guest book, and include your friends reading bad poetry, and make everyone do the Chicken Dance at the reception.  I hate that everyone–no, really, everyone–thinks that their wedding was totally original and personalized and equalicious, even though you could set your watch by the lighting of Unity Candles, and virginity fetishism is in full effect and jeezusgawd if I ever hear Canon in D again I will destroy the universe with my explosive scorn.  I may have just triggered one thousand defensive  “you’re  judging me!” comments, but so be it.  I’m glad you found a loving companion, but I fucking hate weddings.  Even yours.

2.  Though I am no libertarian (perish the thought!), I don’t like the idea that government or society-at-large gets to decide that certain relationships count more than others.  Even though I know there are all sorts of benefits to being married, I’m not interested in saying “well, before the twenteenth  of Smarch our relationship wasn’t real enough, but now the state of Missitucky says it’s okay for you to visit me in the hospital.”  That’s straight-up bullshit, and I’m grateful that more and more people are recognizing it as such.  Pilgrim Soul has written before about the privileging of hetero love-matches over all other relationships, and certainly we’ve heard from a number of our readers who, like me, are in permanent-but-not-licensed relationships (we are among the 12 million co-habiters in the US), as well as many who would welcome a “non-traditional” living arrangement, like our oft-mentioned Harpy House.  Just as [dad + mom + 2.3 kids + golden retriever]  is no guarantee of “family,” a marriage license is no guarantee of a mutuality or partnership.  (Neither is living together, of course.)

3.  And last of all, I don’t want to be married.  I really never have.  Despite cultural messages overwhelmingly to the contrary, I never daydreamed while growing up about a big rock, a white dress, or being whisked away by Mr. HisLastName.  I didn’t dream about finding my Other Half.  Hell, I didn’t even dream about being monogamous; I thought a small group of kind/hot/reliable boyfriends, none of whom lived with me, was the best option.  (The idea is still has its appeal.)  I didn’t–and don’t–want to be a wife, with all of the emotional baggage of that term.  I want to be a friend and a lover and a partner.

4.  (I lied.  There are four.)  I’m not religious, so the idea of asking for cosmic approval of my household arrangements is even more absurd than registering with my state.  I believe in the existence of the state, at least.  The fact is that most religious objection to both same-sex marriage and cohabitation is based on a serious case of obsessive panty-sniffing:  somewhere, someone is getting it on, and IT MUST BE STOPPED.  My reactionary streak makes me wanna go jump the Dude’s bones whenever I hear that.

* * *

I don’t ever intend to marry, and that puts me in the minority of cohabitors.  Although I do get tired of answering The Question (I’ve stopped saying anything about my personal life to students, who, while surprisingly queer-friendly, are invariably shocked, if not scandalized, to think that marriage is not the goal of a relationship).  I don’t believe it would deepen my feelings for the Dude or enrich our life together.  To the contrary, it would make me feel like my relationship was no longer my own.  And if what benefits government and society is “stable committed relationships,” government and society might consider getting the hell out of my–and my queer friends’–way.

I leave you with some of the lyrics to a song that the Dude dug up for me a few years ago:  “Darling Annie,” by the still ass-kicking Peggy Seeger (who typically performed it with her longtime love Ewan MacColl):

EM:  If you marry me, I’ll give you everything I have;

You won’t ever need to earn a penny

I will be your man and the ring upon your hand

Will show the world that you’re my darling Annie.

PS:  Dearest love, I’ll be glad to add your wages onto mine

I can work and keep myself so handy;

You can be my man without a golden wedding band

For I’ll tell the world that I’m your Annie.

Chorus:

For it’s love, love will hold us, love is everything

Who could dream of anything that’s better?

Not the vow, not the string, not the golden wedding ring

Just you, love, you and me together.

Damn, I’m such a softie.

*Title stolen from Dorian Solot and Marshall Miller.  The companion site to their book is here.

**I’m hoping that New Jersey Senate gets this issue right before the repugnant Chris Christie takes over as governor next month.

via Mutasim B. Pritam (EWU) @ Flickr.

Yesterday I noted the gender discrepancies in household work I witness when I visit the Dude’s family (my parents are divorced, so this doesn’t arise when we visit my family). I suppose it seems so apparent to me because when we visit, we all try to squeeze in as much “family time” as possible, so there are frequent gatherings, and multiple communal meals–for 6 or 8 or 10 or more–which involve a lot of domestic labor for Mama Dude, since it is at her home that these gatherings almost always take place.

I’m accustomed to working in the kitchen as a group—at the holidays, for example, I might make the pies and bread, my brother would do the stuffing and veg dishes, and my mom would be in charge of the turkey or whatever and of keeping us on track, offering her advice/experience, making sure we did things in such a way that everything would be ready at roughly the same time (that’s still the hardest part for me).  Partners were eventually folded into the mix.  “Many hands make light work,” Mom would say.  We’d eat, sit and talk, and then get up and clear the table and put away leftovers and such. All together.  Not everything was completely equitable at every moment, and Mom was still doing a lot of work, but doing housework was a part of our family-ness.

That happened to some degree á chez Dude among les femmes Dudes. They had their kitchen rituals and unspoken but understood specialties. Now, less so.  Largely because Grandma Dude (the devilish, twinkly one) is in failing health.  She’s had a number of strokes in the last two years that have left her somewhat aphasic and physically weakened, and so, in addition to all her other jobs, Mama Dude, who has always been a very dutiful daughter, has become even more of a caretaker for her 80+ year old parents. With Grandma Dude unable to continue in her domestic roles, more than ever is falling on Mama, and she takes it on unquestioningly.

While visiting, I–out of habit and a sense of family as much as politeness–offer to help in the kitchen, but learning those rituals, those recipes, takes time, and we can’t visit as often as we’d like (that’s really the only thing I hate about living in NYC). So I try to help, but I can’t do as much as I’d like. And yet I also worry that by helping, I’m digging those women-in-the-kitchen biases even deeper for those already inclined to believe them. Whatever help I offer may be a relief to Mama Dude, but it’s confirming that chromosomes and crotches determine social roles for Papa Dude.

Classic patriarchal mindfuck, that.

I feel like helping another person, especially another woman who I can see is taxed, is more important that “making my point” by sacking out for a post-prandial snooze in a recliner, especially since I can’t be sure what point will be made (PhDork is lazy, an uppity woman, a rude guest, etc.), but I struggle with it nonetheless. In many ways, I can see how much Papa Dude cares for his wife, and I’ll admit I have no idea what goes on behind closed doors / when I’m not there, but sometimes I just wanna yell “get off your ass and help!” at him.

So, my readers, my teachers: what can I do? What do you do?

Via quacktaculous @ Flickr.

I’m home, and since school is about to begin, I thought I’d get out my No. 2 pencil and write that time-honored back-to-school essay.  My next few posts will be related to the concerns that arose during my vacation, away from the feminist /progressive /urban /pointy-headed /bo-bo milieu in which I live, and which protects me from many daily gender inequities others experience (although I have quite enough of my own as it is, thanks).

As expected, the Dude and I had a good time on our trip to the Midwest, visiting and feasting and playing card games and such.  But crammed in there at the odd moment were spells of rumination, wherein I puzzled over the gender-related issues that regularly punched me in the face in ways to which I am unaccustomed.  I mentioned in my last post that the Dude’s family, while kind and fun and generally loveable people (five of us, between the ages of 30 and 60, ended up going to a waterpark without little kids and having a blast), is not exactly progressive. The Dude grew up in a pretty traditional family, as far as gender performance goes. Men mow lawns (except when the women do), lift heavy things, and change oil, and women do everything else: cooking, cleaning, shopping, errands, social organizing, and so forth.  Men scowl.  Women worry.  And they also raise children and work outside the home, just in case there were any spare minutes in the day.  I highly doubt that any would identify as feminist.

The Dude was in this family, but not particularly of it, at least in that way. Unlike most males of the clan, he was into music and art, not sports. He was introverted, not brash. He liked the subtle, usually verbal humor of his grandmother, not the blustery teasing that his uncles subjected him (and everyone else) to. During family gatherings, he would linger in the kitchen after meals, listening to his mother, sister, aunts and grandmother visit while they cleaned, rather than sitting in front of the game with his dad and uncles.

When we were first dating, I remember learning about his close relationship with his maternal grandmother and sister, as well as a briskly affectionate rapport with his mom (they are not a terribly demonstrative people). I thought that was pretty great, especially since I had more tempestuous relationships with my family.  It’s not just that he respected them, or shared a lifetime of memories and customs with them: he liked them. A lot. He enjoyed their company. He thought they were interesting, valuable, downright cool people.

I don’t have children, and I’m not even terribly good with them until they’re in middle school, but to our readers who are moms raising boys (and for all the laydeez out there looking for a decent, feminist-friendly fella), I would say this: men who value the women in their lives will value the women in their lives. That reads a bit reductively, I know. But there’s a lot of truth there. If a man cares for his mother’s feelings, speaks well of his sister, sends his aunts holiday cards and has a long list of inside jokes with his devilish, twinkly grandma, he’s much more likely to care for, speak well of, communicate with and take joy in you and other women as friends, co-workers, and partners.

There’s always the chance that such care might be coming out of a sense of ownership (“I treat my women right, the rest of you bitches are prey”), but if the Dude family had anything to teach me, it was that Oscar Wilde was wrong on this one: 

All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That’s his.

The Dude is his mother’s son, inside and out.  And I thank my magic pixies every day for it.  Moms, you’ve got so much power.  No mother is perfect–nor need she be–but knowing how the Dude was (and wasn’t) raised, and the kind of man he’s become, I would suggest the following things:

Don’t do too much for your boys (or girls, but since I’m addressing, as requested, mothers of sons here…). With? Sure. But keeping them ignorant of how to be an independent adult, with basic cooking, cleaning, banking, and shopping skills, along with a sense of purpose and community, will lead them to learned helplessness and a belief in “women’s work.” Give them responsibilites inside and outside of the house.  Help them build and maintain friendships with girls. Calmly but consistently question whatever sexist drivel they’ll pick up in the world and bring home to you. Check your own thinking on appropriate gender behavior, and the kind of language that polices those lines when you speak without thinking, as we all do. Encourage your boys to be “on the same team” with their sisters. (This did not happen in my home, more’s the pity.) Expose your kids to older women—neighbors, aunts, friends—who can demonstrate that women are not Woman, and that they are just as funny and interesting and capable and fallible and everything else as men.  Employ a male babysitter, if you can.  Try to make sure your boys’ male role models—dads, uncles, “big brothers,” etc.—demonstrate healthy, egalitarian attitudes toward women, and won’t undermine all the hard work you’re doing to give your boy a bigger, better space in which to be a man, and as the result, to give the world a bigger, better man.

It’s not revolutionary, but it is concrete. Dads can do these things too.  And aunts (I am one) and uncles and twinkly grandmas and babysitters and all the rest. Good luck.  It can happen.  I know from personal, if not maternal, experience.