Free How Not to Calm a Child on a Plane by Johanna Stein Page A

straight line, Pete had drunkenly proclaimed it a boy.
    Between all that hard science, I was certain there was a tiny penis up in there.
    Of course, I’d been spewing that old hairy chestnut, “It doesn’t matter what it is, as long as it’s healthy ,” right up until the moment that we heard it was indeed going to be a lip-tastic girl. But the deep truth is that I wasn’t just assuming it was a boy; I’d been hoping for one.
    Certainly, there are things about little boys that I’ve never quite understood—like the way they mindlessly yank on their penises as though they’re made of Silly Putty. Still, despite my own lip-having status, I’ve always related to boys better than girls, * and the fact is, I didn’t knowmuch about the care, feeding, and raising of a girl. Maybe it has something to do with my upbringing, * maybe not.
    Regardless, once we learned that there would be no tiny penis-tugging in our immediate futures, my feelings about raising a girl human progressed fairly quickly, from confusion to ambivalence to fear to sleepiness to a powerful sense of duty, which is where it stuck. If I couldn’t raise a boy who would grow to appreciate a nontraditional Manly Lady like myself—then, by golly, I would do the next best thing and raise a Manly Lady-Girl.
    So while other mothers-to-be (and at least one particular father-to-be) cry in delight at the prospect of their precious, dainty little girls-to-be, I went in, shall we say, a different direction. Not so far as that Canadian couple who named their baby “Envelope” and attempted to raise her/him entirely gender-free . . . but probably further than most, when I established “Operation Fight the Pink.”
    (Although I did not keep a formal record of the events that ensued, what follows is a reasonable facsimile, using old e-mails, text messages, conversations with my husband, and random bits of paper stuck at the bottom of my purse.)
    OPERATION FIGHT THE PINK
    Be it resolved that on this, the day of our daughter’s birth, I am putting my gnarled foot down, and, with all due respect to the husband (who is, let the record show, shaking his head right now), I hereby decree the following feminist goals for my child .
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  1.    My daughter will not be “defined” by the color pink. (This is in reference to clothing, toys, and accessories, less so to naturally occurring food items and her own body parts. Those are permitted to remain pink.) If I’ve learned one thing in all those women’s studies classes—well, that one I took in my first year of college—it is that pink is the color of oppression and tyranny. And Mary Kay cosmetics.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  2.    She will be exposed to gender-neutral activities (soccer, karate, electric guitar lessons, WWE wrestling) over female-oriented activities (ballet, needlepoint, harpsichord lessons, So You Think You Can Dance ).
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  3.    She will never, under any circumstances, be allowed to dress up like a princess (Disney trademarked or otherwise). Ever. Possible exception: Princess Leia. (Exception to the exception: space bikini. That will not fly here.)
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  4.    My child will be a survivor—I don’t just mean metaphorically; she must be able to handle herself in an apocalypse (zombie or otherwise). This means that when fully grown, she must be strong enough to carry me (anywhere between 130–200 pounds; I will do my best to keep it on the low end, but you know . . . metabolism) and demonstrate a basic understanding of electricity, chemistry, several martial arts, weapons handling, and some emergency medical training. She must also know how to use a chain saw.
    I feel confident that, in adhering to these guidelines, our daughter will not follow in the dainty footsteps of countless girls before her who have mindlessly