Baby hair bands and the female challenge.

Someone brought my attention to this today:


http://www.babybangshairband.com/

And it brought up a lot of thoughts on what's ahead for me. I'm having a girl. I wanted a girl. Everyone told me that boys are easier. But I don't want easy.

Of course girls are harder. You did that to us, world. You tell us things like "have a perfect body," and "fulfill your biological destiny and have children," and "don't get fat," and "don't be selfish and care about getting fat when you're pregnant," and "don't forget to be the perfect mother," and "even if you're a baby, you better be rocking some awesome hair," and then you force women to tell their pregnant counterparts in hushed tones that boys are just the easier way to go.

You made it this way.

I've always been a girls' girl. I connect with the female spirit infinitely better than I ever have with those gross and dirty boys. I've never understood the boys' girls--the ones who walk the tightrope perfectly between tomboy and flirt, who complain about how catty the members of their own sex are, who claim the only women they've ever known have been nothing but manipulative man stealers. I grew up thinking boys were snickering, name-calling, self-esteem ruining meanies. Girls were my allies.

Trust me, boys' girls. That's just not it. I've met those girls, and I've hated them, too. I know I'm lucky that I've had a close knit group of girl friends that are smart and intelligent and rarely catty and always compassionate. I guess I'm lucky that I have a mom and a sister whose careers and minds and collective ballsiness put the entire male population to shame. But I can say without the tiniest bit of hesitiation that I just plain like girls better. Sorry, boys.

-----

I convinced myself I was having a boy. An hour after I watched the positive sign form on the pregnancy test, I saw him: a little mini Jason. Wild, blonde, sweet but never so much so that he lost his boyishness. Completely foreign.

If having a girl is more of a challenge, then bring it on. At least I can give her some ammunition, some armor, to get her through what's ahead--baby hair bands are just the beginning.

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Think Pink.

It took about three hours after the it's a girl revelation for consumerism to take hold.

Jason had to leave for work right when we got home from the doctor, leaving me alone to soak in the huge news. A girl. Someone I can actually teach with purpose. I would have been happy with a boy, but I wouldn't have known what to do with a boy. With a girl, I can actually share my personal love of Gloria Steinem, Maureen Dowd, feminism, heels and Sex and the City reruns. I can try to mold her into what the next generation needs--smart, aware women who don't turn their noses up at the fellow members of their sex, whether they're decked out in pink or sporting hairy armpits.

But above all that--it's someone I can SHOP FOR.

I'm not a fan of the color pink, and I've said before with way too much authority that if I ever have a girl I wouldn't deck her out in pink everything just because her lack of a Y chromosome, but ohmygod I didn't know how adorably tiny and amazing those little girl clothes are. It started with some innocent browsing. I needed (and need) to do some serious research, because as it turns out, I really don't know what a newborn wears. After almost a week of googling and soul-searching and shopping and I still don't have a definitive answer.

So I browsed all the Big names, the ones even a child-neophyte has heard of. And The Children's Place was having a mondo sale, and before I knew it I'd spent $50 and my daughter had two hats, ten onesies, and three dresses to start her soon-to-be bursting at the seams wardrobe. They're all pink. They're all gag-inducingly girly. But they were cheap, and just looking at the confirmation e-mail in my inbox makes my hormonally-enthused self want to bawl. I'm having a girl.

The next day one of my oldest friends and I stopped by Gymboree after lunch. She'd bought a few outfits for her ex-boyfriend's daughter, and they'd broken up before she'd given them to her, so she needed to exchange them. (Thank you, friend's ex-boyfriend, for turning out to be such a psycho so my daughter could benefit.) She graciously picked out two mind-numbingly pink newborn sweatshirts and some teeny tiny little pink and white booties and--what else?--some more pink onesies.

(While waiting in line, this friend loudly asked me, while looking at a display of baby underwear, if I should buy the baby some underwear. Three months ago and I would have been like well, shit, add that to the list of things I need. I've come FAR ENOUGH to know better than that. Ten points for me. And the cashier audibly chuckled at our conversation.)

Now, my lovely little fetus has taken over a third of her daddy's clothes rack. We live in a tiny apartment, and his "closet" consists of a long bar hanging in our bathroom. Now, when I open the bathroom door I'm barraged with PINK. My formerly least-favorite color is taking over my life.

Did I mentioned we picked out a name? Adelyn Belle. It almost sounds pink. I love it.

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Can women really have it all?

She's the kind of woman who always dresses the part. She always walks into work with heels, looking professional, smiling, her shoulders up and back. She's the woman who has a picture of her pigtailed four-year-old as her computer background and another of her sitting on Santa's lap taped beside the screen. She's got an ease about her--you just know, from your first day in the office, that she's one of the head honchos. Even though she's only around 30, she produces the highest-rated news broadcast. She's been with the station for 10 years. She's a woman whose husband, when he calls in to ask a question like what she wants for dinner that night, doesn't ask for her by name. He asks for "the hot red head," and everyone--including me, the newest in the hierarchy--knows who he's talking about.

By any definition of the word, she's a success. She has it all.

During my first week on the job, I got to shadow her, follow her into the production booth while she ran her show. We made small talk. I asked her if she really liked this job--if the hours suited her, if she got enough free time (the question I asked nearly everyone during my first few weeks, when I realized I'd gotten myself into the entirely wrong field).

And she looked at me, sincerely, the smile gone.

"This," she said, gesturing at the wall of TV screens in front of her, the row of microphones she'd just gotten done speaking into, "this used to be my baby. But now my baby's at home, and working 10 hours a day is just too much. I try everyday to find a way out."

And here, with this realization off her chest-- maybe expressed to me so openly because I'm not her friend, nor anyone with a real place or reputation within the company-- her shoulders slump, her eyes glaze over. She doesn't look like she's enjoying herself. She has 20 minutes left to go before the cameras stop rolling and she can leave for the day.

This was before I knew I'd be faced with a similar dilemma.

Unlike this woman, this job is not "my baby." It's more like something to endure, something to suffer through because I'm supposed to suffer through it. Because in this economy, I can't expect all my dreams to come true like I thought they would. Sure, if I stuck it out, I probably would one day advance to a producer. I might even be seen, one day, as "that woman," that same woman who really just wanted to go home. But I don't want to. Not there.

I already feel immensely pressured by the battle of the Stay at Home Mom versus the Worker Bee, and I'm not even close to being in the thick of it. By our third-wave-feminist standards, if you stay at home, you're lazy. You're going backwards. You're not living up to your potential. If you work, you're likely going to have to work harder than any one person should. You're not giving your child the attention it needs. How can we have it all if the decision is moot? If you're destined to lose out no matter which path you take--and, even more, if the people doing the judging are women themselves?

I've gotten my fair share of judgement for the decision I've already made. I'll be quitting my job in the next few months. I will try to work something out with the powers-that-be that I might have the possibility to return. And even here, I'm tempted to spout off excuses for my decision--like my health (which, I'll admit, is something to consider) and the fact that as a new employee I'd get the bare bones of maternity leave.

I'm not quitting so I can be super-mom, so that I can be there for every single second of my child's waking life. I'm quitting for the benefit of the first few month's of my baby's life, the last few months of my pregnancy and my health and sanity, and for my career, because I genuinely dislike what I'm doing.

And the icing on the cake is that if I did stay, and I did take whatever leave they'd offer me, I'd be paying more for infant childcare when I returned than I even make.

I might go back to school for a Master's and then PhD. It's much more feasible to juggle school with a baby than a midnight til noon shift at a job that pays little and makes me miserable.

The truth is I have no idea. I know I'll only by 24 by the time I'm done with the beginning of babydom and when I think I'll be ready to resurface into the learning/career world. Most people haven't even started to fathom a career by 24. And I'm confident enough to say I already have quite a bit under my belt.

If you asked the woman I mentioned before if she had the unattainable "all," I bet she'd say no. But if the rest of the world judged her life (as it so loves to do), the answer would probably be yes. Hugely successful career? Check. Adorable baby? Check. Adoring partner? Check. But a satisfaction with life? Not so much, apparently.

I do think it's possible. I think we can have it all.

It's just hard to have it all at once.

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