In which she actually shuns refined sugar

We met a handful of great women through our (lesbo) childbirth education class. Like many such groups, ours stuck together post-birth, and we’ve cohered for over two years as a tight-knit clot of parents that has met, with few exceptions, every month.

Our kids are all relaxed buddies, and as planned, they now know that while not everyone has two women for parents, many of their best friends do. What’s more, several of these best friends have mannish women for one of those parents. It’s all working very nicely so far, if you ask me. Now, when my children are asked in their elementary school classrooms, “Who knows a mannish woman other than their mama or baba?” they will be able to raise their hands high and go “Ooo! Ooo! Ooo! I do, I do!”

Recently one of the gals celebrated the kiddle-friendly part of her birthday at a local lake. Cupcakes were generously distributed, and the beloved and I braced for our darling daughter to ingest every drop of refined sugar she was allowed for this special occasion. We would then watch her transform before our very eyes into a freaked-out, zig-zagging, hopped-up version of her former self, crashing through other kids’ shoreline sandcastles like some midget version of the giant Ghostbusters’ Pillsbury Dough boy. After which she’d collapse in a crying heap which we’d have to remove from the premises.

Will wonders never cease, she eschewed more than she chewed. She ate very little beyond the amount pictured at top, leaving most of the contents on her face, and proving yet again that this child-rearing thing is, as a woman once told me, an eighteen-year-long blind date.

8 thoughts on “In which she actually shuns refined sugar”

  1. Heavens to murgatroids! Those couldn’t possibly be mammaries back there! It’s an optical illusion, I feel certain, and we’re talking about a bent arm or something. Yegods, I run a PG site here, people.

    I will say that it was I behind the camera.

  2. My son, a few weeks younger than your monkey, referred to my best friend, S, in order to distinguish her from another woman with the same first name, as “the S who is kinda like a man”. I was completely floored and more important, dying of curiosity about which traits of my dear S make her “kinda like a man.” She has short hair and has a female partner, but does not identify as butch and does not appear butch through my lens, nor my husband’s, nor my mother’s, as I checked with all of them to see if I have been blinded by familiarity. Next time we cross your path, I will be anxious to see how he labels you. He will be in that same Kindergarten class that answers “Yes” to “Who knows a mannish woman other than their mama or baba?”

  3. Thank you for sharing this little gem, Witney!

    Dang if kids don’t read people phenomenally well. Tells us a lot about the power of the socialization we’ve aborbed by the time we arrive at adulthood.

    When she was younger, our kids’ special cousin — the daughter of our donor — regularly toggled between the “he” and “she” pronoun when referring to me. Even older kids (I’m talking like up to five years old, even seven) will ask me, point blank, “Are you a boy or a girl?” Which of course is a very good question. (My favorite answer to it can be found here, out of the mouth of a then-four-year-old.)

Leave a Comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.