I have ‘probably’ (i.e. ‘definitely’, but I am affecting a nonchalant attitude as nonchalance is one of my fave things of all time)  mentioned that I am writing a novel with the working title of Blues. This choice of title is really quite crafty, if I do say so myself. In fact, I did say so myself in my MA dissertation:

“The title of my novel refers both to the use of blue as a gender marker and to the popular perception of postnatal illness as mere ‘baby blues’.”

Put more simply, the main character is a totally deranged new mother who will not accept that she has been handed a baby who she cannot dress in pink bloomers. Well, she could, but society and her husband don’t think that that would be healthy for little John-Jake.

Like it or not, society likes to divide children into two “types”. As a lucky mother of “one of each”  (I am surpassing myself with inverted commas today), I have been pondering the differences between parenting boys and girls. Pregnant ladies know that, when asked if they would like a little Wayne or Waynetta, they are meant to say that they don’t mind – although they are allowed to say “as long as it’s healthy”, even though that might be a bit insulting to poorly people.

Them’s the roolz

But even as the twinkle in Daddy’s eye is charming its way into Mummy’s free-range nucleus, the parents will probably have some idea – fantasy and/or prejudice- of how their son or daughter might turn out. And this idea  will be influenced by the (admittedly shallow) expectations that society has about  boys’ and girls’ behaviour, interests, etc.
This examination of gender stereotypes is a key premise of my Work-In-Progress. Oops, there I go, getting all academic again, sorry.

You may have guessed that Blues may have been “inspired” by my own experience of ‘gender disappointment’.

 I did not actually try to put my firstborn (son) into lacy knickerbockers, but I did feel a smidge of (admittedly shallow) upset that I would be sartorially limited, when presenting my offspring to the world. I stretched the boundaries a bit with a bit of lemon smocking on a romper suit and cute little stripey pork pie hats, but generally, I stuck to the proscribed utilitarian, blue garments.

And, happily (we all love a happy ending), I love him to bits anyway and I was later blessed with a daughter, too, who tolerated my penchant for pink broderie-anglaise bonnets and miniature glittery tights until she developed self-awareness and speech.

As I was dragged around Topshop by my – now teenaged- daughter on a half-term retail mission,  this week, I reflected, misty-eyed, on my son’s “there’s nothing wrong with this old one except for a few holes” nonchalance, which I realise may or may not be linked to his maleness. Undoubtedly, though, there is something in this ‘reap what you sow’ lark.

In Primark, eight carrier bags and only a single purchase for myself later,  I eschewed stereotypes and gave in to the urge to chuck a monumental, maternal tantrum. I had to be taken straight home. Result.