When A Feminist Births Girls…

…she can tell her eight year old to go take a bath because she’s starting to look awfully grody. And the child will respond with, “You don’t own my body!”

….she can try to get that eight year old to get ready for ballet class, and the child will respond with, “Stop treating me like I’m an item! I control what I do and where I go!”

….she can tell her seventeen year old that she’s going on a date, and the child will respond with, “Don’t forget, just because he pays for dinner doesn’t mean you owe him anything in return.”

….she can tell her seventeen year old that her legs feel prickly while cuddling in bed together watching a movie, and the child will respond with, “I know. I don’t feel like succumbing to western beauty standards this week.”

….she can tell her eight year old to feed the animals, and the child will respond with, “I’m not a servant. You should ask me to do things instead of telling me I have to.”

….she can tell her seventeen year old to not stay out too late because it always makes her nervous, and the child will respond with, “That’s why you bought us phones. I can keep in touch with you, I know to look at the license plate and color of car if shoved in a trunk so I can call 911, I know to kick out a tail light, and I won’t let the chance of evil people attacking me keep me from living my life.”

And then the child will add…

…”Besides, we both know if anyone took me, they’d bring me back within the hour.”

I’ve reached the point where I don’t know whether I’m supposed to be proud of my children or terrified of how similar they are to me. I’m thinking it’s probably both.

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