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There’s a bubblegum pink frock with a bright blue elephant smack in the middle of it that my daughter is currently obsessed with. As in, she wants to wear it every single day. So this means, it gets washed and dried in the time she goes to her daycare and she wears it the second she’s back. She twirls around in it and is extremely happy looking at herself in the mirror when she’s wearing it. There’s no running away from the fact: my daughter loves pink. It’s her favourite colour. She wants pink clothes, she wants pink toys, she wants pink balloons, she wants pink crayons. If she could, she would paint the world pink.
Now like any self-respecting parent who has read her fair share of articles on bringing up children without foisting gender stereotypes on them (and better still, actually writes some of those articles herself), I was a little shook up. How did this happen? I mean, I’ve been enthusiastically keeping her away from dangerous pink objects ever since I can remember. Her first baby dress was blue in colour. The second was red. She had a pink sweater but she also had a blue one. And this was because the shop had sweaters only in those two colours. Hmph. I’ve bought balls for her. I’ve bought bats for her. I’ve bought cars for her. She doesn’t particularly care about them. But then, she doesn’t care about dolls (ones that have a substantial waist-line and no evidence of body image issues) or teddy bears either (unless they are pink, of course).
She does like the kitchen set her grandma gave her though. She says she’s running a hotel when playing with it. Which says a lot about her parents’ lifestyle. Speaking of sets, my daughter also has a doctor set and she examines all of us and gives us injections for all kinds of ailments. Ranging from insect bites to pain in the bum caused by eating a peanut from the floor. Occasionally, she tells me that she will become a policeman like the uncle on TV. I’ve tried telling her that she can become a policewoman, a police aunty, if she likes. But she’s not convinced. All the police people she sees on TV are uncles and she’s pretty sure she can become an uncle when the time comes. Who am I to argue with that?
What she enjoys doing the most is reading books. And she likes all kinds of books. Some really terrible ones with moralistic messages even. No, I didn’t buy them. I bought her lovely picture books with minimal text, beautiful, glorious illustrations. She likes them, too, but she’s more attached to the books that have lessons about why monkeys (and children) shouldn’t play with fire. She insists on reading books with tacky illustrations ten times a day. UnIndian ones, mass produced ones. Maybe she’ll grow up and lose herself in the self-help section of a bookstore. I hope not but it might just happen.
Long before my daughter came along, I was resolved to be a cool parent. So I offered her biscuits when there were grapes that she could eat. Precisely what my mother would have never done. My daughter, however, would rather eat the grapes. Her favourite snack items are fruits. Would you believe it. So much for my resolve. She doesn’t finish her ice-cream cup and try and eat the spoon, too, like I used to. If she’s done, she’s done. No force on earth can make her eat a little more, even if it is ice-cream.
She wants to grow her hair long but she hates to tie it up. She will not wear jewelry. When she’s pretending to be a Bharatanatyam dancer, she will wear my dupatta, bangles, a chunky fake-pearl necklace, and a bindhi. She believes in dressing for the part but only if it is a part she’s playing.
My daughter doesn’t want to ride her blue tricycle. She uses a pink potty seat. She loves the nursery rhyme, ‘Chubby cheeks, dimple chin…eyes are blue’. Obviously, I did not teach her that. I tried teaching her Indian rhymes about pappadams and trains and dosas. She likes them but she likes chubby cheeks better. I earnestly tell her that her eyes are black and that they are beautiful. Also, she’s brown, not fair. Certainly not British fair. But she ignores me and sings on, full gusto. Enjoying herself so much that I clap at the end of the song. Full gusto.
I don’t know what I’m trying to say here precisely. Maybe it is that I don’t know where I stand right now in the Nature Vs Nurture debate. We’re talking about a sample size of one here but it’s the only sample size I will ever know so intimately. Or maybe it is that it’s pointless to try and be a cool parent because your child will put you in your place, no matter what. Can parents break stereotyping? They can and they should. But my daughter broke many stereotypes, too. The ones in my head.
Everything's Official About This 
