Parenting is hard, and that is putting it lightly. Keeping your kids fed, clothed, and watered (for lack of a better term) is the easy part. It is everything else that is difficult. Some things keep parents up at night, questioning our sanity. They are related to the teachable moments we have had throughout the day. These revolve around conversations about boundaries (yours and theirs). The proper way to handle emotions, and how many of our values and morals we have been able to cram into our kid’s brains. The latter part of that statement is the biggest worry of them all.

No parent wants their kid to grow up to be an asshole. Well, the good ones, at least. The parents who parent care about these things. The ones who do not, are probably the previously mentioned assholes you’re trying to keep your kids from turning into. Oh, and trust me, you will know which category you fall into.

Ever lost sleep over your inability to out-logic your toddler? From anything, he/she holds a deep, senseless conviction of? Ever argued the merits of wearing underwear (or any other article of clothing)? Ever stumbled over your words because you did not want your kid to develop a complex? Congratulations. You’re a good parent.

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I was not supposed to have kids. The doctors told me it would take rounds and rounds of fertility treatments and, even then, it may not happen. Then I got pregnant with my first son and, less than two years later, my second. My oldest has high functioning autism. He sees the world in shades of colors the rest of us can only dream about. He is brilliant, funny, and incredibly logical. I am so grateful to be his mom because I have learned to see things a little different too. This article isn’t about my oldest son, though. It’s about my youngest, Ian. Ian is seven years old. When he was four, he jumped out of a window because “I’m Superman, mom” (yes, he had a cape on).

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When he was five, I received a note from his teacher that said he had helped his classmate tackle her fear of the big slide. He had ridden down with her, holding her hand the whole way. That same year, Ian also got into trouble for fighting. One of his classmates was being bullied on the playground. Ian used his fists to remedy the situation. The next year, Ian won an award for Class President. During the ceremony, his teacher described Ian as a strong-willed student who stood up for others and always made sure that everyone followed the rules. “He likes to make sure everyone does what’s right,” his teacher said, “and he isn’t afraid to tell you when you’re doing wrong.” She put a bit of an emphasis on her last statement. Everyone chuckled, me a little louder than the rest. I knew what she was talking about. Ian’s never been afraid of telling me when I am wrong either.

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As you can see, I have quite a lot to be proud of where Ian is concerned. He is kind, compassionate, and loving. I would take credit for teaching him to stand up for what he believes in, but that has been a part of his personality from the beginning.

As a parent, my job is to nurture the natural strengths of my children and to help them in areas they have issues with. However, the issue Ian is now dealing with is one I never thought either of us would have to face. It is an issue that has been prevalent in the media as of late, and one I am afraid I’m not equipped to handle.

The discussion around gender conformity and roles regarding children is more than complicated. It is multifaceted. Helping my son cope with it will require both of us to roll up our sleeves, don our boxing gloves, and get ready for battle. There will be a battle, especially with us living in the south. This battle will involve school administrators, his peers, even members of our family. I am not too proud to admit that I am terrified of what’s coming. My fear, however, will not keep me from fighting for Ian.

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Since Ian was little, he has been obsessed with things typically reserved for little girls. Ian was three the first time he asked me to paint his nails. He was five the first time I caught him playing in my makeup. He is obsessed with unicorns and loves bright colors and glitter. He likes to wear cotton candy perfume to school instead of his brother’s cologne. He wants to grow his hair out and dye the tips blue, and he does not understand why his classmates keep telling him boys can’t be pretty. “But mom, pretty is for everyone, right?” Pretty is for everyone. So is beautiful, another word he has had issues with at school.

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It came to a head earlier this school year. His class was asked to come up with adjectives to describe themselves. Ian’s word was beautiful. This created an uproar. “BOYS ARE HANDSOME! NOT BEAUTIFUL!” His peers screamed this at him repeatedly, but he stood his ground and tried to explain that the word “beautiful” is for everyone. I will never forget that day. My usual smiling, cheerful child walked up to the car-line, at the end of the day, with his head hung low. His brother had his arm around him and an angry look on his face. Ian got in the car, and his big blue eyes were brimming with tears. “Mom, why can’t I be beautiful?”

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My heart broke in two. I had known this day was coming, the day when the world would let my son down. I just wasn’t prepared for it to be so soon. I remember looking at my son’s gorgeous blond hair and staring into his bright, sparkling eyes. His eyes, which had always been so full of compassion for others, were now full of confusion and hurt. I kept thinking how can anyone tell this kid he’s not beautiful? My mind raced, mentally preparing the lecture from hell his teacher would get from me for allowing this to happen. I kept the car in park, holding up the line of parents behind me, and met my son’s eyes. “Darling, you ARE beautiful, and NO ONE gets to tell you that you aren’t. Do you hear me? NO ONE.” A spark of something passed between Ian’s eyes and I smiled to myself. I knew that look. It was the one he got when he was getting ready to let one of his lectures out on someone. I racked my brain for a moment, looking for some words of wisdom for him. Wanted to find something that would explain the other kids’ behavior. His older brother, Seth, was the one that found them. With his arm still wrapped around his little brother’s shoulders, he shrugged. “Really, they just don’t understand what beautiful means. I think you need to teach them the definition.”

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So, that is precisely what Ian did. He spent the next few days lecturing his heart out. He told the other kids that boys could, in fact, be beautiful. He told them that the word “beautiful” is not owned by girls. I spent the time emailing teachers and school administrators. After a few days with no luck, he changed tactics and came home asking that I paint his nails. He wanted them painted black and a pretty sky blue to show that boys can be pretty AND handsome. I supported his idea 100 percent.

Photos by J.L Willing

After another day of name-calling and getting nowhere, his brother joined the battle. Seth requested I paint his nails too. I did so, overflowing with pride at how supportive he was with his brother. That morning, I dropped them off at the front door and watched as they walked into the school holding hands. Seth’s back was straight, and his head was held high. He walked slightly in front of his brother who mimicked his stance. I cried like a baby as I watched them enter the school, then contended to my emails. In the end, we moved away from that school. The reason for our move was not because the environment was not welcoming and supportive for my kids. However, the school’s lack of understanding was a significant factor. Before we left, Ian wrote a letter to his classmates and I recorded it for his teacher to play for them. I am not sure she ever did. She rarely responded to my emails or messages, and we were still trying to pin down a meeting date when we moved.

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Things have been peaceful at the new school, thus far. His classmates have been accepting and kind. I am not naive enough to think our battle is over, though. I am not sure what our next fight will entail, whether it will come from the school or somewhere else. I know my son turns eight-years-old on February 15 and has requested a unicorn-themed birthday party. He will get it. I have already got the cake and decor picked out. I also got my family and friends on the lookout for all things “rainbow and unicorn” until then. My son IS beautiful. His birthday will be a celebration of this fact. As for those who are still determined to tell him that boys can’t be beautiful, I believe the definition goes something like this: “having beauty; possessing qualities that give great pleasure or satisfaction to see, hear, think about, etc; delighting the senses or mind.”

(Left) Photo by J.L. Willing. (Right) Photo by Levi Saunders on Unsplash with modifications done by J.L. Willing. Canva.com