I just had a massive fight with my husband.  One of those awful fights where you're  feeling so completely misunderstood and full of self-pity and fuming rage that the voices of your kids pleading with you to stop fighting, and the knowledge that the windows are open and the neighbours are surely hearing and judging you aren't enough to stop you, because you both HAVE to get this rage out, and you can't see clearly until you do.  One of those fights where, in the heat of the moment, you actually do hate each other, and wonder if you'd be better off apart, because you seem so fundamentally different.

So our boys got to witness this horrendous fight, which fills me with shame and regret, but they very soon after also got to witness our sitting down with each other and offering each other genuine apologies and clarity,  and talking through our problems.  They got to see us kiss and make up.  And I know that parents aren't "supposed" to fight in front of their kids because it leaves them feeling very insecure and doesn't model appropriate responses to conflict and all that…except…without the fight, they would miss the making up.  And what if that is a great lesson in itself?  Perhaps I'm just trying to make myself feel better, but I 'm starting to think that witnessing 2 people who love each other fighting and hating each other in the heat of the moment, then coming together to calmly talk and repair what they fractured might jut be exactly the lesson that kids (particularly those who have siblings) need.

There's something about raging with someone you love and trust that allows for the release of pressure.  Everything settles after an explosion; calms; there's gratitude that your loved one is still there, still loving.  All the little resentments, the ways you take each other for granted - they're all put under the microscope for close and uncomfortable examination, and in the aftermath you return to treading carefully with each other, appreciating each other and your differences.  Maybe our occasional awful fights aren't signs of a dysfunctional relationship between dysfunctional people.  Maybe it's just the way that these two people, under pressure, release tension and reconnect, and show our kids how to fix the fractures of inevitable discord along the way…

P.S - F*#k the neighbours.

DEAR MARILLA

Dear Marilla,

These issues always vex me. When B was pregnant with Scout, I made sure I didn't get my hopes pinned either way as to what sex the baby was. In some ways I was looking forward to having a girl, with the high ideals of helping raise a girl who would become a capable woman who rejects the social norms dictated by patriarchy and is able to help change the status quo (and yes, I know, ideals and the realities of parenting don't always match up). But to be entirely honest with you, when we found out Scout was a boy I thought "well, I guess that makes dealing with gender issues easier for me".

This is a sad truth. While raising a boy still means I have the responsibility to raise him to recognise patriarchy and gender inequality, all I have to do is to teach him how to not be a misogynist prick. Whereas dealing with gender issues whilst raising a girl would be a constant challenge. The difficulty level of being a girl in this world is much higher than that of a boy when it comes to the settings in the game called Life. I know that almost every woman/girl is likely to experience sexual abuse in one form or another. That thought enrages and worries me. As you have said previously: the sad reality is that we can't protect our kids from these things entirely, all we can do is provide them with the right tools to deal with them. It's a sobering thought.

As you said in your first missive: while these worries are ever present, we do have hope. We have the knowledge and power to raise our kids (both boy and girl) to be conscious of gender and the way it plays out in our society. I am a believer in the notion that the (so far) four kids we have added to society will go on to be four positive additions to a society that has a long way to go before being anywhere near the place it could be.

Love,
Atticus

DEAR ATTICUS

Dear Atticus,
I stumbled across a beat poem on sexual harassment that's currently doing the rounds on the internet and it got me reminiscing (which seems far too pretty a word for such ugly memories) about all the small and large violations that I've been subjected to in my life, and how they've inadvertently shaped the woman I've evolved into, and how that, in turn, goes toward the shaping of my own Ann-with-an-E.

In particular, and the memory that this beat poem nudged to mind took place in a movie theatre with an old man who sat beside me when I was with my 5 year old daughter and baby niece. His hand kept creeping under my buttocks as if he didn't have enough room to keep them to himself. And although I knew what was happening and felt incredibly uncomfortable and tense, social conditioning and fear of making a scene with my small girls as witnesses to something so ugly, and stupid concern that perhaps he genuinely didn't realise what he was doing, kept me silent throughout the hour and a half assault. And even though it's been 8 years, and even though I've experienced other (sometimes more blatant) forms of sexual harassment, this one haunts me, and keeps me ruminating at odd times about how I wish I had handled the situation differently.

It makes me furious to think that my daughter wanders about in a world where (some) men think that it's ok (even flattering) to, at any given moment, whenever the mood takes them, take her out of her brilliant mind, and trap her with her own body, making her lovely form nothing but sexual parts for their gratification, alienating her body from her mind, and making them at odds with each other.  The white cold rage that threatens to consume me when I recall that she has already experienced this, far too early, and will, no doubt continue to throughout her life fills me with dread and fear. I can only hope that I tended well enough to her wounds at the time, that they won't leave scars that run too deep.  Raising a girl as a broken woman is terrifying .  Raising boys who will become men is equally so.  Again, I can only hope that I'm doing enough to prevent the sort of mindless misogyny (and I do believe that a lot of misogynists actually believe that they love women) that causes men to treat women with such contempt.

Sometimes it's hard to keep in mind that fear makes for pitiful parenting.  Luckily, there is an antidote: hope.

Here's to hopefully raising beautiful, feminist sons, with a genuine love and deep respect for women (that goes far beyond the whole "Happy wife, happy life" bullshit)

Love, 
Marilla