This morning A found an old fanny pack of mine and asked if he could have it. I have zero use for it these days; I’ve finally reached the point that I need a wheelbarrow for a purse, so a teeny tiny fanny pack just doesn’t cut it anymore. So, sure honey, it’s all yours.
And then he called it “his purse.”
Ooh, my very openmindedness about all things living pretty much has to stop at my son carrying a purse to school. Granted, it’s a faux leather fanny pack, but I’m protecting his future from the idiots who would remember the day he took his “purse” to school. And then beat the shit out of him.
So I told him that girls carry purses, guys have…uh…man-bags. Yeah, I caved under societal pressure that men don’t carry purses. Tom will hold my purse for me in public (please remember that it’s a black pseudo-backpack from Walmart; I should ask him to hold it if I ever get around to getting a real purse). He’ll even buy tampons for me at the store. So why was it such a big deal for me that my son wanted a purse?
Because he’s got enough issues that he doesn’t need this one. He doesn’t need some jackass kid in his class a few years from now remember the day A took his “purse” to school. A is very well liked at school, something that just awes me and Tom. The kid drives us nucking futs, so it’s refreshing to see how much others like, even love, him. But, again, I worry about him, and all his issues (SPD, ADHD, 2e, gifted, neurotic parents). So it’s a man-bag.
And then my worrying doesn’t mean crap. For at bedtime tonight, A had a simple request:
“Hey, mom? Could you get my lovies? They’re down in my man-bag.”