Trucks. Dogs. Balls.

Back in 2005, after Katrina and before Chad and Tate, I found myself in a Cambridge kitchen, reading a poem on a refrigerator. I was visiting a lovely young couple that was expecting their first child, and they had pinned up a reminder to themselves of how they wanted to raise their unborn child. The gist of it was this: do not limit your child's potential by subtly sending them messages of what they can and cannot do, and should and should not do, based on their proscribed gender role. The poem went on to emphasize how not only does this extinguish our children's gifts before they are even recognized, but it also robs our society of finding the best man (or woman) for whatever task is at hand. I loved it and tucked it away in my memory, to save for my child-bearing days. One day, my child would grow up in a thriving, gender-neutral environment where he could safely pursue his life long dream of becoming a dancer, a harpist, a hairdresser, a cook, a whatever, with me and my husband cheering him wildly along the sidelines all the way until he thanked us profusely at the James Beard award ceremony. And then came Tate.

I try, really I do. Tate and I look at flowers and birds every day. I try to limit the number of shirts he wears that have numbers on the back, and introduce him to dolls at our neighbors house. He had a pink rattle. His best friend is a girl. Heck, I even dressed him up as a girl! But, it matters not. I have never told him that a car says VROOOOM and yet I find his standing at his windowsill, rolling his little Hot Wheels along, vroooming. I have never even bought him a toy car, yet somehow he has accumulated a garage full. I have never overemphasized dogs to him, nor airplanes, balls or trucks. Oh, trucks. Trucks, cranes and buses are truly in a category of their own - they send him to the moon.

Take this example: we went hiking in the Tillamook Forest on Sunday, and after Chad and I spent a good thirty minutes singing "The Ants Go Marching" and pointing out all of Oregon's finest flora and fauna, Tate was done. He was ready to get out of the Ergo, back on his feet, and run fast and furious in any direction. We were about to turn back but instead climbed a little further and LO AND BEHOLD we came upon a construction site. Cranes! Trucks! Tractors! Things with huge metal jaws! And Tate's reaction:

This was the first time he had ever said "WHOA!!!"

And then, before we got back in the car, we saw Smokey the Bear. Who, by the way, had jeans on so tight that I almost felt uncomfortable standing by him. Tate thought that he was a giant and very still dog. Here is his reaction:

Notice that he is panting at Smokey.

I don't know if this is a boy thing or strictly a Tate thing, but I'm not going to fight it. I got him a place mat with planes and rockets on it, and he looked at me like I was heaven-sent. If he wants to be a fireman or an ultimate fighting champ or a ballerina or a florist, we'll just stand by and smile at Tate becoming more Tate, every day.