Yes, I Paint my Son’s Fingernails

8 Comments February 12, 2013 drworobec

I had an eye-opening moment yesterday morning.

While his baby sister had her morning nap, my 4-year-old son asked me to paint his fingernails. I thought nothing of it, and grabbed my bag of assorted nail polish and told him to choose some colours. I have painted his fingernails a few times before, usually when I’m painting my own and he wants to be included. But that’s not where the eye-opener happened. It happened later, when we left the house, and his fingernails were on display in front of the public eye.

He was judged. I could see it. I could see it in the raised eyebrows, the questions, and the appeasing smiles and nods. I hope he didn’t see it too. But, then again, I know he didn’t see it. He didn’t see it because he’s too young to understand it. Children are born without negative judgement or criticism, and are filled instead with complete acceptance, pure innocence, and absolute naivety.

It makes me wonder: why is it such a big deal that a 4-year-old boy has painted fingernails? Why is it even questioned? Any parent can tell you that children model behaviours seen at home, including mundane things like fingernail painting. He wanted his fingernails painted because he thought it would be fun. Simple as that. And if he wants to play with dolls and wear pink clothes, then I will let him, because it’s fun. Just like I will let my daughter cut her hair short and play with trucks and wear blue clothes. If she wants to. If it’s fun.

But what about teasing? I wouldn’t want him to be teased by other kids, would I? Well, who would he be teased by? By those who have not yet learned acceptance? You teach them acceptance by accepting them. It starts at home. It starts with me painting his fingernails. It continues with me asking him if anyone at his Nursery School mentioned his fingernails. It ends with me explaining that different people like different things and it’s okay to be unique.

Celebrate differences, don’t judge them.

Here are the cute little hands in question.

Call me ‘Ash’

Leave a comment February 5, 2013 drworobec

I am a fan of nicknames and short-forms. I call my kids Bubbas (Drew) and Goose (Casey). No idea why….the words just came out of my mouth one day and stuck. I call reservations ‘resos’, appetizers ‘appys’, bedtime ‘BT’, and conversations ‘convos’. I like pedis and manis, lol’s, and ‘za. That might be why I prefer to be called ‘Ash’, rather than ‘Ashley’.

My full name is Ashley Jan Worobec. ‘Jan’ is for my mom, Janis, and ‘Worobec’ is my married name. I used to be a Swelin (sounds like Sundin, as in “Swool-een”), but I wanted to have the same Surname as my children; I’ve proudly been a Worobec for nearly 7 years now.

When you call me Ash, I feel a sense of familiarity and fond recollection of my childhood. I’m the only female grandchild on my mom’s side, and my brother and all my cousins call me Ash. I feel like you know my history.

When you call me Ash, I feel like it’s my best friends calling me Ash. In fact, the annual girl’s trip of Ash/Sarah/Shan is affectionately called the ‘ASS Tour’. I feel like you know that we’ve been touring nearly every year since ’98.

When you call me Ash, I feel like we lose the formality of full names and shift to the casualness of nicknames. The Jennifers, Williams, and Roberts out there regularly get Jen, Bill, and Bob. I feel like an ‘Ash’.

When you call me Ash, I feel like you know that I’m a tomboy at heart. I love sports and barefeet and being outside far more than I love crafts and high heels and air conditioning. I feel like you know my interests and my passions.

When you call me Ash, it might be just semantics to you, but it means a lot to me. I identify as an ‘Ash’ more than an ‘Ashley’. I feel like you know me, the real me.

Call me Ash.

It’s not Babysitting, It’s Parenting

6 Comments January 29, 2013 drworobec

I believe in feminism. I believe women are strong. I believe women are independent. And I’m a hard-core women-can-do-it-too believer. We live in a wonderful time of equality and opportunity, with a notable exception surrounding child-rearing. Primary childcare still seems to be seen as a ‘woman’s domain’.

My husband and I have set up our work schedules to be 50/50 parents. I am self-employed, and am thankful for the flexibility of setting my work hours accordingly. We work opposite hours, and one of us is always able to be with our children, now 4 and almost 1. He takes the kids to extended-family-dinners on Monday nights, to skating lessons on Wednesdays, and to Costco on Thursdays. He takes them to doctor’s appointments, the library, and on neighborhood walks. He feeds them supper, gives them baths, and reads them books. However, when I am at work, his solo-parenting is still seen by some to be ‘babysitting’. I was grocery shopping with both kids in tow one recent morning, and my conversation with the cashier went something like this:

Cashier: “What lovely children you have. Are you a stay-at-home mom?”

Me: “Thanks. I work part-time. I’m home with the kids during the day, and when my husband gets home from work, I head in to work and we switch off kid-duty.”

Cashier: “Oh, that’s great. It’s nice that he can babysit.”

Me: “Drew, please stop poking your sister in the face. Pardon me?”

Here is the definition of babysit: “to take charge of a child while the parents are temporarily away.”
Here is the definition of parenting: “the rearing of children; the methods, techniques, etc., used or required in the rearing of children; the state of being a parent.”

My husband is not a babysitter, he is a father. He does not get paid $10/hour, he gets paid in children’s smooshy hugs and slobbery kisses. He does not get driven home after a night out, he gets woken up early by energetic, vibrant kids. He does not spend time with our children only on Friday nights and occasional Saturday afternoons, he spends time with our children every day. He is not doing me a favour by looking after them, he is doing himself and them a favour by being together.My husband is an exceptional father. But he’s not a babysitter.