At the dinner table this evening, we discuss upcoming weekend plans and days out.
Next weekend my wife is going to a “women’s conference” – a day at a posh hotel with her girlie mates, to discuss … oh, I dunno, girl stuff. I know better than to ask.
My ten year old son (who is still blissfully ignorant and naive about practically everything) listens as he chews, and looks puzzled. He waits until his mouth is empty before he speaks (because we’ve brung ‘im up proper, like), giving him a good amount of time to ponder this little corker:
“What’s that, mum? Are you going to learn about … ironing better, or hoovering faster, or something?”
Believe it or not, I don’t encourage sexism. Anyone who says “get me a sandwich” near me gets a slap. But this was such a beautiful moment – an honest inquiry, with no malice or misogynistic undercurrent – that I know I will cherish it forever.
My boy figured out sexism all by himself. I’m welling up …