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(You'll note that this isn't the first time I've written about bedtime. For more bedtime woes, check out Bedtime for Toddlers is Hell—And Yet and A Parent's Bedtime Prayer)
I'd been writing this week's post in my head for a few days. It's Easter and, once again, it seems like the powers that be have conspired to make this yet another gift-giving holiday. I'm sort of opposed to manufacturing reasons to give gifts and I'd intended to make this a mini diatribe about how we don't need more reasons to buy crappy toys that'll be forgotten in a week.
But then I knocked off work a little early on Thursday and caught a bus home in time to grab the car and pick the kid up from school. I downloaded (legally, I'll point out) a few albums I'd been meaning to grab for a few weeks/months this week, and as I sat on the bus, sun streaming through the windows, blasting some good music, I was overcome with a wave of . . . something.
I won't pretend it was an epiphany. Jeebus knows I'll get myself worked into a lather about some frustration or perceived injustice again soon—probably before the weekend's over.
But in that moment—listening to music I really enjoy and thinking about picking my daughter up to start our four days off together—I just didn't have it in me to care too much about presents that may or may not be given to her this weekend.
It's amazing what a good song can do, isn't it?
For more random nods to the world of music from the Naked Dad, check out:
First of all, I'd like to start by saying... you're welcome, society.
It wasn't easy. I mean, as a man, I'm predisposed to treat women like objects and take whatever sexual gratification I need or want from them, regardless of their desire or mental state.
And it's not like opportunities didn't present themselves. I mean, I've been around women who clearly had never been taught that the wearing tight or short (or, heaven forbid, tight AND short) clothing would awaken a primal urge inside me and every other male in the area. Heck, I've even been in places where women consumed alcohol! To excess! In the company of men!
I mean, come on! Right?!
Somehow, though, I beat the odds. I managed to overcome my genetic predisposition to rape. It wasn't easy. But I did it. High fives!
But as the father of a young daughter, boy do I know how important it is that I teach her that it is 100% up to her to prevent rape. Boys will be boys, after all. And rest assured, parents of young boys, I'm on the case! I know your precious angels are simply inhibitionless sacs of testosterone and desire (after all, I was once in their shoes!) that need to be protected from every temptation.
We'll start young ("you can't wear leggings to school, sweetie, you'll distract the boys!") and build from there. And let me tell you, if some day, years from now, your boys find themselves at some college party, my daughter won't be the one lying blotto in the corner, tempting them with her drunken feminine ways.
After all, it's not like we could just show men how to treat women as equals, not view their bodies as objects and to genuinely be decent, right? It's not like we could surround them with strong female role models and create a culture of respect to the point where they become allies in the fight against rape culture instead of bystanders. Surely if it was that easy we wouldn't have the problems we have today, right?
Nope. Boys will be boys. So keep your skirts long and your drinks non alcoholic, sweetheart. It's the only way to stamp this stuff out.
Photo Credit: littlefishyjes via Compfight cc
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