I can still see it. Her look of excitement quickly faded from her face as the three little boys said to her, “No! You can’t run with us. You’re a girl. We are boys. We run fast. You don’t because you are a girl.” There was a huge emphasis on GIRL. As she politely walked away, I said through gritted teeth, “Have a great race.” My blood was boiling as I watched my usually social and friendly little girl take my hand. She buried her face in my side, holding back tears. I didn’t say anything in retaliation, but at the finish line, I wanted to say, “Thanks for telling her she can’t run with boys.”
We have always told our four year that she can do anything that she wants to, just as good as the boys. Our spunky little girl will spend hours cycling around on the driveway, just like her Daddy. She sprints across the soccer field, yelling “GOOOAAALL!” when she kicks it past her dad, into the goal. She runs with me and cheers on all the runners at races, yelling out, “You got this Momma!”
She has an immense love for dinosaurs, sharks, and anything fast. Yes, she loves pink. Yes, she will likely choose glitter if that’s an option. But this same little girl will wear her hot pink shades and yellow polka dot swimsuit, while trying to catch a live minnow for the fishing rod. She doesn’t flinch at the sight of blood or the feel of a wriggly fish.
Growing up, society told us that girls do and wear one thing, while boys do and wear another thing. Thank goodness, things are starting to change. There was a time when women weren’t allowed to participate in the Boston Marathon. Now, there are amazing women who continually qualify, year after year. In previously male-dominated industries, women are starting to make waves.
So, back to the race. My daughter ran the first quarter of the race, a mile fun run, holding my hand. She needed me after her first stinging moment of rejection. So, we ran, hand in hand. We chanted and we sang. I told her that I was proud of her and reminded her that she can do anything. About a half mile in, she let go of my hand. She was back to her spunky, happy self, singing her favorite Disney tunes as we ran through the muggy morning on that Fourth of July holiday.
When we had about 1/4 of a mile remaining, she started running around other kids. OK, maybe she wants to race? So, I yelled out, “You got this!” And this is the moment, when I thought to myself, “thanks for telling her she can’t run with boys.”
This little three-foot tall firecracker lit up! She turned the corner, started pumping her arms yelling back to me, “You can do this, Indie! I got this, Momma! I can do it! I’m going to beat this boys!” And she lengthened her stride and sprinted to the finish line! I had to RUN to keep up with her so I wouldn’t lose her in the crowd. I finally caught up with her as she proudly accepted the medal from a race volunteer. She said, “Mommy! I did it! I did it! I beat those boys!”
I, of course, didn’t tell her that the boys had crossed minutes before she did, but that was what she needed to hear to really light that little fire in her, the need to prove that she was just as good as the boys.
So, thanks for telling her she can’t run with boys.
