I really, REALLY wish you could read this article about a father who started wearing skirts because his son likes to wear skirts and dresses and he wants his son to feel stronger
Like, holy shit, the end made me feel so happy
I took the liberty to translate the text.
Please note that it’s not a word to word translation.
Sometimes men simply have to be role models.
Because his son likes to wear skirts Nils Pickert started with it as well. After all, the little one needs a role model. And he thinks long skirts with elastic bands suit him quite well anyways. A story about two misfits in the Province of southern Germany.
My five year old son likes to wear dresses. In Berlin Kreuzberg that alone would be enough to get into conversation with other parents. Is it wise or ridiculous? „Neither one nor the other!“ I still want to shout back at them. But sadly they can’t hear me any more. Because by now I live in a small town in South Germany. Not even a hundred thousand inhabitants, very traditional, very religious. Plainly motherland. Here the partiality of my son are not only a subject for parents, they are a town wide issue. And I did my bit for that to happen.
Yes, I’m one of those dads, that try to raise their children equal. I’m not one of those academic daddies that ramble about gender equality during their studies and then, as soon as a child’s in the house, still relapse into those fluffy gender roles: He’s finding fulfilment in his carrier and she’s doing the rest.
Thus I am, I know that by now, part of the minority that makes a fool of themselves from time to time. Out of conviction.
In my case that’s because I didn’t want to talk my son into not wearing dresses and skirts. He didn’t make friends in doing that in Berlin already and after a lot of contemplation I had only one option left: To broaden my shoulders for my little buddy and dress in a skirt myself. After all you can’t expect a child at pre-school age to have the same ability to assert themselves as an adult. Completely without role model. And so I became that role model.
We already had skirt and dress days back then during mild Kreuzbergian weather. And I think long skirts with elastic bands suit me quite well anyways. Dresses are a bit more difficult. There was either no reaction of the people in Berlin or it was positive. In my small town in the south of Germany that’s a little bit different.
Being all stressed out, because of the moving I forgot to notify the nursery-school teachers to have an eye on my boy not being laughed at because of his fondness of dresses and skirts. Shortly after moving he didn’t dare to go to nursery-school wearing a skirt or a dress any more. And looking at me with big eyes he asked: “Daddy, when are you going to wear a skirt again?”
To this very day I’m thankful for that women, that stared at us on the street until she ran face first into a street light. My son was roaring with laugher. And the next day he fished out a dress from the depth of his wardrobe. At first only for the weekend. Later also for nursery-school.
And what’s the little guy doing by now? He’s painting his fingernails. He thinks it looks pretty on my nails, too. He’s simply smiling, when other boys ( and it’s nearly always boys) want to make fun of him and says: “You only don’t dare to wear skirts and dresses because your dads don’t dare to either.” That’s how broad his own shoulders have become by now. And all thanks to daddy in a skirt.
I hope it’s alright like this.
I love you
Have you ever felt a diamond shatter on the floor? There’s dead silence… but you can feel it… Feel it in your chest as it falls, and when the shards spill out you can feel the tremors in your whole body. I couldn’t bring myself to watch. I didn’t need to see it to know. I just closed my outstretched hand, and reached in my pocket for another one. Must have been a hundred in there; poking at me, weighing me down. But I couldn’t. I knew WHAT to do: had practiced the motion so many times in my head, but I—- I just couldn’t. How could I? And then I… I FORGOT the motion… I forgot… I couldn’t remember a single thing except how it felt when it shattered. I looked down at all the broken shards and I thought maybe that’s how it all has to be. Broken things, spilled across the floor, flaws, glittering in the sun, exposed. I’ve never seen anything shine so brightly, nor as many that can’t the light for the shine. Maybe I should have broken down; broken them all. One motion, and everything would smash on the floor, cutting my feet and legs. A beauty lost but a weight lifted, and who knows what I’d do then. But I know what I did do. I knelt down, brushing all of the pieces together in my hands. They cut a little, and there was some blood, and I’d say I couldn’t feel it at all, but that would be a lie. Still, I got all the pieces together, scooped them up, and I held them in my red-stained hands. Every single shard was a whole diamond. Just as shiny, just as flawed, just as broken as the original. They tinkled sweetly against the others as I slid them back into my pocket. I thought, “I can deal with it. It’s just a little more weight. It’s fine.” And it was, for a while. But they didn’t go away, and one day… I had remembered the motion, now… And I’d been practicing, in my head, going over it again and again. I- I swear I had heard laughter just the moment before, but… but it was dead silent when I reached into my pocket.
Can’t you just wait
to save the day?
I know you could, but
I’d like to feel
For just a little longer.
!!! GIVEAWAY !!!! ~~reblog for the evening crowd~~
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