The Ridiculous Gender Confusion Hypothesis


Here’s the story of children, a short fuse, and boobs.

“But mummy, he can’t be a man – it’s just impossible, where’s his beard?” I’m sorry if I sound a tad ‘old fart’, but kids just don’t have the discipline they used to have in the olden days. These days, they have about as much discipline as a pineapple. They used to respect adults. There I was, sitting on a church bench in a cathedral with nearly 1,000 people in it. On my bench, there were about 20 of us. I was sandwiched between a jackass on my left and a woman on my right. It was the most contact I’ve ever had with a woman. The level of awkwardness is virtually incomparable. It was like meeting the girl of your dreams, moving in together, getting married, having many children, and then finding out she’s your long lost sister. But you have kids! You have to stay together for their sake! Which makes the breakfast table a mighty difficult place to be during breakfast. It was Easter Sunday mass. I was looking forward afterwards to gorging on as much chocolate as a single person on Valentine’s Day. But to the left of me was a complete jackass. A six-year-old boy. I know we aren’t allowed to call children jackasses in today’s society, but I don’t care, because there is no other word for him. Well, there are plenty, but not many I can repeat.

He kept nudging me, fair enough, he’s a child, they can be little scamps. I have a very long fuse. I can tolerate a surprising amount before the wick burns to a cinder. But then he started trying to steal my hymnbook. I was tempted to take it off him and hit him over the head with it, but that’s illegal, apparently. Then he started to play with my newsletter, and even started to rip it up. Then he started clambering all over me. His mother repeatedly told him off, culminating in, “Leave the man alone, Archie!” His response? “No, that’s clearly not a man – don’t be silly mummy, I’m right, not a man at all.” I was outraged, dagnabbit! I tried my best to ignore the little twerp. But I could feel my blood boiling. “No Archie, that’s rude – you can’t say that.” “But mummy, he can’t be a man – it’s just impossible, where’s his beard?” His mother thought the best form of attack was… total ignorance. Precious Archie then spent most of the rest of mass staring at me. He literally had his face pressed up against mine. Trying to find clues to prove his mother right. And his conclusions? “Nope, mummy, you’re wrong, definitely a lady.”

You see, in the olden days, we’d have given the young hooligan a telling off, but even that’s frowned upon these days. No, nowadays we shout at the parents and hope that total humiliation will be enough to stop their child running riot over my gender. But she was very pretty. About the same age as me. I didn’t feel like shouting at her. She had captivating ears. What? Oh, so it really is just me who likes that? Oh.

Many would say that I shouldn’t have such resentment for a small child, but that only applies to children being playfully irritating. When a child starts something like gender questioning, I really don’t think they should be allowed to get away with that. They have to learn between right and wrong, and calling a man a ‘lady’ is downright insulting. He may has well have called me a ‘dickhead’ because there’s no difference.

You know what the icing on the cake was? His mother. She started staring. Little Archie protested and protested, loudly, so much so, that even his mother started to question my gender. I could see her out of the corner of my eye. Canvassing my body for clues as to my gender. Now, you could say she was checking me out, but a girl that pretty would never be interested in me, a guy who looks like a slug covered in boils that has leprosy, which has just been squashed with a mallet. Then other people started staring! I mean, for the sake of meringue, it was bloody Easter! A day of celebration and chocolate, a mass to celebrate our Lord rising from death. And I’m nearly in tears because nobody believes I have a wang.

So I apologise to any parents reading, ‘offended’ by my ‘total disregard’ for a ‘little scamp’ and how I ‘don’t understand because I don’t have kids’. Well I’m sorry. But I do want you to know that you are wrong. Children should not behave like that. You tell them off. You take things away from them. You teach them rules and boundaries. And you do not let them get away with something that defies common sense. I’ve looked after children, I know it’s hard, those moments were the hardest moments of my life, but they need to be brought into line. Do whatever it takes. Although you probably shouldn’t hit them over the head with a hymnbook. It’s murky territory, readers.

I’m a man. I’ve failed at everything a man should’ve achieved by my age, but hey ho, that’s the way the dice landed for me. I’m paranoid, now. Do I have womanly qualities? Fair enough if a child questions me, but for adults to start doing that? Hmm. Long hair. Really long. About five inches below my shoulder line. Which in the metric system is… meh, how am I supposed to know, I’m not a communist. I don’t have much of an Adam’s Apple, but my face is quite angular. I don’t know of many countries that have angular faced women. Germany, perhaps. Comes from being ridiculously thin. But as for the rest of me, I don’t know. I’m baffled. I mean, I clearly don’t have boobs. Sadly…

This week marked my last full week in work experience, I have two days next week, then I’m finished. Then I have a nice and peaceful relaxing day off before mother and father jet off, again, to… erm, oh, erm, that place that, erm, oh man, where are they going? I should really ask them that. Which means two weeks – I’m guessing two, might be one, I don’t know – of constantly putting out kitchen fires and nearly accidentally killing myself on an hourly basis. So I am looking forward to that. Work has been tough but I’m looking forward to some down time before I jet off to the exotic land known as… London. Maybe the less stressed and tired Ally you all knew from about four weeks ago will soon return.

Or maybe a certain six-year-old may come back to haunt me…

American cultural anthropologist, Margaret Mead (1901-1978), once said: “Children must be taught how to think, not what to think.”

Peace Out :|:

I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post. You can leave a comment and/or like this post below, or by clicking the title on the top of this post if you are on the archives page. Likes and follows greatly appreciated. Thanks.

Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other two blogs:

To Contrive & Jive
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
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Hark Around The Words
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  1. I love the way you write. I call kids jackasses all the time, nothing wrong with that in my book because they are.  Kids can be so mean and especially to adults it seems…  Also, I despise gender norms and the fact that you need a beard to be a “man”, what the heck are his parents teaching him?  Anyway, I like men with long hair and always have. Nuff said.

    • Thanks. My writing is just an internal monologue. Whatever my brain says to itself. My hands are like an onlooker at a bar fight, desperately writing trying to keep up with the goings on. It’s like a brain sneeze on the screen. I don’t clean it up. I don’t get many hits so I don’t bother trying to make it cohesive. I may throw in the occasional ‘readers’ but that’s for my own sanity. It’s always nice to hear it makes sense to someone, because I sure as hell don’t know what my brain is up to most of the time…

      The worst part about the beard is that I actually had a good three days growth. It was fairly visible in a well lit cathedral. The kid even had a candle. Perilously close to my face, like Indiana Jones trying to find some antiquated crap in a darkened cave. We have candles at Easter, he didn’t bring one with him. That would be insane.

      And to be fair, I only have long hair because I can’t be bothered getting it cut. But it’s a vicious circle. I look in the mirror and say, ‘Get it cut’ to myself, and I can’t. Like cutting off a limb. Got too attached, I’m afraid.

      Sorry, I’m waffling.

      Mmm, waffles.

      I don’t like waffles.

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