Some say raising girls is a whole different thing,
That they're catty and mean and all think they can sing,
That they're chatty on facetime before they can read,
And think that fourteen is an age to be freed
One day they're a princess with a pincessy mood,
The next they're on snapchat and won't eat your food,
And yes, sure...
I look at my girls and can't help but worry,
My memories of girlhood are anything but blurry,
Will someone laugh at a red spot on their knickers?
Will someone too early get them into fruity liquors?
Will someone tell them that they're lousy at maths?
Will someone lure them into devestating paths?
They'll see many a situation to which I can relate,
Pressure, injustice, an alarming first date...
But then I see my floor and get an alternate perspective,
My son and my daughters are equally defective,
Apparently our floor is where they throw all their trash,
And where their coats, gloves and shoes end up in a flash,
And they cry just as much, and shout the same amount,
All five are so different but gender doesn't count.
My girls will face trouble, somehow I don't doubt it,
But I'll be here then, there's no two ways about it,
And raising my boy as a feminist youngster,
Will keep other girls from meeting a monster.
(And the struggles men face, we sould also remember,
But speak about them on the 19th of November!)
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