>Boy Toy

“I need some balloons,” I told the clerk at Dollar Tree the other day. “My son’s second birthday is coming up.”

“Sure,” the clerk replied. “Which ones do you want?”

I looked at the balloons hugging the ceiling over his head.

“Hmm,” I pondered. “The blue star…. and the orange one that says ‘Happy Birthday,’ on it. Oh and the Spongebob one, for sure. He loves Spongebob.” The clerk selected each balloon as I named it.

“And Dora,” I said. “That’s his favorite show.”

“Dora?” the clerk stopped short. “For a boy?”

“He’s two,” I explained. The clerk still looked befuddled.

“My son would kill me if I gave him a Dora balloon for his birthday,” he said, shaking his head.

“He’s two,” I said again. Obviously, the age didn’t mean anything to him. And so I stood there clenching my fits as he reluctantly pulled down the Dora balloon. I had an urge to defend my son, but I didn’t know how.

I thought of saying, “Cars are his favorite toys!” And then I hated myself for wanting to say it. And I didn’t like the clerk very much, either, because it was clear he had some sort of negative image of my son and no one should have a negative image of my son, dammit!

I mean, my adorable Bruiser is a 34-pound, strapping, swaggering boy’s boy, who loves cars and balls and loud noises and dirt and dinosaurs and… Dora. Oh, and Boots, Dora’s monkey friend.

What of it?

Why is our society so focused on what our boys play with or enjoy, and how it relates to their future manliness?

When Bruiser picks up one of Punky’s baby dolls and cuddles it occasionally, I’m proud of him; I hope it means he’ll be a good dad some day. When he yelled, “Want! Want!” at a television commercial for fake fingernails for little girls the other day, I laughed and thought nothing of it. They looked bright and colorful and fun; what almost-two-year-old wouldn’t want a set?

And when he saw a commercial yesterday afternoon and turned and yelled, “Mommy! Bar-bee,” I knew very well he had learned from his sister that it was a very big deal whenever that blonde-haired doll appeared on TV.

“Bar-BEE!” my son repeated happily.

“That’s right, Bruiser,” I replied, smiling. “That’s Barbie.”

He looked at me and grinned.

“Bar-bee! HOT!” he crowed.

I stopped smiling. He didn’t learn that from his sister.

I have no idea what that behavior says about his future, but it can’t be good.

This post originally appeared on Parents.com.