When my first child turned out to be a girl, I was ecstatic. And while you might say that the whole “becoming a mother and falling head-over-heels in love with my daughter” was the cause of my ecstasy, I’m embarrassed to say that there was another factor involved:
 
The pretty pink outfits that you can only buy for little girls.    
 

At an event the other day, my friend – a new mom with a six-month-old – mentioned an upsetting trend at her office.

I've always wondered what kind of jerk parent would take their sick kids to a public place. Specifically a public place where there would be a bunch of other kids.

I tirelessly work day in and day out sanitizing shopping carts, administering vitamins and sacrificing virgin chickens to the gods of children's wellness all to drop them off at pre-school to see some kid with the creature from the green lagoon hanging out of his nose.

I mean, how selfish! Kids spread viruses faster than Lindsay Lohan at a... well... anything – and dropping a sick kid in the middle of a bunch of healthy ones just so you can have a little break just shows a total lack of respect for anyone and everything. Reckless.

Then there was last week.

The three weeks after Christmas are a sad, sad time for a TV fan. On the plus side, we’re no longer exposed to that creepy Folgers commercial where the brother and sister practically make out at their Christmas reunion. But on the downside, we’re limited to constant reruns and bowl games named after snack foods.

Cadan Christopher Frericks would have celebrated his fourth birthday Thanksgiving weekend. But on December 6, 2008, his mom and dad held him for the first and last time. He was only twelve days old when he died of a birth defect called congenital diaphragmatic hernia (CDH).
 

2012 has been a year of firsts for me. My first time hiking a trail – which I learned the hard way should not be done in flip-flops and a sundress. My first time camping – in a tent, at a campground so remote I didn’t even have cell service. Even my first time staying at a place with a word like “lodge” in the title.   
 

The other day I headed off to the craft store to finish off my Christmas gift list. My godson, a four-year-old budding Van Gogh, wanted some new art projects to work on.

When I entered, I was engulfed in a display of make-your-own headbands and jewelry, manicure sets and scrapbooks, vajazzlers and macramé thong kits. But what I didn’t see were kits ideal for those with XY chromosomes.

Sure, there were some awesome gender-neutral Crayola kits as well as a paint-your-own coffee mug, but I thought that was a little insensitive for a preschooler trying to kick his caffeine addiction.

Finally, behind a glitter-bomb-your-own-purse set, I uncovered a lowly wooden car kit – the only blue box in a sea of pink and purple.

I’m not the only one who has difficulty finding a specific gift for a child whose interests don’t fall into a stereotypical gender mold.