Embracing the givenness of our sexed bodies
Written by Lindsay Callaway
I grew up with sisters. I always imagined myself having girls. Girls were my frame of reference for a family. When I got pregnant in my mid-twenties, and that sonogram wand glossed over my full bladder and protruding belly, I was overjoyed to hear that my child was going to be a girl.
With all the newness of being pregnant and the imminent changes attached to motherhood, I was comforted by the shared “knowns” of having a girl. I knew what to do with a female body. I knew what to expect. Until…I didn’t.
Six weeks before I gave birth, I had another ultrasound. This time the technician saw something else. I was having a boy.
Immediately, my mother-in-law’s stories of raising three boys stampeded into my neat and tidy image of parenthood. They tracked their muddy boots all over my mind and pulled everything off the shelves of what I knew.
A new flood of worries quickly filled the space. Do we have to get him circumcised? Isn’t there an increased chance of boys committing suicide? Increased appetite? Increased libido?
Much of the mystery about what it means to have and raise a boy is due partly to the emphasis on differences I encountered growing up. And this emphasis on differences often led to the separation of the sexes.
The girls would be ushered into a separate room from the boys, with a different movie to watch during our school health class. Sunday school teachers matter-of-factly told me what boys were like and what girls were like. Books from my teen years told me about male lust and my role in curbing it.
Education about anatomy, bodily functions, and sex was shrouded in mystery, potential sinfulness, and general awkwardness. It wasn’t until I had a boy that I even thought to ask another male human being: What is it like to have a male body? What does it mean to be a man?
I started to imagine the world through the eyes of my son. I noticed fewer and less imaginative clothing choices for boys. I noticed stereotypes and tropes in movies and television shows that might make him think of himself more, or less than, as a boy and man. I realized the female protagonists I enjoy and often demand as a woman might not always resonate in the same way with young boys.
I also started to think about my own body in relation to his. I would be the standard for how he viewed and understood women and women’s bodies for the formative years of his life. What I hid, what I celebrated, and what I criticized would teach him, intentionally or not, what to hide, celebrate, and critique in himself and other women.
My daughter came shortly after my son, less than two years between them. New worries started to set in. How am I going to explain menstruation to her? What am I going to do with her hair? (This last worry remains one of the most stressful aspects for me as someone who never quite managed to figure out what to do with her own).
While their pre-pubescent bodies haven’t differentiated all that much yet, my children are already aware of some differences. One sits down to go to the bathroom, the other doesn’t. One is instructed on how to wipe after going to the bathroom, one is not. One is told to wear her shirt; the other is not.
They ask innocent, honest questions. Learning how to ask and how to be respectful. What to touch. What not to touch. What not to look at. Gaining the confidence and learning that it is okay to ask: Why did God create baby toes, or belly buttons? What is this part for? Why is that one private?
We’ve since welcomed another girl to the brood. My older kids have seen my body change, getting bigger and not quite returning to its previous size after each pregnancy. They observed my weary body after giving birth. They saw me regularly pump and breastfeed their new baby sister for close to a year.
They also observed that none of these symptoms affected their dad. And that was to their benefit. When I snuck away to nurse or take a nap, they had a parent who played with them, cooked for them, clothed them, and nurtured them. My husband and I assumed these roles and functions not because we were beholden to stereotypes, but because of the givenness of our bodies and stage of life.
My husband and I assumed these roles and functions not because we were beholden to stereotypes, but because of the givenness of our bodies and stage of life.
Givenness is the idea that we accommodate a supposition. Accepting the givenness of our sexed bodies, for example, means we that live within the demands and necessities of those bodies. For my children, that means different dress codes at times, different hair routines, different bathroom habits.
Some of those demands are born of our biology or physiology. Others arise from culture. We try to live out our understanding of God’s good creation, male and female, in the confines of our contexts. But that doesn’t mean we need to do so within the confines of pigeon-holed ideas.
Affirming sex differences is not the same as affirming gender stereotypes. When Jesus “became flesh and dwelt among us” (John 1:14) it meant that he too would be confined to a sexed body. But he often challenged cultural assumptions about gendered interactions, including talking with, teaching, and providing a healing touch to women and girls.
For Jesus, acknowledging sex differences did not lead to separation, and I’m convinced a church conforming to his character leads to a growing unity and understanding between the sexes. We see a picture of this embodied unity every week in church when men and women — sopranos, basses, and everything in between — sing praises to their Saviour in unity.
Lindsay Callaway lives in Ottawa with her husband and their three children. She spends most of her days working as a researcher and getting snacks for her kids.