Earlier this year, we moved to a new neighborhood. I love to garden and our kids adore playing outside. When the warm weather arrived, we spent many evenings in the front yard. I would often prune the boxwood hedge or pick weeds, and the kids would ride their bicycles up and down the sidewalk, or kick a ball around with Daddy.
It didn’t take long for our front yard to become the place for the neighborhood kids to congregate after supper. We didn’t mind. It meant their parents trusted us and considered our home a fun and safe place for their children to be, and we could monitor language, behavior, and other influences better on our own property. Often, the parents would mill around, too, and we’d end up unofficially hosting neighborhood meet-and-greet’s.
During one of the initial conversations I had with the Moms in our neighborhood, I realized for the first time that feminism has given me an adjective I should not need.
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