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Crap. I knew I'd have to have this kind of talk with her at some point during her young life, but I was hoping it would at least wait until her age hit the double digits.

“That doesn't make any sense,” I say. “You're two grade levels ahead of him in math.”

“He also said that I can't build things very well … because I'm a girl.” Alex scowls at a nearby tree as she speaks. I can see the color rising in her cheeks as her temper threatens to get the best of her.

Great. Thanks, Jacob. Guess I'll be having a discussion with his mother as soon as we return to Somerville.

Jacob's mother actually does a fine job with her son, and she is not one to tolerate sexist language. These comments likely reflect a new influence on Jacob, a boy who recently moved into the neighborhood. Alex met this kid once, when he had come over to Jacob's house to see if Jacob wanted to play. Upon seeing Alex, the charming lad had sniffed, “I don't like girls,” turned on his heels, and stalked off. Alex had been understandably hurt and confused by his behavior. She had never experienced gender discrimination before.

Jacob probably now sees this boy on a regular basis, as I assume these recent comments reflect a burgeoning friendship. At least I know that as soon as I speak with Jacob's mother, Jacob will be set straight, and Alex will never again hear such comments come out of her friend's mouth.

Unhappy thoughts are swirling through my head as my strong and beautiful daughter, who just turned six a couple of months ago, sits there kicking the snow around and waiting for me to respond. My little Amazon, who hikes New Hampshire's highest mountains with great stamina and joy. My Alex, who would probably leave both Jacob and his new neighbor in the dust should they ever attempt to climb a mountain of any height.

“Do you think what he was saying was true?” I finally answer, after calming myself.

“No!” comes the immediate response, accompanied by a scowl so deep it threatens to swallow her face.

“Then why do you think he said that?”

“I don't know!” Alex is frustrated and obviously looking to me for concrete answers. I wish I could give them to her. All I can do is explain that there are many people who believe that girls are not as good as boys. I don't want to do this; I don't want this belief to be out there; I don't want my innocent daughter to have to deal with all that bull. But I can't shield her forever.

“There are some boys who think that girls can't do things just because they're girls,” I begin.

“Well
that's
stupid,” Alex says.

We've been sitting for a while now, and I am beginning to be mindful of the time. I pull Alex to her feet, and we continue our ascent.

As we fight through the rotting snow, I give Alex a brief history of the American woman. Our status as property, our role as child bearers, our lack of the right to vote. The relatively recent changes to the law that finally afforded us civil rights. The present problem of women not making as much money as men for doing the same job, the lack of extended maternity leave. I repeatedly step, sink, and yank my foot free of the snow's grip as our discussion expands to the topic of women in certain other countries. Women hurt and killed for speaking their mind. Teenage girls married off unwillingly. Though my explanations are mere sketches of very basic information, I feel I paint an accurate overall picture. Alex listens intently, her fury pushing her forward. Her disgust at the unfairness of it all is taken out on the snow. Step, sink, yank, kick.

We are close to a minor stream crossing when I step on what appears to be solid snow and immediately sink up to my waist. “Fudge!” I loudly exclaim. Except I don't say “Fudge.” Alex's eyes grow wide and round, and she smiles for the first time since leaving the car.

I slowly pull myself out of the hole my body has created, take another snowshoe step, and promptly sink once again.

My daughter stays on top of the ground during this section. She is lighter, and the snow underneath her feet does not crumble. I keep stepping on surfaces I think are solid, only to have the snow give way beneath me. As I repeatedly drag my body up and over, I hope that throughout her life, Alex's footing is as good off the trail as it is on. I hope she looks where she steps and judges correctly. I hope she puts herself in social situations where her environment is as it seems to be, free from the land mines of sexism. I hope she learns how to navigate the world so that she can get to where she wants to go, with as little sinking into unnecessary mush as possible.

This especially nasty section blessedly ends just before we reach the intersection with the Carter-Moriah Trail. We sit at the trail sign, recharging our bodies and resting our legs. Alex looks at me with her sky-blue eyes and asks, “What am I supposed to do when a boy tells me I'm not good enough?”

Oh, I wish I could give her some magic words. Words she could say to such people, words that would melt their preconceived notions like the warm sunshine melts the snow from the mountains. Alas, it is not that simple.

“Alex, my dear daughter, all you can do is be
yourself. Never hide your strengths. Do exactly what you want to do, even if someone tells you that girls aren't supposed to do such things. Those statements—those words Jacob said—they're lies. Lies told by foolish people who are, for some reason, afraid of a woman's strength.”

Alex's brow furrows as she chews some walnuts. Then she asks another question I had hoped I wouldn't have to field until she was much older. “Why don't you work outside the home?”

Ah, here it is. Why
don't
I work outside the home? Me, with my master's degree from Harvard University? Me, the fiercely independent woman who has traveled the country and the world? Me, the woman who once had high dreams of great academic achievement? Me, who sometimes worries how a stay-at-home mother can be a strong, shining example to her daughters?

The answer is simple: I don't work outside the home because for the moment I am too busy working
inside
the home. I tell Alex this, but my answer isn't good enough for her.

“Does this mean that mothers can't be scientists or doctors or anything else?”

“No, honey, that's not it. Of course they can. However, once you have children, you need to focus on them. For some families, this means the mother puts her own career aside for a while. In other families, the father is the one to stay home while the mother goes
out to work. Or both parents take turns staying with the kids. Or the grandparents come and help out. Or you hire a good nanny, and you come home as soon and as often as you can. Or you work from home. There are many options to choose from nowadays.”

Alex is silent for a while as we move closer toward the summit. We reach a series of snow-free ledges, and a stunning view leaps out at us. Mount Washington and its Presidential Range neighbors loom nearby, their tall, snowy peaks glistening in the sun. They're beautiful, majestic. Alex stands tall and holds her hiking stick high above her head, a huge smile on her face as we are reminded of today's purpose, of our immediate destiny. Mount Moriah's peak is not so far away. The worst appears to be over. If we can just persevere for a little while longer, then we'll stand on our goal, victorious. The views from right here and now are gorgeous. They'll only get better.

We move along the ledges, then back into the trees for a while, then out among some sharp and rocky outcroppings.

“Mama, do you miss it? Do you miss working away from home?”

“No,” I immediately say. It's almost the truth. Most of the time, I don't miss it. I don't miss office politics, or measuring my worth by the status of my career, or fretting over runs in my pantyhose.

However, I do, at times, miss pursuing my own
career. There are little things too, things my pre-children self took for granted. Having an uninterrupted coffee break. Privacy in the bathroom. Riding an elevator without having to tell someone to quit jumping up and down.

We come to a spur path that climbs a short and
steep distance to Moriah's summit. Finally. Almost there. I turn and start upward, but Alex keeps her feet planted at the intersection.

“Why not? Why don't you miss it?”

Such questions today!

Sighing, I step back, drop to my knees, and look her in the eyes.

“Alex, I lived on my own for fourteen years before having you and Sage. In those fourteen years, I worked outside the home. I also traveled across the United States and visited many other countries. I did all kinds of things with my life. But you know what?”

“What?”

“Being with you and Sage—
that
is the most exciting thing I've ever done. Raising you, listening to you, reading to you, loving you, being there for you—there is nothing I could ever do that is more interesting or more important than that. If I left you and Sage to work outside the home, I would die of boredom.”

I hug her, but Alex does not remain in the embrace for more than a moment. She draws back and asks yet another question.

“Other mothers work outside the home. Are they wrong?”

“I can't know what's best for other mothers and their children, Alex. I know only what's best for me, and for the two of you.”

Alex turns and walks up the last few dozen yards to Moriah's highest point. We unbuckle our packs and sit
on a bare rock, happy to be at the peak. I am sore and exhausted.

Alex smiles and surveys the view with pride. I don't need to tell her that this was a difficult hike. She knows it was; we're now past the point of my having to praise her for making it to the top. Out here on the trail, Alex is a woman-child. She has no use for pats on the head.

“What will you think of me if I work outside the home?” she asks.

“Alex, I want you to have whatever career you want to have. It's not my place to tell you how to manage everything. You'll have to figure it out on your own, with the help of your baby's father. Just know that if ever you want my help, I'll be there for you.”

When we both feel adequately rested and well fed, we make our way down the mountain. Unfortunately, the descent is just as torturous as the ascent. The snow has softened even more in the day's bright sunshine, and I sink over and over again into the rotting slush. Even Alex, who had managed to stay on top most of the way up, now sinks to her waist repeatedly.

Our words are few during the afternoon hours. With every sink and fall, our legs scrape painfully against the topmost layer of snow. Alex's calves are bright red before we're even halfway down. I ask her if she'd like to change into long pants, but she says no.

My legs are holding up well until I manage to fall and wedge one of Alex's snowshoes into my knee. The
shoe had fallen off my pack earlier, and I had chosen to carry it instead of fastening it back on. When I fall, I let go of the snowshoe, and it lands, cleats up, directly in front of me. Down goes my knee, straight into the shoe's sharp bits. Expletives leave my mouth as I stand, snowshoe embedded in my knee.

Alex's eyes grow wide at the sight, and I quickly wrench the thing from my flesh. There is blood, but not so much that Alex blanches. I tell her I'm fine, and we carry onward. I'm too tired to properly secure the thing to my pack, and I don't do anything to clean up my knee. The pain is minimal, and I want to keep moving.

Alex renews our earlier conversation.

“What should I do if the boys won't let me play?”

Crunch-swoosh!
My legs punch through, sink, punch through, sink.

“It's up to you. You could play anyway and try to win them over. Or you could choose to walk away.”

Crunch-swoosh!
Alex's legs mimic mine.

“If I try to play with them, maybe they'll understand that they're wrong.”

Crunch-swoosh!

“Maybe. Or maybe they'll choose to exclude you anyway.”

Crunch-swoosh!

“Then how do I know what to do?”

Crunch-swoosh!

“It's not always clear. With kids, like these boys you're talking about, it's kind of difficult. They're just reflecting their parents' attitudes. They're confused. On one hand, they're trying to figure it all out for themselves, while on the other hand, they want to fit in with their friends and live up to their parents' expectations. With grown-ups, it's very different. If a man tells you that you're not allowed to do something because you're a woman, then you can have the government make him do the right thing. Grown men can lose their jobs or be made to pay a large fine if they don't allow women the same rights as men. Kids, though … it's up to the parents to teach them to do the right thing. Nothing much happens to boys who say sexist things to girls.”

The snow thins and becomes less problematic. Our pace increases. Fifteen more minutes, and we're out of that mess and back onto dry trail. Thank God.