Parenting a Son and Daughter: The Unfair Double Standard I Fell Into
I was standing at the kitchen counter peeling carrots for a stew last Tuesday evening, and my daughter, Iris, was shredding cheese at the island beside me. She’s fifteen, quick with her hands, and she knows how to read a recipe without asking three times. We were talking about her history test when my thirteen-year-old son, Leo, came whistling through the kitchen, dropped his backpack on a chair, and asked what we were having. “Stew,” I said. “Wash up, dinner’s in twenty minutes.”
He grabbed an apple and headed for his room. That was it. I didn’t ask him to help. I didn’t even think about it until Iris looked at the door and said, “Does he ever cook with you anymore?”
I told her, honestly, that he did when he was younger. That it wasn’t a big deal. She said, “Right, because he has practice.” The taste in her mouth wasn’t about the stew. She was right, and I could feel the unfairness hanging in the air like steam.
Iris had been at that counter, helping me make dinner since before she could reach the sink properly. It started as a habit—she was curious, and I was patient. Then it grew into an expectation. If I’m cooking and she’s home, she’s in the kitchen. Leo has never been expected to take on that role. When he sets the table, we act like it’s a bonus. When she does the same, it’s just what she does.
Somewhere along the line, I had quietly divided my children into categories: Iris is capable, Leo is energetic. Iris can handle things, Leo needs to be managed. That division shows up in dozens of small ways I never noticed until Iris pointed out that one.
The next day, I drove them both to school. It’s a familiar kind of Tuesday. Iris has a paper due on Friday. She mentioned she was worried about it. I gave her a pep talk about time management, told her to break it into chunks, and asked if she wanted me to look at her outline after work. When we pulled up to the curb, Leo was still searching his backpack for his ID. I told him to check the side pocket, which he always does. He grunted something Sirs-like and hopped out.
And I thought: I just gave her a whole counselling session, and I gave him zero. If I’m honest, I’ve always asked Iris more about her feelings than Leo. I ask her about her friends, her assignments, her mood. For Leo, it’s usually logistics—homework done? Water bottle? Let’s go. The pattern is well-worn enough that it feels natural, but it’s a particular kind of imbalance. She gets responsibility and a running commentary on her emotional life. He gets freedom and a parent who doesn’t think to ask if something’s weighing on him.
That’s a different unfairness, but it’s still unfair.
I started paying attention that week. What I found is that the imbalance runs both ways.
With Iris, I assume she can manage. When she forgot her bus pass last month, I said something like, “This is on you, remember to check your bag next time.” When Leo forgot his cleats for practice, I drove them to school. I think part of me believes Iris needs to learn toughness and Leo needs grace. It isn’t conscious. It’s just built into how I see them.
But with Leo, I also dismiss his concerns more easily. When he talks about something bothering him at school, I have a habit of lightening it—”That’ll blow over.” I don’t let it land. With Iris, I take her worries seriously, which sounds flattering, but it’s not. It’s a burden I put on her shoulders without asking: you are responsible enough to take this seriously.
So here I was, being harder on the daughter and softer on the son in one moment, then dismissive of the son in the next. Neither one of them gets the baseline they deserve. Iris gets expected every day. Leo gets excused for everything. One is held too tight, the other is held too loose. Both are being told something about what I think they can handle.
What helped me was pausing long enough to ask a different question. Instead of “Is this fair?” I started asking, “Is this the expectation I would have if I forgot their gender for a minute?” For example, if Leo had forgotten his bus pass, would I have lectured him about responsibility? Probably not. If Iris had cried about something at school, would I have told her it’ll blow over? Absolutely not.
So I changed a few habits. Not dramatic ones, but the kind that feel weirdly visible once you start doing them.
First, I made the kitchen rule simple and neutral: if you’re home, you help with dinner. No exceptions for sports practice, homework, or being a boy. It took about a week for Leo to stop acting like he was doing me a favour. He’s not great at chopping, but he’s fine, and he’s learning the same way Iris did—by being in the room.
Second, I started asking Leo the same question I always ask Iris: “What was the hardest part of today?” and then staying silent long enough for him to answer. It’s a small thing, but it’s been useful. He’s actually more willing to talk than I ever made room for. I had simply stopped asking.
Third, when I catch myself lowering the bar for Leo, I say it out loud in the moment. “Sorry, that was me going easy on you because you’re my son. That’s not fair to your sister.” Or to him: “I’m actually going to hold you to the same standard I just held Iris to.” Saying it out loud stops the pattern in its tracks. It feels clumsy, but it’s honest.
I’ve also had to learn that being fair doesn’t mean being identical. Iris loves a schedule. Leo needs reminders but also hates being hovered over. Fair treatment between a daughter and son doesn’t require us to pretend they’re the same person. It requires us to not let their gender decide who’s accountable and who gets a free pass.
The clear night, Iris asked Leo to pass the salt at dinner. He was on his phone under the table, something I normally would’ve missed. She didn’t complain. She just handed him a look that said everything. I watched him put the phone away and pass the salt.
It was a small thing, but it felt like progress. We’re not fixed here. I know the double standard will probably show up in some new disguise next week—I’ll catch myself assuming Iris can handle a problem that I’d rush to solve for Leo, or I’ll tell a joke about how Leo can’t find anything in the fridge and accidentally teach him that incompetence is part of his role.
But at least now I’m watching for it. And I’ve started including them both in the conversation about it, because they already know the difference between fair and unfair long before I did. I just needed to be willing to see it.
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