Pants-Free Parenting: Passive exclusion leaves girls in the dust

My daughter used to want play T-ball. She had pink shorts, a pink bat and practiced with her dad for weeks before T-ball began. The night we left for practice, she curled her biceps and yelled, 'I'm a brave, strong, baseball princess!”

The last sport she played was soccer. She didn't know much about soccer and was scared. I wouldn't let her go to practice in a princess dress, which didn't help things. Then, I had to drag her out on the field and bribe her with ice cream to give it her best shot.

'Just try it and if you hate it we never have to play again,” I told her. She tried it and loved it. The next week, I didn't even need to bribe her with ice cream.

But T-ball was different, she wanted to be there. Her uncles and cousins play baseball. Her dad used to play baseball and has taught her how to throw and catch and run the bases. Baseball is in her blood.

The first night, when we got to practice, we didn't know where to go. A kind mom pointed me toward someone with a clipboard, who then pointed us toward a field and told us my daughter's team. But back at the field, no one seemed to be in charge.

Men threw balls with boys. No one looked at us. No one invited my daughter to play. I asked three men who the coach was. They all shrugged and kept warming up with their sons. Finally, a man offered to throw the ball with my daughter. I bent down and asked her if she wanted to play with them.

'I think you made a mistake,” she whispered. 'No one wants us here.”

I tried to assure her this is where we were supposed to be, but I don't think I convinced her. I could barely convince myself. Only two other girls were out there. One girl was with her dad throwing the ball. The other girl was with her mom and was as lost and confused as we were.

Half an hour after the practice was supposed to start, one of the volunteers started a game. No drills. No practicing. No explanation. I watched a man guide my daughter to third base. She stood watching the boys play, hearing the dads instruct everyone but her.

I sat in the bleachers with my son, trying to keep him from eating rocks. My husband was traveling for work and I was stretched between my daughter lost on the field and my son, running toward the parking lot. I could see her shoulders sagging, her face getting red. By the time it was her team's turn to bat, she was in tears.

I went over to her, where she sat on the bench. 'I feel bad in my belly,” she said. 'I just feel bad in my belly.”

I tried my best to encourage her to see the practice through. But even I couldn't see the point. Nothing was going to change.

Finally, we left and got ice cream.

I tried to tell her not all T-ball was like that - people get confused and even grown-ups mess up. She shook her head, SpongeBob Popsicle staining her nose. 'They didn't want me on their team.”

She's only 4 and already she knows where girls aren't wanted. I know how she feels. How many times have I walked into a room and felt all male eyes look at me questioning my presence?

I was once at an event with mostly men. and they kept asking me to go get them coffee, even though I was one of the speakers.

Several years ago when I worked in marketing, my boss made me attend a meeting with two other men in his hotel room. I was the only woman and was wearing a skirt. I had to sit on the hotel bed while they made jokes about Hillary Clinton's hair. When I complained about it later, I was told I shouldn't be so sensitive.

I know those T-ball men didn't mean to make my daughter feel unwanted. I know they are most likely kind men with daughters and wives, who they love and treat well. If I asked them, I'm sure they would say, 'Sure we want her to play.” But their actions said something different.

That is how passive exclusion works - unless someone is actively reaching out, the message is clear: This isn't for you, little girl.

Men send this message so often they don't even know they are sending it. They don't even mean to send it. But it's so clear, even a 4-year-old can feel it.

I wish I could tell her it goes away. I wish I could tell her it gets better. But as I put her to bed, I told her none of those things. Only that I love her and that she is always a brave, strong princess.

' Lyz Lenz is a writer, mother of two and hater of pants. Email her at eclenz@gmail.com or find her writing at LyzLenz.com