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I grew up in a house with parents who pushed the boundaries of traditional gender roles.

My mom, with pearls in her ears and a whistle around her neck, was the head coach of my soccer team, the first female principal of my high school and the person who taught me how to drive a stick shift. My dad, the powerful swimmer and brilliant legal mind, has always been a card-carrying feminist and was often the one who cooked dinner and helped my sister and me process our feelings. I even remember attending a fancy award ceremony where he was named an Honorary Woman of the Year once.

I'd beg, when I was little, to hear the story about when my parents were newly married and they rescued a woman who had gotten trapped under her car in a crash. My dad, who remained calm, was able to get a read on the woman's status and get an emergency crew on the way. Meanwhile, my petite mom gripped the underside of the car and somehow dead lifted it until it was on two wheels, and then squatted and held it on her thighs long enough for the woman to get pulled from underneath. I thought they were superheroes — both of them. And I sort of still do.

Their example and their parenting made it clear from as far back as I can remember that the world was my oyster — that I could be, do and wear anything I wanted (although a little guidance that year I wore the purple/teal/pink sweat suit everyday wouldn't have been terrible). I got to take dance lessons and drum lessons, play soccer and ice skate. They made sure being a girl never eliminated possibilities for me.

As it turns out, the rest of the world isn't always as abundant with examples of celebrated powerful femininity, so when Elenor and I learned about this book called "Good Night Stories for Rebel Girls" we immediately bought it for our niece. In addition to seeing her own remarkable mama, she'll learn about 100 other extraordinary lady bosses from Rosa Parks to the Notorious R.B.G. (Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg).

But when we gave her the book for Hanukkah, it dawned on me that the stories of strong women shouldn't only be told to our girls. And while I've long dreamed of dismantling patriarchy and eradicating misogyny (picture the flexing bicep emoji), what I want in this particular moment is to figure out how to give my kid as broad an array of possibilities for life as I had.

So, I bought a copy of the book for baby Harvey, too, and I thought about our friend whose sweet son is being bullied at age three (three!) for wearing tutus and dresses. Maybe he's (she's) transgender, or maybe he — like many of us — just likes how they twirl. Either way, it's interesting to note that for as much leeway and opportunity as we give dudes in this world, we deem a significant chunk of life experience and expressions as off-limits to them.

Not in this house.

In this house, we celebrate nurturers, emotions, gentleness (a characteristic our cats would presumably like Harvey to learn sooner rather than later), high heels, sensitivity, giggles and lipstick. We also celebrate dinosaurs, stoicism, wrestling, tools, mud and stuff with wheels.

Gloria Steinem said: "We've begun to raise daughters more like sons... but few have the courage to raise our sons more like our daughters."

Well, we have the courage, and we bought the boy a baby doll — a baby doll of color. Her name is Fatima, and she's a refugee that we've welcomed into our home, because we love and welcome everyone — even people who don't look like us.

Of course, we know that concepts of gender norms and providing refuge are perhaps a tad more abstract and advanced than Harvey's sweet eight month-old brain can grasp, but it is our hope that when he's older, for as far back as he can remember, he knew the world was his oyster. Pearl (earrings) included.

Marina Gomberg's lifestyle columns appear on sltrib.com. She is a communications professional and lives in Salt Lake City with her wife, Elenor Gomberg, and their son, Harvey. You can reach Marina at mgomberg@sltrib.com.