I'm a feminist. The no-duh kind. The don't-be-a-bigot-and-we-don't-got-beef kind. The kind that thinks of women and men as equals — except for when it comes to giving birth, an area in which women have a slight advantage, and when it comes to urinating your name in the snow, an area in which men have a slight advantage.

I firmly believe that sexualization of women, objectification of women and patriarchal domination of women are revolting.

So then why, someone please tell me why, did I so thoroughly enjoy watching my 3-year-old son knock a wench into a dunk tank at the Renaissance fair?

It was glorious! Perfect pitch. Dead center on red target. Seat opened up. Hands flew in the air. The splash of water nearly soaked my son. And I cheered. Oh, how I cheered.

I love the fair. I can't help it. Ever since I was a young child, it has been an annual joyfest, a nerdtastic exploration of faux-history and folly. My mom still tells the tale of when I was a toddler and fearlessly walked up to a pair of growling gargantuan mud wrestlers to tell them a joke. It's one of my earliest memories.

Everything is in excess. The beer. The food. The promiscuity. The corsets. My 7-month-old would have been in heaven; she already tries to nurse from anyone who picks her up — including our regular Chinese food delivery guy. Yes, the baby would have thought she had stepped into Dairy Queen.

But I didn't bring the baby. I brought the toddler. And it is a bit hard to reconcile trying to raise a kind and conscientious boy and my love for this celebration of chauvinism. Would he be influenced by the fair?

Yes. Yes, he would be.

It was lunchtime when we headed over to the food booths. I asked my toddler, who was wielding a bubble wand like a sword, what he wanted to eat. "Heroes eat fish and chips," he announced. I asked whether Superman prefers cod or halibut. He looked back deadpan. Clearly, this was not a time for jokes.

When we got to the front of the line, my son pulled out his coin purse, embossed with a skull and crossbones and filled with gold (plastic) coins. He had been clutching his pirate booty tightly all day. Now he brought it forth and proudly announced, "I got this, Mama. Fish and chips for the lady." He slapped two gold (plastic) coins down on the counter.

I laughed. The worker behind the fish and chips bar looked at me, perplexed. "Uh, I can't take that," he said.

My son tossed another coin onto the counter.

The guy behind the counter got more flustered. "No, really, you can't pay with plastic coins."

Was this the Renaissance or the Dark Ages? Did they wear dunce caps during the Renaissance? Because this worker needed a dunce cap.

I stared him down, hiding my credit card from my son as I handed it over. "Dude, can you just take the coins?" I whispered as my son looked on, eager to pay for his lady.

"Why?"

"So my toddler can think he's paying for the meal!"

"Yeah, OK, but it's not, like, discounted or anything."

"Buddy. Just take the coins and my card, and then hand the coins back to me."

"But then your kid isn't actually paying with the coins."

"Of course he isn't!" I anger-whispered.

"No need to yell," the worker said, taking my card. "What'd you order again?"

I would have lost my cool if not for fear of ending up in the stocks.

When my son was distracted, I grabbed the coins off the counter and put them back into his coin purse. Which was pretty easy to do. My son was often distracted at the fair. And why not? There was so much to look at. There were pirates and fairies and witches and magicians and kings and queens. And foulmouthed wenches in need of drenches. So we engaged in all of it.

Later, at the dunk tank, before high-fiving my son for his perfect pitch, I considered whether this was a teachable moment. Do we talk now about systemic chauvinism?

Nah.

I have the rest of his life to teach right from wrong. This was the Ren fair. And the fair can't help but enchant, influence and temporarily alter everyone who walks through its castle doors.

Except the worker at the fish and chips stand. That kid is just an idiot.

Like Katiedid Langrock on Facebook, at http://www.facebook.com/katiedidhumor. To find out more about Katiedid Langrock and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate webpage at www.creators.com.