You know that it kills me that you're such a girly girl. You've managed to become one, even despite my best efforts to shield you from the world of pink plastic. My heart shudders to think of what you'll do the day you discover Barbies or Disney Princesses. I think your head might literally explode.
On any given day, you'd love to be: wearing a dress, wearing a pink dress, changing your clothes 80 times to wear all of your "lovely" things, playing with baby dolls, and pestering Penelope into bringing her doll stroller outside for you to use. (While your stroller is pink, Penelope's has a bar, not handles, and you vastly prefer it.)
It's not that I have anything against girly girls, per se. I just have higher hopes for you, hopes that include playing in mud and catching worms and climbing trees and fighting boys and playing sports and standing on the porch to watch thunderstorms and riding fast roller coasters and having a healthy body image and not playing mean girl games and being good at math and wearing sunscreen even though you'd look adorable with a tan and wearing practical shoes and being so happy being you.
And also: having vast career ambitions, knowing that you can have anything in the world, not falling into the trap of nurse/teacher/caregiver, wearing powersuits and bossing men around, and having your cake and eating it too.
So it's kind of a downer when the game you want to play the most is mommy and baby. I want you to know you don't have to be a mommy! You can be anything you want!
Yet. Isn't that what I am? Isn't that what I model every single day?
It's tough to reconcile my life's trajectory with its changing values, goals, and aspirations, with my daughter's. I find myself pushing upon her the "you go, girl!" rhetoric of my youth, while at the same time harboring uncharitable thoughts about mothers who...well, went.
Here's my deal, Lucy. I'll let you be as pink and baby-crazy as you want. You promise to keep picking up slugs and being fearless in the face of certain danger. Deal?
Comments