Tuesday, August 30, 2011


When I was pregnant with N (and aware she was a girl), I spent a lot of time thinking obsessing over the ghastly amounts of pink things that were going to start descending upon my home. I worried that frills and pink and dolls and princesses were going to be shoved down her throat everywhere we turned. I was worried that from Day 1 she was going to believe that Prince Charming was real (the HORROR!) and that he was going to ride in on a white horse and save her from her terrible parents who wish her to be well-rounded and independent. I glared at my poor mother anytime she appeared on the doorstep with yet another bag of clothes, assuming that everything in it would say "Cute as a Button", or "Princess in Training" (they didn't, by the way, none of them did, my mother has impeccable taste, I was just a psycho pregnant lady).

I told anyone who would listen that I was a tomboy, that I only had male friends until I was 7 (true), and that I had NO IDEA how to stomach any of those things, and to fend off anyone who dare try and make her watch Sleeping Beauty. It was exhausting thinking of the million scenarios where I would have to tell her that she doesn't need to wear pink/be a princess/let a man take care of her/kiss frogs/or play with Barbie.

What is my point? It's this:

We met Cinderella. And it was fun. N walked right up to her, her eyes so big, and gave her a huge hug. Then stood there, staring. She was amazed. We also rode in a horse drawn carriage, and visited her castle. Then we danced down the hill to continue our amusement park day. Meeting Cinderella was, by far, the highlight of her very long and exciting day. And I didn't have a stroke. I didn't tell her she's not real. And I didn't tell her that the pumpkin was plastic, and that her Fairy Godmother's sparkly wand looked like it was bought at the Dollar Store. I danced with her, and took pictures like someones depraved Stage Mom, and I enjoyed every minute of it.

Just like when I picked her up from daycare the other day and she was beside herself with excitement because she climbed the (very small) rock wall ALL BY HERSELF. And then showed me. Again and again. Just like when she stood in line for the log flume and laughed at her father for being nervous. Just like when she announced in the car the other day that she NEEDS a red truck for her birthday, and not one you ride on, one she can push around herself and make truck noises for. Just like when we sat on the floor and taught her how to play her very first card came, and she got it. Just like when she talks circles around her little friends. Just like when she insisted on the blue Cars pull-ups and not the Princess ones. And just like every single day when she shows me a little bit more of who she is and who she is going to be.

She is going to be well-rounded, and independent. And if she meets Prince Charming and he sweeps her off her feet, I will keep my gagging noises to a minimum, as long as she gets through med school first.

And for the record, I was not all tomboy (I might exaggerate sometimes, and then add pregnancy hormones to that...good luck!). Yes, I had more male friends than female, I wore my brother's clothes, and I wanted to play hockey and be a goalie (guess who did that?), but I was also a ballerina for 12 years. I was a cheerleader in high school. I have vast amounts of embarrassing diary entries to look through and remind myself that I really did care what those silly 13 year old boys thought of me. But, I always wore my Doc Martens with my dresses, I loved it when people thought my hair looked like Eddie Veddar's, Rainbow Brite and Punky Brewster were always cooler than Barbie in my book, and my brother is still my hero.

So there.

1 comment:

  1. Well-rounded, independent while wearing Docs, sounds good to me!