It's a Girl

This post is from my piece at last year's Listen to Your Mother show in Raleigh. You can watch me here, but I realized I never posted the text. Excited to go see this year's show tonight as an audience member!

When she’s older, my daughter will probably hate me for saying this, or even thinking it. But I didn’t want to have a girl.

My son was about to turn two that Father’s Day morning when I peed on the stick and realized we were going to have another baby. Junius was finally starting to sleep more at night. Life was just beginning to feel manageable again. While I was excited to be pregnant, I was equally overwhelmed by the idea of beginning it all again.

As the weeks went by, my second pregnancy mirrored the first. I was tired, but never sick and only occasionally queasy. Girth increased steadily with weight, matching the first pregnancy pound for pound and inch for inch week by week.

This baby is a boy, I thought -- just like the first. If it were a girl, I would know. I would feel different and I would be vomiting. But everything was the same and I was relieved.

I imagined we would become “Cyndi and the boys.” Our sons would be buddies and build LEGOS and play basketball. My husband would take them camping and fishing on weekends while I stayed home and went for pedicures and read books. Yes, they might be loud or messy, but it would be worth it.

It’s the American way: boys love their mamas. They would love me, cherish me and never, ever turn on me.

Because ladies, let’s be honest. We save the really bad shit for our mamas.

I wasn’t a crazy or rebellious kid. I have always had a good relationship with both of my parents. But in my teen years, something changed. I was mean to my mother and treated her in ways that I never would my father. Even when I wasn’t upset with my mom, I still held back my disaster meltdown moments until she was the only one around to deal with me.

The best of daughters seem to go through rough times with their mothers. And that’s the good ones. The rest wind up hating their moms, vowing never to be like them, and rolling their eyes and yelling obscenities at them.

So when the ultrasound revealed that this new baby was a girl? I was terrified.

And I hated myself for it.

I was supposed to be excited. A son AND a daughter. One of each! Isn’t that what everyone wants? Slugs and snails meets sugar and spice. The perfect family.

Except that I wanted a matched set. Wouldn’t it be so much easier -- and so much less frightening -- to have another boy? I was getting good at being a boy mama. Starting over with a newborn was scary enough without the specter of one day having to share my house with a hormonal pre-teen girl.

For two weeks, my husband and I didn’t tell anyone we’d found out it was a girl -- not even our parents or our son. We practiced at home saying “she” and “her” instead of “it” and “the baby.” We talked about girl names. We thought about friends who had painted nurseries pink in preparation, only to discover on birth day that their baby had been hiding his little boy parts when the ultrasound tech was looking. Maybe the ultrasound was wrong?

Of course it wasn’t wrong. Our baby girl arrived as scheduled on Feb. 22, 2008, beautiful and round and perfect.

It turns out that I was wrong about not wanting a daughter. The last months of my pregnancy gave me time to get used to the idea. When she was born, I already knew her -- and I loved her immediately. Five years later, Pippi is sweet and funny and crazy smart. She sings and dances constantly through each day, strutting her stuff in pink cowgirl boots and mismatched outfits. She possesses a powerful confidence at age five that will hopefully carry her far in life.

But it also turns out that I was kind of right to be afraid. Pippi may only be five, but she’s already giving me a run for my money. She saves her worst behavior for me and her best for her teachers. She tells lies and tests limits and pushes my buttons in ways that make me grind my teeth and bang my head into my hands. She is a Daddy’s Girl -- apparently it takes one to make one -- and she already seems to know that she can be meaner to me than she treats him.

She is the best and worst of having a daughter. And I am lucky to have made her.

So I try hard to give her the most important things my mother has always given me. A patient ear. A loving heart. A shoulder to cry on. And a wonderful father for the many times ahead when she doesn’t want any of those things from me.

LTYM: Watch Me Read to You!

Who knew that watching a video of myself presenting my writing on stage at the Listen to Your Mother show in May would make me more nervous than actually presenting my writing on stage at the show? But when I got the email today saying the videos had been posted, my heart started racing and my palms got all sweaty.

Watching myself is crazy weird. That's all I have to say about that.

But I loved being part of this show with our amazing producers Marty and Keanne and all of the great cast members, so I absolutely must share it with you. Now go fix yourself a beverage, find a comfortable spot to sit, and settle in to watch our show...



After you've watched all the awesomeness from the Raleigh-Durham show (trust me when I tell you to it's worth watching them ALL), be sure to check out the other 23 cities. 

The LTYM video launch is made possible thanks to our national video sponsor The Partnership at Drugfree.org. We are proud to promote their message of preventing prescription drug misuse and abuse.  Take a moment and check out The Medicine Abuse Project to learn more and join me in taking the Pledge.

LTYM Raleigh-Durham would also like to thank local video sponsor Myriad Media for videoing the performances.

When Fashion Happens

There was this girl in Junius's 2-year-old preschool class who wore something smocked and monogrammed. Every. Single. Day.

You know what I'm talking about -- the matching ruffly outfits, the seasonally decorated dresses, the ready-for-a-professional-portrait clothes. The girl with nothing from Old Navy or Target in her closet. 

She ended up being one of his best buddies because beneath those fancy duds was a really fun little girl. But I teased her mother regularly about the outfits. 

Why in the world to do you do that to her, I would ask. It's just preschool, not a fashion show.

Her answer? "Because it's fun and I can and it won't last forever."

I still thought she was crazy.

Until I had Pippi.

Let me tell you, no matter what you might believe before it happens, having a daughter is not the same as having a son. I enjoyed dressing Juni in cute outfits as a baby, but nothing compares to little girl clothes. The vast and unending realm of patterns and ruffles and layers and smocking completely overwhelms the tiny little boy section of stores.

Although I never got to the smocked-every-single-day level (mostly because my budget wouldn't allow it), I did so love dressing her in adorable outfits. I even let a photographer friend use her as a photo model for a fashion project because she just looked too cute (I mean, seriously, just look at that picture!). 

And then Pippi decided she wanted to dress herself. 

[Cue sound of screeching brakes]

After far too many knock-down-drag-out fights over what she was supposed to wear to preschool last fall, I finally just gave up. I decided that as long as she was wearing something weather-appropriate, she could pick out her own outfits most days (I reserved the right to put her in smocked for church). 

I knew it was the right call on the morning we went grocery shopping -- Pippi was wearing pink leggings, a white long-sleeved shirt, a satin floral sleeveless bubble dress that was two sizes too big, silver glitter shoes and a tiara. The 50-something woman in the elevator with us looked at her with a big grin and said, "You dressed yourself this morning, didn't you? You look very beautiful!"

She was right. Pippi did look beautiful. And it was quite obvious that she'd dressed herself -- no one was judging my personal style or my parenting skills because of Pippi's own sense of flair.

In order to really enjoy this fashion as it happens, I started taking pictures of her outfits -- trying to catch the essence of Pippi style.

So I'm happy to share with you my latest venture: I Dressed Myself. It's a new blog about how the best fashion happens when mommy and daddy aren't involved. I hope you'll check it out, follow along and maybe even share some of your own gems. There's a few posts there already and I plan to post at least one new outfit a week -- because there's no better way to keep myself sane than to enjoy the wealth of blog material in my crazy life.

photo credit to evolve studio photography

What's in a Shoe

My daughter loves these shoes. LOVES them. They were a gift from my mother-in-law at Christmas -- Nonna picked them out specifically because she thought the ankle straps would make them easier to wear. It might be a little hard to see, but in addition to the high heels and ankle straps, the shoes also have satin ruffles with rhinestones down the front.

I've resisted the urge to write this post because I didn't want to offend Nonna. Pippi LOVES the shoes -- and I would have, too, when I was her age. And to be honest, I'm probably just jealous that Pip can walk, run (yes, run) and climb stairs in them way better than I can in heels that actually fit me.

But every time I look at these shoes, all I can think is Do they come in a gift set with a pole and some nipple tassels? I mean, seriously, they look like stripper shoes.

I'm not even going to try to write about all the frighteningly sexy stuff marketed for toddlers -- that's well-traveled territory among mommy-bloggers. But I admit that my first reaction to the shoes had me all worked up about how inappropriate it is for a two-year-old to look like an exotic dancer -- a reaction that wasn't helped by Pippi's penchant for wearing the shoes and her diaper and nothing else.

Once I talked myself off the ledge, I remembered that Pippi doesn't have that context for the shoes -- all she sees is sparkly, pretty, pink fun. She gets to enjoy the shoes without worrying about what anyone else thinks, without any baggage or hidden meaning at all.

So Nonna, thanks for giving my baby girl some shoes to match her sassy personality. And thanks for reminding me that sometimes girls just want to have fun.

That's My Girl

When I was a women's studies minor in college, I firmly believed that gender differences were learned, forced onto boys and girls by a powerful patriarchal machine.

Now, as mother to my own little boy and girl, I am constantly amazed by how different they are from such a young age. Junius apparently came hard-wired with a love for balls, trucks and trains. Pippi has this burning need to diaper all her babies and bears (and Elmo). Junius can turn any toy or stick into a gun (despite not having any toy guns in the house). Pippi begs for a hairbow and then flirts with herself in the mirror. Of course, it's not all stereotypes -- Junius is also super sensitive and Pippi is as tough as can be, and they both love running fast and making music.

But still, it made me laugh that in the same week that Pippi chose this outfit...

...her three favorite books (read over and over at every naptime and bedtime since Saturday) have been the lift-the-flap books she stole from her brother, titled (aptly and succinctly) Diggers, Tractors and Trucks.

Guess she's just reminding me that she really can be anything she wants to be -- even if it's a girly-girl tomboy. (And yes, the boots really do light up. You know you want a pair.)

Thankful Mama and a Sweet Baby Girl

According to my husband, that last post crossed the TMI line toward the end there. Sorry about that. The good news is that the plumber came the next morning and had everything fixed and running properly within an hour. I really should have trained to be a plumber instead of a teacher or a journalist -- better pay and very appreciative clients.

Anywho, I got a strong reminder yesterday that if my biggest problem is that I had to go overnight without running water while I waited (inside my toasty warm house with my loving husband and sweet children and plenty of bottled water) for the plumber to come in the morning (so that I could write him a check without worry and without having to crawl under the house in the puddles myself), then my life is really good. I have wonderful family and friends, my health and a great new year ahead -- and I am thankful. A little bad luck here and there shouldn't change that.

So instead of giving some kind of rant today about the crazy school board that just did away with assigning students to year-round schools without any review of the economic impact of that decision, I'm going to write a happy little Pippi post instead.

_______

This morning while I was getting dressed, Pippi was playing in her room -- she's just now getting old enough that she's figured out she can do that. I love listening to her talk to herself and her toys, alternating between random snippets of songs ("Row, row, row,... ream..." followed by "Bimble bell, bimble bell, bimble bell, way!") and general gibberish.

At some point, I realized she was calling for me, so I peeked into her room to find her holding Elmo by the hand (which makes him sing the "Sesame Street" theme in Spanish) with her pretty monogrammed burp cloths spread all over the floor. She had pulled a diaper and a new package of wipes from the changing table and had been wiping Elmo's bottom, but she couldn't fasten the diaper by herself.

"Emmo dia-puh?" she asked, handing me the diaper and placing Elmo's tushie squarely on one of the burp cloths. After I got him properly suited up, she took Elmo into her arms, cradled him with a kiss, then tossed him over the side of the crib. "Night night, Elmo," she called, before dumping every book in her room on top of him, one at a time.

As I struggled not to laugh in front of Pippi (she was being so earnest about taking care of her "baby"), I realized I couldn't remember Junius doing this when he was her age. Maybe I've just forgotten -- and he certainly "mothers" his baby bear -- but the baby-doll instinct (or at least the impulse to keep a diaper on anyone small, which I certainly understand) seems much stronger in my daughter than in my son. Don't get me wrong -- she'll play with cars and balls and blocks, too, but she really loves to put on her dress up shoes, hook a little purse over her arm, and push that diapered Elmo around the house in her stroller.

Crazy stuff, this parenting -- but it's a funny show to watch.