Unexpected Uses for Children

Paid a visit to IzzyMom.com, one of those marvelous mom blogs that saves me the trouble of thinking my own thoughts and putting them into words. She writes about browsing internet sites looking for:

...moms to date. Well, not to date exactly but something like that. I want to meet them for kid playdates during the day and for grown-up playdates at night.

I’ve decided that I need to find some local friends as cool as the ones in the little white box on my desk (uh…that would be you guys). My closest IRL friends live in other states and my friendships here with other moms are mostly based on the friendships shared by our kids.

In other words, she's searching the internet for friends so she won't have only internet friends.

Thank goodness we have our kids to lean on! Before Robespierre was born, when I was slightly disappointed not to have someone to dress in a tutu and fairy wings (well, I could have, I suppose, but it would have attracted unwanted stares), I decided a boy might come in handy when he was old enough to program the VCR and do the heavy lifting; until that time I could use him as a paper weight.

But after he came along, and then Cleopatra-Queen-of-the-Nile two years later, I discovered an unanticipated benefit to having kids: instant community! Kindermusik -- check! Nursery school -- check! Gyminee -- check! Playgroups -- check! Turns out having a kid is similar to having a cute dog -- at the very least, it's a conversation starter.

And it turns out, they really can program the VCR and lift heavy objects.

My Daughter is Such a Girl, Chapter Deux

I'd promised Cleo I'd take her to the American Girl Store in Chicago and buy her one of the real dolls, not the miniatures, for her birthday. Even though her birthday came and went in January we never managed the trip because we got snowed in, and then we couldn't find an agreeable date with the friends who were planning on going with us. Then last week, while we were in San Diego for spring break, we drove to LA to sightsee for a couple days. As I was planning our visit it dawned on me that: THERE'S AN AMERICAN GIRL STORE IN LOS ANGELES!! Yay!! I could get our visit out of the way and stop feeling guilty that my precious, oppressed child would not be deprived of her seventh birthday present one moment longer. So while Robey did guy stuff with a friend we'd met for lunch (they cruised the Apple store), Cleo and I made our pilgrimage to AG, pondering the most important decision she'll have to make until it's time to select a college, and then anxiously supervising her new doll's new hairstyle. When Nicky, the Doll of the Year, was ready to go we visited the ladies' room, where each stall sports a custom-made doll rack so you don't have to part with your doll for a moment, even while using the potty, and then we carefully cradled the doll for the rest of the day, except when we locked her in the trunk so nobody would break into the car and steal her.

A few days later as we packed to return home, Cleo inquired approximately every seven minutes of anyone who'd listen how Nicky would travel, whether it was time to pack Nicky, where Nicky would be stored, how to zip Nicky into the tote, how many tee shirts ought to be stuffed in with Nicky so she wouldn't be bumped or bruised, and whether Nicky should be buckled in with her on the plane. Before packing Nicky Cleo adorned her with a shower cap from the hotel, so Nicky's coif, which was already showing significant signs of wear, would remain orderly.

And that's how Nicky remains today -- sleeping in a doll bed beside Cleo's bed, wearing a plastic shower cap that reminds me of the hairnets my grandmother used to make us wear when we grated apples for Passover charoses even though she probably should have been more concerned with the bits of skin and finger we regularly scraped off into the bowl.

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My daughter is such a girl

My daughter, Cleopatra-Queen-of-the-Nile, is seven and in first grade. We just finished redecorating her room, and at just the right time. Both Cleo and her brother, Robespierre, were world-renowned nose-bleeders, and since he'd used the room before she moved into it, the carpet looked like we'd committed a murder there. In addition, the carpet bore scars from two elderly dogs who never quite saw the logic in housebreaking. On the other hand, I was able to hold out long enough to pass by her "everything has has HAS to be pink" stage, and decorate the room in purple and green. Now that she's moved back in and arranged all the Madame Alexander and American Girl dolls on a long shelf above her bed, she spends much of her time dancing around the room and belting Hannah Montana songs into a hairbrush. Her cousin gave her one of those tiny pink stuffed dogs you get for making a purchase at Victoria's Secret, and last night she took quite a long time arranging the dog in various positions on top of pillows and under blankets so she could sleep with it and make sure not to injure it by rolling over on it in the middle of the night. Have I mentioned this is a stuffed animal?

So I want to know: where does all this girliness come from? It's not as if I was a tomboy (I'd have had to be at least passably athletic to qualify) but I distinctly recall that my main activity with dolls as a child was piercing Barbie's ears by driving straight pins through her head. I also recall that one of my favorite pastimes was pretending to be Superman. And as an adult, I have just enough traces of testosterone in me to watch football and baseball with a modicum of interest, and never to ask for driving directions; I figure if I drive in concentric circles long enough I'm bound to get there eventually.

And yet, here she is, Miss Girly Girl, practicing cheerleading moves on the basketball court, completely oblivious to the game swirling around her. She draws fairies and mermaids, and lots of pink and red hearts. And that girly giggle puts me away every time. I'm trying to store all these memories in my data banks so I can revisit them when she hits adolescence and flames shoot out of her head.