August 6, 2007

Striking Fear in the Hearts of Men

Up until about 4-6 weeks ago, my daughter was nothing like me. She was sweet and quiet and shy. She picked flowers and sang to blue birds perched on her finger. Yes, the bluebirds harmonized with her.

I was confident she was going to be one of those sweet, nice, sunshine smile kind of girls. The kind and gentle voice of reason to her slutty, stupid girlfriends. Studious. Polite to a fault. Teachers pet. You’re getting the picture here, right?

Well, apparently at 2 1/2 years old she’s just NOW decided that halo-polishing baby I knew was just an act. We’ve entered classic terrible two territory with the “NO!” and “I DO IT MYSELF” but with a Princess Peanut Punk as Fuck TWIST-she’s got a hair flip, eyelash bat, head cock thing going on that scares the bejeeezus out of me.

She is going to CRUSH men. CRUSH them.

In the meantime, she’s crushing me. I tell her “no” and I get an “I want DADDY!” in response. I say “stop that right now” and I get a “NO Mommy” then she grabs my cheeks and kisses me on the lips. As if to say, “I’m not going to do what you say, but I’m cute and loving and I will at least give you a nice kiss before defying you, silly woman.”
I’m fucked.

Time outs are not working. Taking away toys seems to only fuel her evil. I took away a beloved baby and she said (and I’m not kidding here) “pffffffffffffft.” She pfffffft’d my punishment and walked away.

I keep reminding myself we went through this with Count Waffles, and he’s now a model citizen. I keep telling myself its just another phase and it will pass.

In all honesty, I’m not sure. The hair flip, head cock, eyelash bat thing-is beyond “phase.” Its possible I inadvertently taught her how to work a man. She’s using it against me. She’s using it against her father. She’s using it against the world.

I blame myself of course. I obviously showed her my wily ways. I didn’t realize she was soaking it in, but…there it is. OR, maybe its just in the DNA? She’s got some female Queen-gene that helps her pout her lips and lean her head on her father’s shoulder at JUST the right, somewhat evil, moment.

What I need to remember here is that I’M the Queen. I’m the ALPHA female in THIS house. I will not fear her. I will not give in to her. I’m not going to fold at a mere eyelash bat, sulk episode in my kitchen.

She can’t make me.

August 2, 2007

Hot Pink Mess

There is a Barbi pink bottle of nail polish sitting on my counter mocking me.

Fucking pink nail polish.
I bought it on a whim while picking up some prescriptions at the drug store. I had this fleeting thought that it would be fun to paint my daughter’s nails. Or for her to paint mine.

Then I got home and my brain kicked in, and putting hot pink nail polish on a 2-year old seemed completely out of the question for about a dozen reasons. First and foremost, last I checked she was 2, not 12. I rail against ear piercing for babies and push-up bras for 2nd graders, and in a moment of insanity I somehow thought nail polish was OK for a toddler.

So now it sits there, on my counter, laughing at me. Another big, fat, black mark on my feminist card. We’ve been sexualizing these little girls for so long that it nearly got me. ME.

I’m so ashamed.

Maybe because it wasn’t as blatant as a t-shirt with a promiscuous saying. It wasn’t a thong for a 3-year old.

It was just some pink nail polish. Is nail polish the gateway make up to fire engine red lipstick? Is pink nail polish a statement on a 2-year old? If anything, I think it says “my mother is a fucking moron who put this on me to whore me up.”

Or am I just over doing it here? Is it just a bit of “play” on a 105 degree, stay in the a/c kind of day? Am I thinking too much? Is this just what little girls do? Or just what little girls do because their mothers think its cute and fun and girlie.
I don’t think so. I think if it were not an issue to use my brain over, that nail polish wouldn’t still be sitting on that counter. Mocking me.

I won’t let my son have a toy gun. I know he’ll figure it out with legos or a stick soon enough. So why would I encourage the whole “grown up” look on my daughter? She’ll figure it out soon enough and be demanding it all on her own. Without my help.

So what do I do with this hot Barbi pink nail polish on my counter? I think I’m going to leave it there. As a reminder. This little girl isn’t going to grow up too fast. Be sexualized too fast. Too soon. No. Not even those little nails. I’ll let the bottle mock me. Maybe we’ll bust it out for her sweet 16. Until then…it stays on the counter.

May 19, 2007

Crotch Torture-DENIED

Sigh. Sadly, Karen and I will not be going for her crotch torture extravaganza. As it turns out, we received inside information her crotch waxer was, shall we say, sub-par. We were advised to take her hairy cooter and RUN.

So we got pedicures instead.

October 20, 2006

Sex Ed., Queen Style

For the first time my loving husband raised an eyebrow at one of my recent parenting decisions.

He wanted to know if the children were in the room during this week’s open up and spread ‘em exam at the OBGYN.

Not only were they in the room, but they had lollipops and front row seats.

And why shouldn’t they? They see my crotch and it’s bits daily. Both my children know what tampons are and where they go. They’ve seen the insertion. They’ve played with the string.

My loving husband causually mentioned that maybe, just maybe, Count Waffles is nearing an age where he should be left out of these family outings to view the vagina. Maybe, just maybe, it’s time for him to learn a little less about his mother’s love hole.

I laughed at the Kaiser. And said, “Where should I put them next time? The hallway??” And while my husband is pretty open about these things, I could tell he wanted to say more…but stopped short of actually asking me to refrain from bringing our son to pap smears. He just wanted to plant the seed in my brain that our little boy may not want to remember his mother’s crotch later in life. He just wants to spare him that horrible mental image.

Point taken. But I’m also not going to have it be some big mystery to him. Or some HUGE deal. It’s a woman’s body. No biggie. There are the boobies and there is the crotch. The end. I can’t imagine I’ll be bringing them to pelvic exams for much longer. Or maybe I will.

Think of it as a homeschooling version of sex ed. I could make textbooks and everything. Queen Crotch 101. Then we’d have Kaiser Penis 101. Poo-hole (in honor of a certain St. Louis guy who plays my beloved Detroit Tigers tomorrow) 101. The Noise in Mom and Dad’s Bedroom 110. Birth Control or Death by Queen 102. Princess Eggs and Count Sperm 200. Soon to be followed by Please Be Gay 300. And Back Seat Manners 305.

What? Like you wouldn’t totally take one of my classes. The Art of the Blow Job is for those of you working on your masters.