Monday is Mommy Day

Until she was three and a half, June didn’t care much about her clothes and I dressed her mostly in Noah’s hand-me-downs, with the occasional girly outfit her grandmothers would buy her. And then quite suddenly, she cared.  She wanted nothing but dresses and skirts and nothing but pink (“Pink is the New Black,” October 22, 2009).

I adjusted to the new reality somewhat grudgingly, but I bought her some pink clothes and started letting her pick her own clothes every morning with the following exceptions: Christmas, Thanksgiving, the first day of every school year, school picture day, and Mondays. I declared that henceforth, Monday would be Mommy Day, which meant I chose her outfit. That way she could express herself most of the week and I could keep Noah’s hand-me-downs in circulation, though they certainly did not get as much wear as the baby and smaller toddler sizes did. One of the good things about the system was that sometimes after wearing something she would not have chosen herself she’d decide she liked it after all and she would subsequently choose it on her own. (Once this backfired when a boy at school told her the cartoon wolf t-shirt she’d taken a shine to was for boys and she never wore it again.)

Some time near the inception of Mommy Day, June asked me how long it would continue.  “Until you’re seven,” I answered without even pausing to think about it.  I’m still not sure why that came out of my mouth. It might have been because it was twice her current age and seemed impossibly far away.  More likely it was because my mother’s own version of Mommy Day (which was Mondays and Wednesdays) lasted until the end of first grade, when I was seven.  June often commented how funny it was that I had to wear dresses on Mommy Day and she had to wear pants.  Also, how Grandmom was very strict to make me do it twice a week.

I don’t always choose pants on Mommy Day, though. Often I will select a skirt that’s worked its way to the bottom of her drawer, just to remind her about it. Or I will attempt to use it to initiate a discussion about matching.  (“See, I chose the brown leggings to go with this dress because the dress has a lot of brown in it. But the leggings are a solid color so they don’t clash with the flowered dress.”) She will listen politely and then dress herself in three different stripe patterns (shirt, leggings, and socks) the next day.

In the past year or so, June has actually worn pants or leggings more often than dresses or skirts (and there was several months last spring and summer when she eschewed dresses all together). And about a month after she turned six, her favorite color changed from pink to orange. Her wardrobe still has more pink than any other color because she grows slowly and she had quite a lot of pink clothes and orange clothes are much harder to find. Her style is still feminine.  Her favorite shirt is light blue, a color she’s been wearing a lot recently—I think it might be an emergent new favorite color– but it has ruffles and lace and embroidered flowers and a little ribbon bow. No one is ever going to tell her it’s for boys.

June will turn seven in less than two weeks, so today was the second to last Mommy Day. Over the past three and a half years she has never forgotten the end point and for the past couple months she has been counting down the weeks eagerly, especially when I’ve chosen something she doesn’t like, which isn’t every week.  Often I will get a “Not bad for Mommy Day,” comment from her. A week ago, though, she complained bitterly about the green corduroys I picked saying, “I don’t like how they look and I don’t like how they feel and I don’t like how they sound.”  In general she prefers her pants without much structure—leggings and knit pants, no jeans or chinos or corduroys. If it zips or buttons or snaps, chances are she won’t like it so mostly I steer clear of those kind of pants.  But knowing the end was so close I just had to see those green cords one more time.

Over the past few weeks I’ve been examining the contents of June’s clothes drawers and realizing there is a lot I can put away because she’s never going to wear it after her birthday.  Similarly, the next time I bring hand-me-downs up from the basement, I will more selective. (For some reason Noah’s old pajamas are almost always acceptable to her.  Maybe because no one but us sees her in them.)

For this penultimate Mommy Day, I decided to build an outfit around the red number six t-shirt she got for her birthday last year, as she won’t be able to wear it much longer. (Well, I suppose she could but it’s more fun to wear the number shirts when they accurately reflect your age—that’s what both of my kids have always thought.)  I found a blue and red striped long-sleeved polo to put under it and a pair of stretch jeans she likes better than the regular kind. Her verdict: “Really not bad for Mommy Day.”

I’m sorry to see Mommy Day go, but I know it’s time.  I’d keep my promise even if June had forgotten it. I do remember what it’s like having a different style than the one my mother would have preferred and how I appreciated her letting me make my own decisions about how to present myself to the world, even to the point of telling my sixth-grade teachers if they wanted me to wear a denim skirt instead of jeans to the square dance they would have to convince me themselves because she certainly couldn’t do it.  I was the only girl to wear jeans to the performance.

The ironic thing is I don’t mind skirts now, and often wear them, usually for special occasions, but sometimes, most often in the summer, for no particular reason, other than it feels like a good day to wear a skirt. That’s what June can decide now every day of the week—whether it’s a good day for a ruffles and lace, for something orange, pink, or aqua, or just maybe, every now and then, something her brother used to wear.

Pink is the New Black

June has a new favorite color. Yes, it’s that one. For a year a half, from the age of two until just a couple weeks ago, she favored yellow and I was quietly, possibly even a bit smugly, proud of her originality. I’d look around at the swarms of little girls in head-to-toe pink at the library or at music class and then I’d look at June, dressed either in her older brother’s hand-me-downs or in the dresses I’d buy her (in blue or purple or green) or in the yellow clothes she picked out. I’d think we were breaking the mold, she and I. We were in this together. No following the crowd for us.

Well, that’s all over now.

We had some warning it was coming. Last spring she started saying pink was her second favorite color, after yellow. When the Bugs class made their paper lanterns for the end of the year celebration, she chose pink paper over yellow. Her teacher Andrea, who knows her way around the preschool set (and has two daughters of her own in elementary school) told us she’d be crossing over to the pink side soon. And she has.

I took it pretty well at first. It’s just a color I told myself, not an ideological worldview. I even have a pink shirt myself, which is something I would have never worn as a kid or really until the past few years. It’s comfy and I wear it a lot. June had almost no pink clothes that fit, so I bought her a pink long-sleeved t-shirt, a pair of pink and orange striped leggings and two pairs of pink socks. I was looking for versatile pieces that could make a lot of outfits without having to invest in a whole new wardrobe.

Even Beth, who was more alarmed than I was at the pink turn of events, melted when June asked her “pwease, Bef” for the pink cardigan with little hearts on it and the pink hooded sweatshirt with the picture of Dora on the front while they were shopping at Value Village (http://www.takoma.com/archives/copy/2008/02/valuevillage.html) during their Columbus Day sale. “I love Dora,” June often says. I’m not sure if she realizes Dora has a television show or not. She may think she just adorns Band Aids, toothbrushes and hoodies.

But of course sometimes pink is an ideological worldview. Along with June’s newfound passion for pink have come a lot of stern pronouncements about what boys do and what girls do. She chastises Beth for having “boy hair.” She says the stuffed animals belong to her and to Noah but the dolls are all hers because “dolls are for girls.” This despite the fact that two of the three dolls she owns used to belong to Noah, and one was a cherished favorite of his when he was a toddler. I know this is normal. She trying to figure out the big, complicated mess of gender and to get her brain around it she needs to simplify it. This is why she has latched on to pink with such ferocity, why she points to every pink toy she sees in a catalogue and says she wants it, why she will point to a girl she doesn’t know in public and declare she is her “favorite girl” just because she happens to be wearing pink. The fanaticism is starting to wear on us and it’s only been a few weeks.

So I have been asking everyone I know with a daughter older than June these questions:

1) Did she go through the pink phase?
2) When did it start?
3) How long did it last?

Feel free to answer them in the comments. I’d love more data. So far, everyone says yes, she did, but there’s a lot of variation in the age question. When June was much younger, someone told me it would be all pink, all the time from the age of two to ten. So I took comfort in the fact that we’d made it well past three and I thought we were home free. But when I ask now, people tell me it started any time between two and four. Ending dates go from not quite five to ten. I’m hoping we can get through it as quickly as possible. Six and a half years seems like a long time to me, although there’s general agreement that the preschool years are the most pink-intensive ones.

Of course, while Beth and I see it as conformity, there is another way to look at it. Beth mentioned June’s new favorite color while talking to her mother on the phone the other day. She had her on speaker so I overheard the conversation. As Beth wondered how this could have happened, YaYa said, “She’s learned to rebel early.” And I think I heard a trace of amusement in her voice. She is going to give us the grief we dress-eschewing tomboys gave our mothers in reverse. The chickens have come home to roost.

After several days of very intense interest in what she was going to wear for the day, June didn’t seem to care this morning, so I got out a pair of jeans that used to be Noah’s, a yellow t-shirt, yellow socks and yellow barrettes. (She does still like yellow. It’s her second favorite, she says.) She accepted the outfit without comment. We went to Spanish Circle Time at the library. I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the toddler girl next to her was wearing embroidered jeans, a pink t-shirt and a pink hair ribbon. It wasn’t until we were dancing around to the music that the girl faced me and I could see her shirt said, “Pink is the New Black.”

Around here, it is. It’s just going to take some getting used to.

Note: My dad completed his chemotherapy and radiation treatment earlier this month. According to his doctors, the tumor in his throat seems to be completely gone and his vocal chords are still functional. About that, we are all tickled pink.

Dudes with Guns

“Beth, when are you and Mommy going to make a decision about Pokémon?” Noah asked about a week and half ago. Noah’s best friend Sasha introduced him to Pokémon a few months ago and he’s been after us ever since to let him start collecting the cards. He knew the violence of the game made us uncomfortable so he had proposed that he buy the cards with his own money and only play at Sasha’s house. He’s already allowed to play Pokémon with Sasha’s cards at his house because we have a utilitarian “different houses, different rules” policy when it comes to violent play.

Beth glanced at me. “We have, Noah,” I said. It was really me who had finally a made a decision. Beth had read a set of online instructions for Pokémon and decided the violence was abstract enough to be harmless. She also thought that what attracts him to Pokémon is the complicated set of rules, not the fighting itself. Still, the parts of the tutorial I overheard, about what to do when your Pokémon character gets poisoned or burned, left me feeling a little queasy. So I waffled and put Noah off while I consulted a couple of acquaintances. One gave me a somewhat pat boys-will-be-boys answer and the other said none of her five kids had ever been interested but when her nephew wanted Pokémon cards for his birthday she looked into it and decided not to buy them. Lacking clear guidance and with my gut feeling in conflict with Beth’s, I came up with an uneasy compromise:

“If you still want to play when your birthday comes, then you can start buying the cards with your own money and you can play at home, not only at Sasha’s house, but I won’t play it with you.” The three-month waiting period was an attempt on my part to run out the clock. I think if Sasha loses interest in Pokémon before May, Noah will, too. I don’t really expect this to work; I understand some kids play this game for years, but I thought it was worth a try. It’s probably been three months already that Noah’s been pestering us about Pokémon, so if last six months, I’ll know he’s serious about it and we’ll give it a try. The stipulation that he use his own money mirrors my mom’s gun-rule when my sister and I were kids and wanted cap pistols and water guns. She allowed us to play with them, but we had to buy them ourselves. It was a policy that struck a balance by avoiding making the guns forbidden fruit, while clearly communicating her distaste for such playthings. I added not playing Pokémon with him for the same reason. As carefully as I thought it through, though, I still wasn’t really happy with my decision.

In a way, I think we’ve been spoiled. If you’ve read a lot of parenting articles or if you’ve talked to a lot of mothers of boys, you’ve surely heard the argument that boys are inherently violent, they just can’t help it, if you deny them toy guns they will bite their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches into gun shapes in order to have a weapon. This has not been our experience. Noah has never been much interested in guns or violent play. Partly this might be because we sheltered him. He didn’t know what a gun was until he was three and a half. Whenever he saw one in a picture and asked what it was, we would play dumb. “Hmm. I don’t know? What do you think it is?” This charade unraveled when we made the mistake of checking Dr. Seuess’s Thidwick the Big-Hearted Moose (http://www.commonsensemedia.org/book-reviews/Thidwick-Big-Hearted-Moose.html) out of the library without perusing it first. The plot revolves around the moose being pursued by hunters so we had to break down and explain what a gun was. When Noah was four and a half and my mother and stepfather got him a play castle for Christmas, we threw out all the weapons. There was a strict, no-violent play rule at his daycare and he only watched PBS or the occasion carefully vetted G-rated movie, so he was not exposed to much on-screen violence.

Things were a bit more free-wheeling at the Purple School. No toy weapons were provided, but if children fashioned their own from sticks on the playground, it was tolerated, as long as the sticks were always pointed at imaginary enemies and never at classmates. It was here Noah saw children playing at war for the first time. Most of the boys and some of the girls in his class were obsessed with pirates and they staged marine battles on the playground all that year. I didn’t like it, but I put up with it. When I co-oped, I watched as Noah participated in these battles. He always seemed more interested in elaborating on the narrative of the game and inventing new plot twists than in the shoot-em-up aspect of the game.

At home, he never turned sticks or sandwiches into guns. Once, while surfing online for games he found a kung-fu game (on the Taco Bell website of all places) that I put the kibosh on, and since then he has occasionally come to us to ask if he can play games he finds. (One he told us was called Violent Mystery. It was actually Venice Mystery.) He didn’t seem to chafe under our rules, and even explained why the castle people have no weapons to a friend who asked, in a completely comfortable and matter of-fact-way. “We don’t play games about fighting or hurting people here.” Meanwhile, as he gets older, we are relaxing a little. We are letting him watch some scarier G-rated movies, and I let him buy a pirate game with little cannons that actually shoot tiny wooden cannon balls. (When hit, the ships retreat, but they never sink so no one is hurt.)

On Friday, Noah had a friend over after school. We are in the midst of the transition from mainly mom-initiated play dates to mainly kid-initiated play dates. I still arrange play dates for Noah because he’ll play happily with almost anyone I invite, but left to his own devices, he’d play exclusively with Sasha. I want to keep his other friendships alive, for balance and as a hedge against a falling-out. This play date I’d set up with a boy we know from nursery school, who is now in Noah’s afternoon class. I really like Elias. He’s friendly and easy-going and he and Noah always have fun together.

The play date started out well. The first thing they wanted to do was show me the Scholastic book order forms they’d gotten at school. Elias was planning to order a Scooby-Doo book in Spanish. Noah was undecided. Next, they wanted to measure the giant strip of fruit leather Elias had earned at school for good behavior. (It was seventeen inches long.) Then they split it in two and Elias offered Noah the slightly longer half. A quick game of online Monopoly followed. It took Noah (who is preternaturally good at this game) only a half hour to take down Elias and two imaginary electronic players. As the game was winding down, I suggested they play outside. It was a beautiful afternoon, sunny and 50 degrees. They agreed and I inflated the bouncy castle for them.

Once they’d had their fill of bouncing, Noah pushed the button to deflate the castle. Suddenly, Elias dashed back into the collapsing castle. He was stuck in a monster’s trap and calling for help. Noah extended him a stick. Elias grabbed it and Noah pulled him to safety. Then they were running around the yard, looking for clues to solve a mystery. Elias climbed back into the now completely deflated castle and pulled one side over himself. It was a tent and they were under assault from the bad guys. Elias snatched the stick he’d dropped nearby after his rescue from the monster’s trap and he pulled it inside. He poked it out of the tent and began to shoot. “We’re not just mystery-solvers,” he said. “We’re also dudes with guns.”

I stood, stunned, wondering if I should put a stop to this or not. Elias had caught me by surprise and this situation comes up so rarely I’d lost track of the rules. Meanwhile, Noah was acting as a lookout, spotting new bad guys for Elias to shoot and contributing to the gunfire sound effects. Then he seized a red plastic hockey stick and he was shooting, too. And smiling.

It was the smile more than anything that made my stomach drop. He caught my eye. I didn’t smile back at him. He looked away, and kept shooting.

When Beth came home that evening she and I talked about it. This time, she was the one more opposed to the pretend violence. She was a little surprised I hadn’t put a stop to it at once, but I was still hesitating, wondering how much control over his imagination we should try to exert.

I mulled it over for a couple of days, and then today, a few hours before Sasha was scheduled to come over, I laid down the law. He could play by different rules at school or at friends’ houses, but there would be no pretend shooting at home. I asked if he understood and he said yes in a neutral tone. And even though I was coming down on the opposite side this time, I still felt wrong. I think when it comes down to a choice between seeing a weapon, no matter how roughly improvised, in his hands or dictating what he can and cannot pretend, nothing is ever going to feel right.