We were recently given some boxes of cookies in gift boxes — complete with ribbons.
The boys saw only snacks. But the girls saw hair accessories.
Principled
Part of Gabrielle’s schoolwork this morning was a reading review page where there were words written below empty boxes. The assignment was to read the words and then draw a picture of what it was.
She got them all right. Except for “pig.” Above “pig” she had drawn a cluster of flowers.
That’s weird. I know she can read this word.
“Gabby,” I asked her, “why did you draw flowers for this one?”
“Oh,” she answered wrinkling her nose in disgust. “They wanted me to draw a pig there, but I won’t do that.”
Worlds Apart
The boys didn’t mean to be mean. They were just being boys. But they were mean. And because she was just a girl, it hurt.
We sat together on the bed, hugging.
“They were only teasing you,” I whispered into her hair. “They love you like crazy — you know that.”
But she sniffled and quivered in my arms until I wanted to cry too.
Because I know just how she feels. I used to be that girl. I still am that girl. With feelings, darn it, and why do those boys have to be so clueless sometimes about how to handle them?
I visited the boys in their room and strongly suggested an apology. They complied. Because boys are easy like that.
“I apologize,” they nobly announced one after another, each bowing gallantly before leaving the room.
Then it was back to push up contests and wrestling matches for some and back to Little House books and sewing sashes for others.
I stood between the two rooms for just a moment longer — feeling empathy for the girl side and more appreciation for the boy side than I ever would have imagined possible years ago. And being grateful for the privilege.
Suspect
“Mama, aren’t you very tired of working? Wouldn’t you like to take a break? How about if I do some laundry for you?”
It took only a little investigation to discover that
1) it’s really too hot for playing outside.
2) a new movie just arrived from NetFlix.
3) the DVD player is broken.
4) this child knows there’s a DVD player on my laptop.
Abandoned
This morning I take my big girls to camp. It’s a day camp, but they’ll be spending evenings at their grandmother’s house for the week. Which will leave Gabby and me alone to face a houseful of testosterone. One husband, five sons, and one dog. All boys.
I’m thinking I should move into her bedroom for the week and bring along my nail polish, hair accessories, and Jane Austen novels. We can also encourage plenty of fishing trips and outdoor activities for the men folk. Together, we can do this.
Gabrielle, however, has her doubts. When I was explaining the logistics of our upcoming week to her last night at bedtime, she looked a little uncertain.
“It might be okay,” she told me, “if we do a lot of shopping.”
Hmmm, yeah. I’ve probably got all the girl I need right here.
Playing House
Gabrielle is the mommy and Raphael is the daddy. Three or four plastic babies are nestled in various corners of a house made up of pillows, blankies, an old sweatshirt, and a jumprope. There are bibs and bottles and pots of tea. There are matchbox cars and a barking stuffed dog.
Daddy swings a plastic hammer dangerously close to Mommy’s head and shouts, “I smashing! I smashing real hard!”
He is building.
Mommy smiles at him indulgently as she hangs another blankie and sings, “Our house is made of sticks … Our home is made of loooooove!”
Oh, the pressure
Gabby: I just want my birthday cake to have a princess on it. Wearing a crown. And a sparkly dress. And then I want there to be a sunshine wearing sunglasses with a big smile. And of course lots of flowers with grass. And maybe some butterflies. And lots of fives, of course, because I am turning five. And don’t just write “Happy Birthday” on it, either. You should write “Happy Birthday to Gabby. Gabby is turning five. We love you, Gabby.” And don’t forget about the fives. Because I am turning five and it’s going to be my magic birthday.
Unconfident
Gabrielle approached me this afternoon with a worried look. She turned around to show me the back of her dress.
“Is this tied the right way?” she wanted to know.
“Yes,” I told her.
“A bow with two loops?” she pressed.
“Yes.”
“And the strings are hanging down the sides?”
She stretched her neck, trying to see her back.
“It looks very nice, Gabby,” I assured her. “Are you worried because you tied it yourself?”
“No,” she rolled her eyes. “Papa did it.”