Feisty
The other day I posted this photo on Facebook:
This is how my child walks through the mall. Seriously. I wish I had that kind of check-me-out-because-I-am-pure-awesome attitude. Me, I'm more don't-mind-me-I'll-just-use-as-little-oxygen-as-possible-here. We were back to school shopping and my little fashionista was making a beeline for Gymboree, where she chose the least practical thing in the whole store. These boots:
Now, I don't think you need to be a mom to see that there are several inherent issues with these boots.
1. The color. Waaaaay too light. They are screaming, "Spatter some mud on me! Spill some fruit punch on me! That's right, everything that comes in contact with me will cause a hideous, permanent stain."
2. The fringe. I don't know exactly what will happen with the fringe, but it won't be good.
3. The toe. See how the sole does not extend out past the toe at all? See how naked the toe is? These will be horribly scuffed and torn after one recess. Sure, I can tell her to change into her tennis shoes for recess, but she won't.
"Mom, pleeaaaaaaase. I have to have these boots! They have fringe!"
I tried like hell to talk her out of them. "How about these nice dark brown ones?" I asked. My suggestion was met with a frowny face and a pouty lip.
I continued to walk around the store, hoping she'd get over it. But no, she followed behind me, clutching the boots and waxing poetic about the wonders of fringe. I dug around in my purse to confirm that I had a Gymboree coupon. I could get them for 50% off, which was still too much. 99% off still would have seemed like too much money. I grabbed the boots, sighed, and pulled out my debit card. "Thanks, Mom! You're the best!"
She showed the boots to her dad when we got home. "What?!" he exclaimed. "Those will be ruined the first time you wear them!" See what I mean? You don't have to be a mom to know that these boots are trouble.
That's my girl, though. Feisty, fashionable, smart, and willing to fight every single battle. That photo of her walking through the mall with her hand on one hip . . . it makes me scared of the teenage years in a way I never was before.
Recently I re-read some of my old blog entries from 2007, when Short Stuff was even shorter. I'm so glad I've continued to write this blog. Not just for both of my readers, but also so that I have a little chronicle of my daughter's childhood. Looking back at those old entries reminded me that the feistiness is nothing new, though. The girl has had spunk from the start. Who can forget the time she screamed at me to put her booger back in her nose? Or, how she used to pull Jedi mind tricks after she had pooped her diaper, telling us, "You do NOT smell poop." I also remember how she was so anxious to own everything on the planet ("MINE!") that when she overheard me saying, "Oh, sorry, it was my fault," she screamed, "NO! IT'S MY FAULT!"
What can I say? It's been clear for quite some time that I am most definitely . . . outmatched.
1. The color. Waaaaay too light. They are screaming, "Spatter some mud on me! Spill some fruit punch on me! That's right, everything that comes in contact with me will cause a hideous, permanent stain."
2. The fringe. I don't know exactly what will happen with the fringe, but it won't be good.
3. The toe. See how the sole does not extend out past the toe at all? See how naked the toe is? These will be horribly scuffed and torn after one recess. Sure, I can tell her to change into her tennis shoes for recess, but she won't.
"Mom, pleeaaaaaaase. I have to have these boots! They have fringe!"
I tried like hell to talk her out of them. "How about these nice dark brown ones?" I asked. My suggestion was met with a frowny face and a pouty lip.
I continued to walk around the store, hoping she'd get over it. But no, she followed behind me, clutching the boots and waxing poetic about the wonders of fringe. I dug around in my purse to confirm that I had a Gymboree coupon. I could get them for 50% off, which was still too much. 99% off still would have seemed like too much money. I grabbed the boots, sighed, and pulled out my debit card. "Thanks, Mom! You're the best!"
She showed the boots to her dad when we got home. "What?!" he exclaimed. "Those will be ruined the first time you wear them!" See what I mean? You don't have to be a mom to know that these boots are trouble.
That's my girl, though. Feisty, fashionable, smart, and willing to fight every single battle. That photo of her walking through the mall with her hand on one hip . . . it makes me scared of the teenage years in a way I never was before.
Recently I re-read some of my old blog entries from 2007, when Short Stuff was even shorter. I'm so glad I've continued to write this blog. Not just for both of my readers, but also so that I have a little chronicle of my daughter's childhood. Looking back at those old entries reminded me that the feistiness is nothing new, though. The girl has had spunk from the start. Who can forget the time she screamed at me to put her booger back in her nose? Or, how she used to pull Jedi mind tricks after she had pooped her diaper, telling us, "You do NOT smell poop." I also remember how she was so anxious to own everything on the planet ("MINE!") that when she overheard me saying, "Oh, sorry, it was my fault," she screamed, "NO! IT'S MY FAULT!"
What can I say? It's been clear for quite some time that I am most definitely . . . outmatched.
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