Those words without fail rang through our house on certain “special occasions.” You know, the funerals, weddings, night-out-at-expensive-restaurants-with-my-step-dad’s-boss occasions. I was expected to wear clothes that were appropriate for an adorable, blond haired, blue eyed, sweet little girl. Yeah right! I disliked those “special occasions” and the attire that accompanied them so much that at the time I would rather have had my brother sit on me and poke his finger repeatedly on my chest until I said “Uncle!” Both pure torture in my book!
I was a “tom boy.” Plain and simple. I longed to be playing in the mud with my older brother (who usually just threw it at me), racing on my Big Wheel (I have my suspicions my mom ran over it on purpose), or catching bugs in the plastic butter containers with holes poked on top (the bugs always died anyway). I didn’t want to play with Barbies or adopt a Cabbage Patch Doll. I didn’t want to see how many ways I could braid my hair. I definitely did not want to wear anything pink, anything with ruffles or anything that I couldn’t climb the next door neighbor’s fence in! I despised dressed and all occasions that mandated that I wear one!
My mother and grandmother were just appalled at my desires. At about age ten, my mom determined it was time for us to go to church. I think this was an evil ploy to torture me into dresses more often. I eventually wore her down with my nonviolent protests of locking myself in the bathroom. I wouldn’t come out until it was twenty minutes past the time we were supposed to be in church. It would be rude, I convinced her with my 10-year-old wisdom, to show up late! We only made it church twice! (Snicker, snicker!)
My grandma, an endearing, old-fashioned woman, in her wisdom, thought that if she got rid of my coveted, fort-making, brown bunk beds (which I only received because my brother outgrew them) and bought me a canopy bed set, that the “girlyness” would rub me off on me. I had so much respect for my grandma that I accepted the bright pink, ruffle laden, Hollie Hobbie canopy bed set with a forced smile. In making the best of what was thrust upon me, I found that when I threw my bedspread over the canopy on top I could make a much taller and darker fort than my previous bunk beds. Hey, when you are given lemons, make lemonade! I learned to live with the girlish items forced upon me but I still longed for the Spiderman instead of Wonder Woman Underoos. Spiderman had a much cooler design!
I was a “tom boy” through my 7th grade year. What was magic in that year? I don’t have the slightest idea, okay, it was probably the hormones and a certain boy named Craig. Although I still often played basketball with the boys, I did don a dress (green, not pink) at Junior High Graduation without my mom having to yell my middle name to unlock the bathroom door. I started to grow out of the “tom boy” stage of my life, realizing the allure of the opposite sex. Even now, I tremendously enjoy getting all “dolled up” to go out with my husband at every chance I get.
I swore to myself that if I was blessed with a daughter of my own, I would never make her wear a dress if she didn’t want to. I would never force Barbies on her at Christmastime when she really would like a train set. I would let her decorate her room in any colors and styles without imposing stereotypical images upon her as my mom did to me. After all, my daughter will know that it is perfectly okay to stand up and announce: “I am proud to be a tom boy!”
Well, that time has arrived. My daughter is now almost four years old and from the age of two, Ashley has wanted her room to be pink with Barbie stickers (which it is). She will only wear pink and purple clothes (usually at the same time) and we have “challenges” to get her to wear pants when it is practically snowing outside. As tears stream down her face, she begs, “Mommy, please wet me wear the pink pokka dot dwess.”
“Don’t you want the cool Lego set for your birthday instead of another Brittany Spears Barbie?” “How about the brown hiking boots instead of the 2-inch Cinderella slippers?” “Are you sure you are MY daughter?” I guess I don’t have to worry about imposing a female appropriate image upon her.
I still try to accept and encourage (even though at times with clenched teeth as she comes out wearing her tutu to go to preschool) whatever she chooses to play with or wear, no matter how much I want to impose my own desires on her. I even chuckle some mornings when she begs me to braid her hair and I have to tell her to ask her teacher since braids were never part of my ensemble; I never learned how to do them. I anticipate the time when I will yell, “Ashley Nicole, get out of that bathroom right . . . oh nevermind honey, you will look beautiful in whatever you wear.” Even if it is pink with ruffles.
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