You know how we made plans to meet later today so you could pick up The Girl? This is just a courtesy notice to let you know that we won’t be there. Remember how you joked (in writing) that we could keep her through high school if Tom and I would pay for her college tuition? Deal.
The Rat (aka Laura) and The Girl had such a good time at Camp Blog This Mom! over the summer, it was a pretty easy call that the fall sleepover, Blog This Mom!: The Dorm Edition, would go well. But this has gone very well. The Rat and The Girl hold hands everywhere they go and during all manner of activity. They have followed much of the same activity schedule that they did in the summer, swimming, eating organic pizza, and building a first-class cabin of a major airline in The Rat’s room for their international travels.
As you know, Tom (having been a gymnast in college) and I took them to see an exhibition by the 2008 Olympic gymnasts last night. (By the way, the men’s team really brought their game. The gymnastics was amazing, the choreography was fun, the guys were upbeat and energetic, and the mancake was very hawt.) So. Anyway. By wearing hoodies, The Rat and The Girl managed to get past the security checkpoint (i.e., my front door) in their pajama tops, which I only discovered in the car on the way to the show. Heh. To be sure, if Laura’s older sisters had tried to wear pajama tops to a show with 20,000 people in the audience, I would have turned the car around and made them change. Ask them. I’m sure they’d be happy to share. But age does more for a woman than make her Ass Project require a tow truck to haul her ass back home from its trip to the Equator. Age also means that she stops sweating the small stuff. In fact? A 47-year-old mother of an eight-year-old girl thinks it is funny when her daughter and friend wear pajamas to a show with 20,000 people in the audience. And so? She takes photos and posts them on the Internet.
Although I found it amusing that our girls donned pajama tops for the gymnastics exhibition show, it turns out that I was a bit aghast at what some of the other girls were wearing. What does this say about me? Am I a hater? Or worse? A little girl hater. Okay, really? More like a sparkly little girl hater. Except really? I’m not. I don’t even mind sparkles on girls. Too much. Laura even went through a stage when she was so into sparkles that she named her Betta fish Sparkle and Sparkly (she later changed their names to Napoleon and Pedro).
I almost barfed as I glanced around at the gymnastics show at all the little (like tiny, young, some toddling) girls with rouge (make up on little girls, people!) and sparkly cheeks, sparkly hair in buns with scrunchies, scrunchies that matched sparkly red-white-and-blue leotards, which leotards were worn under matching warm-up suits with sparkling letters that said “Gymnast” or “[NAME] Gymnastics Club” or “Don’t You Wish You Were Me?” Barf. Gag. Spew. No. I’m not a sparkly little girl hater. I’m a hater of what’s wrong with this picture.
Now I’m sure there are those among us who have dressed our girls like princesses to go to Disneyland. You’ve seen them, little three- and four-year-olds who are (trying) to walk around the park all day in a long polyester princess dress, wearing a Club Libby Lu sparkly hairdo, and a tiara. And this is the perfect time of year to talk about Halloween and store-bought costumes. I think some of the best costumes my kids have had are the ones they’ve created themselves, but I’ve bought costumes too. However, there are always a few kids who look like they just stepped out of wardrobe at Paramount Pictures in Hollywood.
I have to stop right here and admit that I have fallen into the category of doting mother more than once. There was even the one time that I consented to an impromptu hairdo at Club Libby Lu, although I will argue that my consent was given in a moment of temporary insanity induced by heat stroke and exhaustion at Disneyland two years ago, and I was lured into a Club Libby Lu because it was air conditioned. But as I looked around last night at all the toddling, sparkly, rouged, coiffed, outfitted, mini-Olympic gymansts in the audience, I wondered: Are we stimulating imaginations or smothering them?
But last night our daughters, The Girl and The Rat, selected outfits that pleased them, hoodies, Heelys, comfy pants, pajama tops, glasses with no lenses, and knit caps. And what do you suppose happened? A man (who is now a eunuch) in the parking lot on the way in told them that they were dressed for the wrong sporting event. Don’t worry. When the kids’ backs were turned? I kicked him in the nuts and rolled over his face with my Heelys, and yes, I have Heelys.* Seriously, I just looked at him and said, “Aren’t they awesome?” And those two awesome girls had fun. They gobbled popcorn, shared a Churro, and held hands all night long.
We stopped for Mexican food on the way home. They ordered pizza. And they held hands some more.
It was almost 10 PM when we got home, so they got right into their nest on the floor of The Rat’s room, the nest actually being their airplane, and it was soon on its way to Germany. The Rat’s cozy, comfy full-size canopy bed sat empty and unused whilst they slumbered on the floor. Whatever. Small stuff.
In summation, katydidnot, your daughter is a perfect child, in case you didn’t know. And, over the years, while I may do such things as let her wear pajamas and a Chargers cap to a gymnastics show, I promise that I will not put sparkles in her hair unless she wants me to, and that she’ll eventually sleep in a bed while she’s living with us.
Love, Blog This Mom!
*I would not be me if I neglected an opportunity to talk about shoes. Here is a picture of my Heelys: