I got pretty scared when the princess sickness invaded her brain. I admit it, I even tried to banish it a little – me, the mom hell-bent on not moulding her away from her own person, since she is so very much her own person.
The pink was just too much, so I found myself shopping with her, holding up a few options that didn’t include that dreaded colour. Or flowers. No more fucking florals. If she had to wear a dress, then it was going to be a cool dress, I figured. But she wanted what she wanted, so within a year, her closet was mainly comprised of carnation, fuchsia, rose, magenta, lavender and cerise; and roses, carnations, daisies and violets.
Gag me.
I stopped trying. I’d take her shopping and say, “tell me what you want from this rack. Then this one. Then this one.” She’d ask why and I’d say they were in her size and on sale, so she had free reign and that was all the permission she needed to go crazy.
It’s not like it happened many times – the kid barely grows – but the times it did, I was a little scarred, picturing my future of spa sleepover parties, giggling and fur-fringed toss-pillows on a pink bed canopied by lavender tulle.
Gulp.
The last time we shopped, she caused my heart to pitter-patter as she lovingly selected hooded tshirts with vector-type graphics, short-sleeved hoodies reminiscent of surf-chic and some pretty fly dark rinse jeans with kick ass butterflies embroidered on the ass. Then, we bought shoes. Two pairs, one too big and one just right, both Chucks (except they’re really Airwalks). The currents are black high-tops; the too-big-box got some pink Disney Princesses.
You can’t win them all.
Point is, she was coming around – the pinnacle, I thought, being when we went to a skate shop to find some clothes for me and her dad, and she picked out a deck she really liked, then threw a diva-like tantrum about not getting to bring a board home.
Now that’s a tantrum I can get behind.
There’s been a new revolution. While princesses, dresses and dreams of fairy wings might still be horrendously abundant, there’s a new favourite in the Zoeyjane household.
Freaking School of Rock.
I rented it last week for our Friday night date night (which was delayed due to a certain diva’s lack of ability to hold her shit together), and we finally got to watch it on Saturday night.
Into it is an understatement. The kid? Knows how to rock. In fact, the kid needs to rock.
The maracas, a microphone, a saxaflute, all came out while she sang, shrieked, did that really low voice that I think is supposed to be kind of metal. Oh, and there were some sort of movements that I think she considers dancing.
Seems like she’s making a full recovery from princess sickness.
