Sugar and Spice
For several years now I have held a very strong conviction: when I’m a parent, I do not want any girl children. Girls like princesses and wear tutus. Girls like nail polish and baby dolls. Teenage girls kiss up to their daddy and go all psycho hosebeast on their mommy. Girls are vindictive, conniving and catty. Boys just pee on the seat and play with themselves; I can deal with that. I was a mutant girl who never really acted “girly” and I still don’t. What would I do with a daughter who expected her mom to be, like, a girl and stuff? Even at the daycare, the kids that tend to gravitate to me are the overly physical, hyperactive boys. The little girls take one look at me in my worn jeans and oversize grey t-shirts and it’s pretty obvious that Korie is NOT the one to play “princess dress up” with. So no daughters! Any little soldiers carrying X-chromosomes better damn well turn right around at my cervix cause there is absolutely no way I’m having some frilly pink cream puff child taking charge of my life.
Or so I thought.
We had the kids up in the gym today due to rain and disgustingly copious amounts of humidity. Several kids were jumping on large gymnastic mats, some played with basketballs, a handful were wreaking general havoc by mowing their peers down with Little Tike shopping carts. I was having a standoff with Squirt and Sit Here who had both thought it would be hysterical to throw their balls up on to the stage where they couldn’t reach them.
“Get the balls!” Squirt yelled.
“Nope.”
“Want mah baaall,” Sit Here whined.
“No. Sorry.”
“Whyyyyeeee,” screams Squirt, tears welling in his huge Bambi eyes.
“I’ve told you both many (translation: 375 bajillion) times not to throw toys up on the stage. I’m not getting them this time.”
“But-”
“No.”
“I want mah-”
“It would be a good idea to find another toy now. I mean it.”
And when Korie ends a statement with “I mean it,” the kids know the conversation is over. So, whimpering, the boys wandered off in search of new items to break rules with. I slid down and plopped onto the floor, scanning the gym for any other conflicts that needed an adult sized buffer and that’s when I saw the two girls sitting on scooters.
Hugging.
They sat with their arms around each other and then the chubby one pulled back and took the other girl’s face in her hands and proceeded to gently brush the hair out of her eyes. Then, holding hands, they rolled away on the scooters.
I smiled.
“Koooooriiiieeee!”
“Whaaa-aat?”
“Can you get my ball now??”
Please pardon me while I go hang an “X Chromosomes Welcome” sign on my cervix.
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