It Isn't What You Wear but How You Wear It

My daughter is four.  She is sweet and funny, what some might have called her years ago is precocious but I hardly ever hear that word any more.  She is shy around people she doesn't know but once she feels confident that facade slides away like a small pebble in a strong tide and you can hardly keep up with her conversation.

   When I was pregnant with her I was convinced she was a boy.  Everything about my pregnancy seemed the same as it had for her brothers.  My husband picked out a name for a boy and we hardly discussed any options for a girl, we were that sure it wouldn't be a girl.  I wasn't even confident I would know what to do with a girl.  Our house was full of trains and superheroes, boxer shorts and star wars t-shirts. Where would a girl fit in?

   When she was born and my doctor announced the arrival of a baby girl I burst into tears.  My poor husband thought I was disappointed but I guess even I didn't realize how deeply I had been hoping for a girl.  My husband dialed our phone and called my dad who had been staying with our boys.  When I heard his voice I started crying again and told him we had a girl. He responded, "I am so glad.  I was hoping you would have a girl."  Perhaps we were all hoping but we were all afraid to say it. 

   It didn't take me long to realize having a girl isn't very different from having a boy.  She had the same needs as an infant but was even more quiet and agreeable then either of her brothers.  She smiled quickly and easily and she never had colic.  When she was four months old our pediatrician had some concerns about her left hip and sent us off to the children's hospital just to get "checked out".  As it turned out she had hip dysplasia and they placed her in a Pavlik Harness that same day.  As we walked out of the hospital she cried and fussed which made me cry and fuss.  It was a rainy day in July and cold for a summer day.  The grey sky matched my mood. 

   As we reached the elevator another mom came up behind us.  Her daughter, perhaps eight years old was very disabled and in a wheelchair.  I looked at the mom and stopped crying.  This was a little bump and we would get through it.  And we did.  Our four month girl just took it in stride.  It didn't interrupt her sleeping, she slept on her back, legs hanging in mid-air thanks to the harness. 

   Four months later we had our final check up and the nurse practitioner pulled off the harness.  I put little shoes on her feet and smiled all the way home.  So did she.  She grabbed her toes in the car as though we had just added them to her body.  Her face full of wonder and excitement.

    As she has gotten older she has maintained that beautiful easy going attitude, now with a side of sassy-ness which I have come to admire.  I love the way she will hug me while I am washing the dishes.  Or whisper from the back seat of the car that she loves me.  But most of all I love her ability to wear a pink striped shirt with orange plaid pants and strut out our door with so much confidence it is dripping like syrup, thick and sweet.  If you are wondering if I let her go out in such an outfit the answer is yes.  I pick my battles.  I also don't want to put in her mind that she has to fit into a particular mold.  That she is like all the other little girls her age and she should wear pink with pink and orange with orange.  I am past trying to squeeze her into clothes the way I did with her oldest brother.  That poor child wasn't allowed out unless he resembled a GAP ad.

    My own mother would not have let me traipse about wearing mismatched clothes.  It would have looked too much like I was one of the orphans her own parents cared for when she was growing up. I matched.  And for years my sister and I matched.  We wore matching polyester short set in summer and matching flannel nightgowns, especially on Christmas morning, I still have the photos to prove it. Our hair was neat and combed.  We were pressed and ironed.  We wore stockings and skirts and patent leather shoes.  My mother might be amused by my daughter's flare for personal fashion , then again she might have wanted to buy out the local Gymboree. There are times when I am tempted to put a sign on my daughter's back that reads, "I chose my own outfit today, my mother had nothing to do with this."  It isn't worth the effort.  Mothers of little girls look at me with that secret knowing smile and I know they at least understand.

    Last weekend my precious little girl took craft scissors in hand and cut her own hair.  Her , may I say, beautiful wavy blond hair that had finally grown out from her last attempt to cut her own hair.   She appeared in the kitchen, small mirror in hand and large sad eyes on her face.  When I saw her I am sure my own face mirrored her feelings and she burst into tears.  She had given herself a mullet only Mel Gibson could have been proud of.  Once the shock wore off though she was fine.  I was having trouble breathing especially after finding the pile of hair on the floor.  I didn't have time to take her to my own salon and get it fixed until later in the week.  On Sunday she went to a birthday party when not a single friend seemed to notice her handy work, even though it was staring them in the face.  On Monday she walked proudly up to her preschool teacher and announced that she and mommy had cut her hair.  I did quickly explain the truth and searched for materials to make sign.

    By the time we reached the salon three days later she was perfectly comfortable with her hair and was perfectly angry with me for getting it cut more.  My stylist didn't have much to work with and she did the best she could but it wasn't what my daughter wanted.  If you asked her today a week later if she likes her hair cut she will tell you unequivocally "No!".  But then she will tell you "It will grow."  She's sassy and smart.  And I admire her for it.  I admire that she can walk around looking like a small child out of "Mad Max"  and wear clothes that don't match and carry that without an ounce of self-consciousness leaking into her being. 

   A few weeks after she was born while I was sitting on the couch cradling her and sniffing up her new baby smell.  We had not planned on having a third child.  We had not planned on having a girl.  Before we found out I was pregnant again we had given away almost all of our baby stuff.  I guess sometimes you don't realize what you need in your life until it is there staring you in the face. My husband came and sat next to us and smiled down at his daughter, who has managed to wrap him up like a present in her own way over the years, and said, "She is your mother's last gift to you."

   He is right. Only my mother would dress her differently.