The few times in my young-adult life I actually imagined that I'd have kids (you know, when I wasn't spouting, "I take care of other people's kids all damn day, why would I want/need my own?") I figured I'd have a girl.
Being the former grungy, mosh pit-crashing, pierced, tatooed, Liz Phair/Alanis Morissette/Insert Other Angry Female Band and/or Singer-Songwriter Here-listening, knocking people over on the soccer field-playing chick that I am, I figure I'd teach my daughter all about "Girl Power". Not this "Spoil me and buy me things because I'm a spoiled bitch and I deserve it," crap that the media is spouting as acceptable behavior these days, but the "I'm Courtney Love and while I'm drugged to the gills and I'm not wearing any underwear, I'm still gonna wail on this guitar and blow your mind and if you don't like it, fuck you!" kind of way.
So, I grow up (I guess...) have a girl, and while she does keep up with the boys in terms of wreaking havoc on the neighborhood...
She. Loves. Pink.
And princesses, and ballerinas, and Barbie. FUCKING BARBIE!!! I think I owned one Barbie growing up and I most likely cut her hair and colored it with markers.
What the heck do I do with a little girl like this? Granted, I've gotten a bit more girly as I've gotten older--gone are the days of me wearing jeans and a t-shirt and calling it good. However, I'm still not the frilly, lacy, princessy mom that knows what to do with my little girl when she tells me that she wants to be a princess when she grows up.
Of course, this is still the girl that smacked the crap out of Boo this weekend with a wooden sword, and more often than not, she's picking up a random stick-shaped object, waves it around and tells me that she's "fighting bad guys". So, I guess I allow the pink-tinted dreams and hope that when she beats the crap out of some guy for pissing her off, she doesn't dent her tiara too badly.
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