As I’ve written in the past, Nate used to be quite open to all things that could be considered “girlie” to a more discerning three-year-old. This was quite refreshing in a male-dominated household as Boobooboos, our female Beta fish, is not particularly vocal.
Nate has always been quite taken with his tin of “licksticks” which was a holiday stocking stuffer received two Christmases ago. He loves to apply layers of mint on top of cherry on top of strawberry and then pucker that perfect little kisser of his so I can smell his flavored lips. He also still finds my morning routine endlessly fascinating and begs to get his hands on any form of make-up or applicator. I’ve been talked into applying mascara to the tips of his lashes and he can’t be satiated until he’s gotten an opportunity to dip my “photo finish” brush into some powder and paint it on his face. Unfortunately he’s not that interested in doing his hair.
He also used to tell me on a fairly regular basis about when he grew-up and what he was going to do as a Mommy.
When Nate used to drink his morning sippy-cups of milk, he required that his favorite blanket be perfectly raised above him like a parachute and then laid expertly so as to be as flat and pristine as possible. If you did it even remotely wrong he would disdainfully protest, “Not like that!” One day as I was fluffing his blanket for the umpteenth time, I bowed dramatically and with a wave of my hand asked, “Is this to your liking Princess?”
He immediately retorted, “I’m not a princess. I’m a prince!”
This was the first sign that our girl-bonding days were numbered. Now he says to me, “When I grow-up and I’m a daddy… I can’t be a mommy when I grow-up ’cause I’m not a lady.”
“Well, technically…” But I don’t go any further. I’m still trying to dig myself out of the philosophical hole involving the scientific theory of evolution and monkeys evolving into humans.
A couple of weekends ago, James and I were playfully comparing our current household workloads as couples often do, even despite almost eighteen years of labor division— one can always renegotiate their contract. James is going on and on about all the laundry he’s washed and the dinners he’s cooked and ends his dissertation with a rhetorical question.
And Jacob turns to me and says, “Yeah, Mom. What do you think? Daddy’s your maiden or something?”
We could use another maiden around here.