Caw! Caw!

Remember back when you first found out whether or not it was a boy or a girl? You probably immediately had visions of throwing footballs, going to baseball games and in-your-face-shouting-matches over the car keys (if it was a boy) or ballet recitals, two-for-one pedicures and in-your-face-shouting-matches over knee-length vs. barely-there (if it was a girl).

Me? Not so much. I was an English major in college, an unofficial minor in women's studies and bona fide grrrrrrila girl. When I found out my son was, in fact, a boy, my major hang up was how to make his room as neutral as I could, while still staying in the society-dictated (and daddy-to-be-preferred) blue palette. Enter shades of marine blue, pale blue and green, boats and birds. I stayed away from the football-emblazoned sleepers and wouldn't have bought a onesie that said "Daddy's Li'l Rookie" if you'd paid me to take it out of the store. Every once in a while as he got older I'd succumb to a shirt with a dump truck in his favorite color (orange) on it, but I made sure to balance that out with a pale heathered lavendar shirt that picked out "LOVE" on the front. (For the record: he looked beautiful in both.) Likewise no gender specific toys really, yet move the clock forward to his second birthday - the child knew cars, trucks, buses, boats, planes, trains and the occasional starfighter. Now, at almost 5, he plays Transformers and Star Wars with a furrow of concentration between his eyebrows and a huge grin. It must be in the genes.

So when it came time for baby #2 to make her gender known, I'd already somewhat given up my rigid stance, at least in my subconscious. And Daddy took the reins and ran with them. Her wall colors? Purple and purple. Her bedding set? Shades of purple with flowers and butterflies. Gone was the pretty green, ivory and light red dragonfly set I'd mentioned - this was a room for a tiny princess. Except that she wasn't a princess, dammit (I thought to myself). She was a little girl. MY little girl. A little girl who, as she grew, developed a penchant for talking, telephones, jewelry and all things sparkly, shiny and PINK. This is ironic because, in a conversation in the late-pregnancy days, I remember saying "She won't wear pink. I just won't buy it. She won't know any different. Khaki is good, and blue and green. It'll be fine." This is also ironic because I wear dresses on my anniversary, at weddings and funerals. That's about it. My daughter puts on a dress, looks down at herself, smiles, swishes her hips and says, "pretty!" And she is.

Today's purchases: Skechers Twinkletoes. Hot pink coat with pink and purple plaid lining. Pajamas with castles on them. Put them all together with a pearl bead necklace and suddenly, it's Princess, enter stage right.

Mama, exit stage left and head straight to the dressing room for your steaming plate of crow. Tastes like chicken.

And for the joy on her face, I'd eat every bit and ask for more.