unmitgated pinkness

Sophie is unafraid of the power of pink.

Can you see the pink trim on the cowboy boots? (“They’re coyGIRL boots, Mom.” “Oh. Right.”)

What is it about pink? Girly, lovely, hearts, spring, flowers, soft, sweet. Sophie says pink is her favorite color and has had me dye many of her items various shades of pink, fucshia, rose, and magenta. She says, “Pink makes me happy.” What could be wrong with that?

I don’t know. I just don’t trust pink.

But Sophie’s love for the pink and frilly and sparkly is infectious. She encourages us all to partake. Here are the two kiddos done up, by Sophie, for an elaborate fairy tea party.

Yes, that is our 3 year old boy-child dressed in the sequins, crown, and fairy wings. He gladly participated in this, grand, sister-orchestrated event, and then moved on to a rousing afternoon of bulldozers and front loaders in the sandbox. He is completely confident in his masculinity.

And whoever those people are who worry about shoving gender roles down kiddos throats, I say, relax. They come this way. When Luc isn’t generously letting Sophie dress him up, he is all about the construction machines and the dinosaurs and the dirt, while Sophie is thrilled with caring for her baby bear for hours, and playing dress up, and tea party, and occasionally trains with Luc, but then it’s back to the stuffed animals. I mean, Sophie certainly didn’t get all this pink stuff from ME. Unlike Luc who is unthreatened by pink, I am quite resistant to the wonders of that certain, girly, shade. Hell, I’m practically the anti-pink. I’m a black-is-best kind of gal. I’m sullen and somber. Maybe I never grew out of my goth phase. I’m probably just drawn this way.

“You don’t really like colors, do you,” she says.

Which made me think maybe I was taking this black on black thing too far. Maybe a little pink wouldn’t be so bad. I mean, it probably wouldn’t hurt to add a little sweetness to my usual dark and bitter persona. Right? Don’t answer that. Anyway….I’ve been letting her coach me. Don’t tell anyone.

For example, at the store the other day, when faced with the wall of various face creams, I asked her opinion and she strongly suggested this one:

Rose cream, which surely must be the essence of pink in a box. It smells pink anyway.

And then there are the socks. I have mentioned here my strange sock fetish. Well, at Sophie’s urging, I recently added these to my sock stash:

Can you believe it? Well, I can’t believe it. Bubblegum, over-the-knees. She loves them. She says, “Wear the pink one’s, Mommy. No one will know if you have them under your pants.” And then she whispers to everyone we meet, “Mommy has pink socks. It’s a secret.”

Yes, those are my knees. They are pretty cute. The socks, I mean.

Could this be me softening in my old age? Will I start spouting optimism and positive thinking? Will they take away my license to complain and be cynical at a moment’s notice?

Will I become (shudder)… cheerful?