Sugar and Spice

Last night I had the distinct pleasure of having Baby Girl help me cook dinner. It was a rare boy-free few moments when her brothers were engrossed in a movie in the living room, and she only had to share the counter with her juice cup and a pile of potatoes. She talked to me the whole time with brand new sentences and words and questions. She examined several of the spices with only a few spills. She offered suggestions on preparing the french fries. She counted the slices of cheese as we added them to the cheesy dogs. She giggled. She made faces. She “cooked.” It wasn’t the McCormick jars that made this a sugar and spice moment. With all the bittersweet and savory it entails, she’s becoming a little girl.

If you ask Baby Girl what she got for Christmas, she’ll say “truck.”  Go figure. I’d like to go on record that no, Baby Girl did NOT get a truck for Christmas. She got a baby doll cradle with a baby doll to lie in it. She got puzzles–Mary Had a Little Lamb-themed, no less. She got a PINK tricycle with a flowery basket to go on it. But, no, not a truck.

It’s funny. Even at almost 2 1/2 years now, the “girl” part of Baby Girl still eludes me sometimes. And, sorry to state the obvious, but I’m a girl. I’m an only child, so I grew up just being a girl. But, admittedly, I’m not that much of a typical girl. I like feminine details on my clothes, I enjoy wearing makeup and perfume and bracelets and earrings, but I’m no fashionista. I love pretty dishes and setting a table with placemats. I like preparing dinner and special things for my kids, but I’m no Martha Stewart. My point, is that sometimes I’m a little challenged in the whole “girl” thing. At least the “girl” thing I see on the princess aisle of Walmart. So I guess Baby Girl gets it honestly.

When I see Baby Girl playing with her brothers, holding her own with the trains and car chases, I joke that “I need to get this girl some bows.” But seriously folks, maybe I need to get this girl some bows. I realize that I could quite possibly be the only woman in America whose 2 1/2 year old daughter has never worn a bow. Well, once.  For daycare pictures last fall, her teachers saw a bow mistakenly placed in her cubby and put it in her hair for photos. When I first glanced at the proofs, my first thought wasn’t “Awww,” it was “Who is this child in the bow?” Sigh. “Girl” challenged, I tell you.

The cards are stacked against me in this whole girl thing with Baby Girl. After all, she IS the youngest with two older brothers who probably define the term “boy.” And, being the youngest, she is more than eager to do whatever they are doing as if she somehow needs to catch up. “Whatever they’re doing” usually means some form of banging, car chasing or super hero shenanigans. Outside it means jumping, climbing, digging in the dirt and other lady-like stuff. And it’s not just at home. At “school” she’s been the one girl in a class of nine for quite a while now. Trucks are her life.

Still, Baby Girl is my kind of girl–more so every day. For all the trucks in her life, I see her hands drawn to the beads on my necklace. I see her eyes light up with her baby dolls. I see her tiny arms cradle them and mimic reading bedtime stories to them.  I see her putting on her dressy shoes and running in them. I see her examining my jewelry box. I see her sorting spice boxes with that magical blend of sweet and tomboy I love. I see her becoming sugar and spice right before my eyes.

When I wonder about what a little girl should be, when I worry about showing her what little girls do, I see her full of joy and energy. I see her uninhibited by the constraints of what girls wear or play. I see her shout as loud as she can. I see her whisper playfully. I see her comfortable with train tracks or baby blankets. I see her running with the boys as if she can. Because she can. I see her sneaking into my makeup drawer, with eyeliner on her face. And I think, “that’s my girl.”