but it, sadly, was not a teratoma.

I'm kind of bummed. I mean, in a glad-Erin-is-okay-and-everything-went-well kind of way.

t edit Also -- CINDY!!!!

{{{Jilli}}}

{{{vw}}}

recovery~ma to Erin~~~

Matilda is just beautiful and so big.

t waves at Cindy

I think that covered everything...

{{vw}}

{{Jilli}}

It's only been in the past few years that my mother has accepted that my not liking pink was a genuine aesthetic preference, and not just rebelling against girliness. I was looking at a display in a store, and said, "Ooh," when I saw a purple thing, and then, "Ooooooh," when I noticed the green one, and completely ignored the pink one. Mom said, "You really don't like pink, do you?" I think that was the first time she realized that no, I just don't like the color.

I wasn't exactly tomboyish as a kid, but I didn't like skirts, I didn't like pink, and I didn't like anything overly ruffly or lacey. My mother loved Laura Ashley. This led to many disagreements. (I was also hypersensitive, so something like the stiff lace edging of a dress resting against my leg could get me screaming. For when I absolutely had to wear a dress, we could usually compromise on something made of really soft fabric, trimmed with either eyelet lace or fabric ruffles.)

Speaking of which, I noticed a few weeks ago that pretty much all of the Gap summer stuff is made of this incredibly soft fabric. It's great! I bought a whole bunch of stuff.

I once commented to my sister that when I was a kid, I got the impression from our mother that it was OK for a girl to be a doctor or a lawyer or an engineer or a scientist, but not OK for a girl to be a mechanic or a carpenter or an electrician or things like that. My sister responded, "No, it's not that it wasn't OK for a girl to be one of those job, it's that it wasn't OK for a child of hers to be one of those jobs." I told my mom about this conversation, and she laughed and said my sister was right.

Most of my favorite toys were either construction toys or dolls. Cuddly dolls, not Barbies. Give preschool me a Cabbage Patch Kid and a big bucket of Lego, and I could entertain myself for hours.

One day at the store, an older dad (like, late 50s, possibly 60) came in with his eight-year-old daughter. Total tomboy, outrageously bright (she spoke like a really well-read, poised thirteen-year-old, at least).

They asked me to help them find some spring clothes for her. Adorable Girl headed straight for the boys' section, to her father's dismay. (I'll note that she was dressed in jeans, a brown shirt, a navy-blue hoodie, and one of those boys' hats, like a fishing hat without the dangly things.)

Adorable girl knew exactly what she didn't want. Nothing pink, no skirts or dresses, nothing with a pattern (although she did confide that she had camo pants at home that she loves). She wanted a couple of boys' polos in the worst way, but there was no convincing her obviously-discomfited dad.

They settled (after a half hour of me picking out plain white girl's polos, brown cargos, green cargos, sky blue tees, and a few other things) on an army green tank top and an army green tee. At the counter, Dad spotted the bin of socks, and tried via wheedling and what he thought was logic to convince her to get some pink and pastel striped ones.

She choose a five-pack of boys' socks in brown, navy, and green, and I had to TALK HIM DOWN FROM THE FUCKING LEDGE to let her get them.

I just wanted to hug her. And drag her to the food court for a soda so we could talk about books and why she should wear anything she feels comfortable it and how her dad obviously loves her even if he Doesn't Get It.

Late-night PopTarts:

A separate post to say WELCOME HOME, ERIN! And lots of healing ~ma.

Health~ma for Kristin and vw!

And last but not least, big, big hugs to Jilli.

I feel stupid. I'm trying to figure out how my GPA will change when I no longer have an F on my transcript. Except, I'm figuring my original GPA as higher than what my transcript says. I'm so frustrated. This shouldn't be that hard.

I seriously doubt that my father ever even noticed the color of anything I was wearing. (Though my father is really unobservant. It used to be a game when we were kids, to ask him, "What's different?" when he got home from work, and then giggle for the ten minutes it took him to notice that there was a new couch or something. I think this was much more fun for us than it was for him.)

my parents were so laissez-faire about our appearance that I was genuinely surprised when they got upset that time I decided to shave off half my hair.

I seriously doubt that my father ever even noticed the color of anything I was wearing. (Though my father is really unobservant. It used to be a game when we were kids, to ask him, "What's different?" when he got home from work, and then giggle for the ten minutes it took him to notice that there was a new couch or something. I think this was much more fun for us than it was for him.)

It took my mother ten minutes of talknig to me to work out that I'd shaved off my beard. Ten minutes and a visit to the bathroom to discover someone had left a shaver out next to the sink.

Still better than the fifteen years it took her to notice her dad had a moustache.

I don't think this dad really had any idea what his daughter *was* wearing. But he was clearly interested in buying her *girl* clothes, I assume because that's what he thought he was supposed to do.

And she so clearly already knew who she was at eight that I just wanted to scream at him, "Lay off. This kid is obviously running the world, one day. She can wear whatever the fuck she wants."

Kids know who they are at a sort of basic level, even really young. They all need to experiment and try stuff out, but the idea of making your kid into something s/he isn't just baffles me.