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.

recovery~ma Erin! & welcome home.

vw - feel better and take care of yourself.

{{Jilli}}

DH came home today talking about the trans-gender broadcasts - it was quite stereophonic, hearing his take on things, in tune with this board. Very nice. He'd missed the 'meandering toward motherhood' piece, so I let that one drop. he's heard my side of that debate plenty.

Oh! and a piece of news - the journal that has been all nolo me tangere about an article of DH's finally, after 3.5 years, published it. WOO-HOO! Thesis sees daylight. This would be the thesis that is the same exact age as Iris, as he was finishing it when I went into labor.

Cindy, it was last Friday. The guy who dinged us for a BURNED OUT LIGHT BULB IN THE GARAGE, then dinged us for not having the correct soil on the new grading we had done around the house.

So we had our contractor correct that (even though the dumbass inspector never said what kind of soil to use--just that it was wrong). On this past re-re-inspection, he told us that the contractor used the right soil but the grade was 1% off or something equally stupid.

Christopher checked got the report at 4 a.m. this morning when he couldn't sleep. Then our wonky computer konked out for good, so he had to go into the office to print up the report. He proceeded to call every person involved on this buy out: our realtor, the contractor, the inspector, the relocation specialist, the head of human resources and I think the Pope.

We got a call from the Director of Human Resources promising that "this will be resolved quickly."

Um, yeah...I'm not going to hold my breath on this. The seven month odyssy of the three-month "guaranteed buyout" has sapped my strength.

As is the incident at the gym's daycare this week. Owen apparently took a toy knife and sort of put it up to the throat of a new member/mom who was checking out the day care center. She knelt down on the floor to say hello to him and he decided to play "pretend to cut a bitch."

New mom freaked out, I didn't find out about the incident until yesterday, when I had to sign an incident report and found out that both the mother AND the father were coming into the daycare to talk to the director (who likes us and Owen and is very professional and nice). Guess all those cookies we sent to the daycare staff are paying off.

I'm also stressed about having to go out and buy a new laptop, wanting to strangle my husband and my attitude-packin' two-year old.

Must crawl into a hole and hide from the humans.

Oh good god, Owen. Cut your mom some slack.