“Know thyself”

                                    –Someone Ancient

I’ve been trying to figure myself out for 32 years. I’ve had a few missteps along the way­ (can you say Nirvana-inspired flannel?), but I’m making progress.

That said, I still have a ways to go. For instance, each month I am convinced that my husband has morphed into the devil spawn, only to discover that I have PMS … again. And it isn’t obvious to me that I’m steam cleaning the carpet and mending socks because I’m trying to avoid a writing assignment. And for some reason, I’ve spent a decade ordering the grisly Bourbon Chicken at the mall, even though it always makes me feel as if I’ve consumed a vat of petroleum jelly.

“God, this is so disgusting,” I say, flicking away the bits of yellowy fat.

“Then why do you always order it?” asks Ray, who happily devours his own Bourbon bites, fat globules and all.

Maybe eating Food Court Bourbon Chicken is my penance for mowing down that kitten along HWY 67 in ’05. Or maybe I just don’t know myself all that well.

My daughter, on the other hand, seems to have a firm grasp on her likes and dislikes, especially when it comes to food. Whenever she makes a request, she always adds “with no ickies” as if I was most certainly going to sprinkle her macaroni with a dozen ickies before serving it to her.

You see, ickies fall into a rather large category of perfectly edible items, including anything green and flecky (basil), black and beady (pepper), translucent (onion), or any piece of non-icky food that appears suspicious. For example, a hair-like string of cheese hanging from a slice of pizza is icky. The slightest remnant of bread crust also falls into the amorphous icky category. Sometimes I can remove the offending icky without too much trauma, but often the contamination spreads too quickly and the entire plate must be discarded.

My mother­­–an exceptional cook–was deeply offended the first time my daughter informed her that the scrambled eggs she lovingly prepared were covered with ickies (Mom had sprinkled cheese on Ava’s scrambled eggs and while Ava loves scrambled eggs and cheddar cheese, she does not love it when they mate).

“Just eat it,” Mom said.

“No. It’s icky!” whined Ava.

“Well, too bad. Eat it anyway.”

Ava cried and I stepped in, unable to bear the thought that my child was developing an unhealthy relationship to food way too soon. 

“I’ll just make her some plain eggs,” I said.

“You can’t give her everything she wants!”

I don’t let her disrespect adults or pull the tails of small animals, and I only let her eat from the floor like our cat once. But I do handpick the vanilla-bean flecks from her ice cream. Too much? Maybe, but here’s the thing: my little apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.

My husband likes to eat candy corn, but not the white tips, and he only eats green beans canned by the Green Giant. I only eat a brownie’s crusty edge, and I can’t tolerate sugar on fresh fruit. Ava eats the Oreo’s icing, and she insists that her Pop-Tart be de-edged before she eats it (if you’re wondering, edges are ickies too). I could go on, but then my special family would never get another invitation for dinner.

In the end, it all boils down to a matter of taste, not faulty parenting. By respecting my daughter’s desire to have an icky-free meal, I helping to foster her sense of self. I’m honoring her individuality. Maybe by the time she’s 32, she’ll at least know to steer clear of the Bourbon Chicken.

Eating Grammie's ickies in Eastern Washington

All parents have been there at one time or another. Usually, it’s when the little peanut is still in utero that we begin our list of things that we, as parents, will never do. Many of these rules were inspired by watching my friends set enviable standards; some were inspired by watching my friends make what I considered egregious parenting errors.*

At one point, I vowed that I would never buy my child plastic high heels (we have 6 pairs, and counting), makeup (she has her own bag of last-season M.A.C. castaways), or Barbies (we completed our princess collection this afternoon, when I tore the new Tiana from the store shelf, nearly rendering some drippy-nosed kid unconscious. When I presented Tiana to Ava­–after picking up the other kid from the floor­–she said, “Who’s that?” Okay, the movie hasn’t come out yet, but when it does, every kid is going to want Tiana. And who has her? I do. I mean, Ava does).

But the one thing that I felt most strongly about­–one thing that could not be compromised­–had to do with a tiny-butted little yellow sponge. Yep, no “SpongeBob SquarePants” in my house.

The first couple of years went by pretty well. Ava liked the standard “Curious George” (snore) and “Clifford” (really, people, how hard is it to keep that dog drawn to scale? He’s either two-heads taller than Elizabeth, or he’s the size of a tugboat. Pick one). Then she evolved into “Sesame Street,” which I mostly enjoyed with the exception of that whinny Baby Bear, whom I wanted to set on fire. But one day while I was flipping channels, SpongeBob flashed across the screen in all his Technicolor glory. 

“Stop!” Ava cried.

“What?” I asked.

“Go back.”

 “No.”

“Go back.”

Really, what did I have to fear? My highly advanced 3-year-old would not fall for such buffoonery. It’s not cute, it’s not funny, and it doesn’t have a princess.

I didn’t account for subliminal messaging.

That’s the only way I can account for how SpongeBob and his rag-tag gang of undersea pals (and one squirrel) have made their way into our once respectable lives.

Ava’s enthusiasm for the show has been unmatched by any other program. Plus, it’s always on. A SpongeBob marathon is there for me when I need to make dinner, or when I need to get her to stop crying.

And here’s the kicker. I initially couldn’t stand the show, but I wasn’t really watching it. I would just hear the nonsense from the other room. But once, just once, I looked. The show was titled “Fungus Among Us” which made me laugh since my mom always warned my sister and me not to catch the fungus amungus that lingered on shopping cart handles. I laughed along with Ava throughout the entire episode, and caught myself saying, “That SpongeBob is so crazy.” To which Ava responded, “I know mommy. I know.”

If you don’t think it’s funny that SpongeBob has a pet snail named “Gary” who meows like a cat, then go ahead and judge. Otherwise, you gotta check this out.

But I’m not buying the SpongeBob bedding. Ever.

*Yes, I did judge you, but that was before I entered the trenches myself. Please accept Ava’s six months of not sleeping through the night as my penance.

Momma’s Girl

For three and a half years, I have wondered if my daughter really belongs to me. At the beginning she seemed to have spawned from my husband  alone. From her almond eyes and dark hair, to her artistic tendencies and odd preoccupation with all things show tune, she is pure Goto.

As she entered into her second year, Ava went completely AWOL, going totally princess on me. This just goes to show that these little stinkers come hardwired with their own agenda, and hers is all about blue eye shadow, leotards and plastic high heels. From day one, I dressed her in gender-ambiguous clothing and vowed to avoid anorexia-inspiring activities such as gymnastics and dance.

Ava has no less than a dozen princess dresses with coordinating heels, and she begins her dance class on Wednesday.

To this day, my husband tries to ease the fact that I am without real progeny by saying, “She has your fingers.” Fingers? I get fingers!? So when strangers at the grocery store ask where I “got” my daughter from, I show them my finger. They must see the resemblance because they immediately scoop up their own cherubic genetic clone and scuttle away.

It’s not that big of a deal. I mean, during my pregnancy I only grew to the size of a manatee and wore overalls (and thought they were cute). The finger thing is a total conciliation prize. And I prefer to win.

But this week the tides have turned. The fates have realigned. My once dormant genes have sprouted a pair, emerging full throttle.

Ava wants to be Wonder Woman.

The Lynda Carter of my childhood was my Sleeping Beauty, my Ariel. But unlike the chick in pink that needs a man to wake her, or the redhead who gives up her home, family, voice and fins for a shot at a douche with McDreamy hair, Wonder Woman regulated. She chased down the bad guys (albeit she ran like an three-legged giraffe, but how much can you expect in heeled boots and granny panties?), tied them up, and made them do what men resist most –tell the truth.

Halloween is still a month away, but I say wear your Wonder Woman costume, Ava, and wear it proud. I’m not even concerned that this evening she hog-tied my husband with his graduation honor cord and commanded him to “tell the truth!” In fact, I’m a lot bit proud.

Perhaps we all become our mothers eventually, just some of us more slowly than others. And one day Ava may rush around the house hunched over with her dust-buster in hand, sucking up the grime OCD-style. She will probably drink too much wine and misuse the same idioms I do, such as “half a dozen one way or the other.” But in the meantime, I feel completely vindicated knowing that she has adopted her mother’s heroine. 

Today it’s “Boys don’t hit me because I’m a strong girl,” but tomorrow she’ll be demanding to know, “Who stole feminism?!”

That’s my girl.