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.
