threadwalker

It's bed time and teeth are brushed. F and I had been lounging and catching each other up on our days when we realized the time. He looked at me, raised an eyebrow and I nodded. I shouted out, "Bed time." There was some grumbling and stalling and feet were dragging slowly to the stairs. I start to count out loud. Super N pauses, looks over his shoulder at me, screams and runs up the stairs. Miss E, no slow poke, catches on, screeches and also runs up the stairs. When I reach the count of "5" I jam up the stairs after them. Anyone not in bed is fair game for being held down and tickled. And as we say in our house, mommy has a black belt in the ancient art of Tickle-Fu.

They are both in bed by the time I get all the to the top landing. In Super N's room there's a big hug, a kiss and then he begins to try and negotiate permission to read comics by flashlight under his covers. I allow that he can do this on Friday. He pouts. So the tickling starts - I know where all the sweet spots are. Squacking "no" and gasping for breath as he tries to fight me off, victory is mine. Friday is comics-by-flashlight.

In Miss E's room she out-right challenges me to a tickle fight. "Come and get me, Mommy," calls out my dimpled bedeviller. I lean over the side rail and start to tickle. Even though she's screaching with laughter, she calls out, "Stinky feet attack," and as though she has joints made of rubber, her feet suddenly appear between our two faces and whip right past my nose. She would have planted on one my chin but I yanked my face out of the way. And it wasn't just a stray shot because even though she was giggling and squirming, those huge (stinky) feet kept going for my face. She actually planted one in my shoulder right where I got nailed in Erinwood. Whew.

I had to trap her feet and even then she refused to acknowledge the tickle fight was over. I find that incredibly endearing. So we snuggled, got hugs and kisses, wished her good night and left to get dressed for the gym.

About 10 minutes later as I was heading past her bedroom door she called me back in. She was upset and wanted to know how to get rid of her freckles. It turns out that she hates her freckles, she thinks she's ugly and she started crying her eyes out about how she's the only girl in class who doesn't dress cute.

E-gads. She's 6 years old. I thought I had at least until 3rd or 4th grade before I had to deal with this stuff. I am ill-equipped. I was a tom-boy until 5 years ago.

I climbed into her bed with her and pulled her into my arms. I told her that she had her daddy's eyes and as far as I was concerned, they were perfect. She has her great-grandmother's smile and her nanny's dimples, both very beautiful women. With so many beautiful parts, she was a very very pretty girl, which is better than cute. We talked about how everyone looks different and that different looks are pretty. I asked her to tell me who she thought was pretty and we talked about what made them pretty. She also circled back to the fact that none of her class mates tell her that she's cute. sigh. We talked about that; it's uncommon for people outside of your family to talk like that, but she felt that you just tell your friends they're cute if that's what you think because it's the honest thing to do. I said we'd start putting on sun screen in the morning to prevent new freckles (which actually rolls in nicely with my anti-skin cancer program I was going start at home this month, pretty much constituting putting on sunscreen at breakfast and lunch times). The subject of make up came up since some of her friends use make up at school; one's in kindergarten. She thought people used it to be cuter. I corrected her; women who are mommies like me use it to try and look younger. It makes girls her age look "hoochie". (Which means like Bratz Dolls, which is not acceptable in our house). I flat out told her she was too young for make up although I will allow chap stick. As far as clothes go, she acknowledges she has "cool" clothes, but not "cute" clothes. She choose them when we went shopping last winter, so I'm not sympathetic; she can choose something different this fall when we go. She grumped a bit, but settled down. Finally, I wrapped it up by telling her that if she feels pretty on the inside, everyone will believe she's pretty on the outside.

Whew. I was almost too tired to work out after that. When I relayed the stinky-feet-attack episode to F, he almost fell over from laughing too hard. When I relayed the self-esteem trauma, he was just as concerned as I was, but didn't have any additional insights.

I think I may need to hit the book store for some "how to raise a daughter with self-esteem" books. Nurturing without crushing; guiding without creating a rebellion. ... yawn... so tired from all this parenting.