the pieces of my life

Jasmine is over for a play date. The car ride back to the house consisted of this:

Me: Okay, Pie, let Jasmine slide into the car first.
Jasmine: No, I’m Pie! She’s Jasmine!
Pie: Yeah! I’m Jasmine! We changed our names because we’re getting married.
Jasmine: Yeah, we’re getting married.
Pie: Yes. I’m going to be the bride, and you are going to be the bride.
Jasmine: Yeah. And Doodles will marry Belle [Jasmine’s seven-year-old sister, of whom Doodles is fond].
Pie: Yes! And Jenny will marry Adam–
Jasmine: No! Jenny will marry my mommy.
Pie: Right! And my daddy will marry your daddy!

If that’s not a quadruple wedding for the tabloids, I don’t know what is. Adam is going to look darling in an A-line dress. Or should he go Empire with his small waist? Decisions, decisions. All of which, I know, will be made by Pie.

Don’t hold your breath waiting for the invite.

Back in the day, when I was a new mom, I used to read the BabyCenter boards. It’s a habit I gave up once I got the teeniest confidence in myself as a mom, but for a while, I was checking regularly.

I was a lurker, and not a nice lurker at that. I’d think the evilest of thoughts about some of these mothers. “Oh dear God,” I thought. “Could they make their girls any more girly?” I’d mock their princesses and ballet dancers and divas and think, “If I ever had a girl, no way would I ever fall prey to that crap.”

Yes, dear readers, that crunching sound you hear is me eating my own words. As I create the birthday party invitations to my darling Pie’s third birthday, it is all pink and frouffy and–yes–princessy. To the nth degree. To the point that if someone else had done it, I would have thought, “Are you kidding me?” But, my friends, I kid not.

Pie is, well, she’s Pie. And the thing is, the world encourages her, no doubt about it. Now, I know I’m a mom and all, but my kids are equally adorable. Doodles, with his lovely brown eyes and his dashing smile is about one of the yummiest boys around. But when we go out, the world zooms in on Pie. Out of all her hand-me-downs, she gravitates toward pink and purple dresses. She loves sparkly flip flops. She has painted toenails. And people just can’t stop telling her what a little princess she is.

For instance, today, we went to the paper store to get paper for her party invites. The woman behind the counter ran out so fast, I thought maybe Pie had broken something. But no. She was just bringing Pie a toy to play with while we were in the store. She kept checking in to make sure Pie was okay, “Oh, what lovely painted toes you have! Oh, I love your glittery shoes. I wish I had curls like yours,” and on the way out, ran after us to give Pie a small sheet of princess stickers. I actually don’t mind it too much when it’s just me and Pie, but I always feel a little bad when Doodles is around. “Hey!” I want to yell. “He’s adorable too! And he likes stickers!” Doodles seems pretty oblivious, but it bugs me. And I’m not really crazy about the message it sends Pie.

But as they say, those who live in fairy castles shouldn’t throw toads, or something like that. So I’m off to continue planning a princess party extraordinaire.

And Doodles? He’s going to have a kick-ass dinosaur time. Roooooaaaaar!

Part One
We hit the local thrift shop and Pie immediately gravitated toward a particular book,What Is a Princess. The last spread of the book reads, “And princesses live happily ever after” with the final page a picture of Cinderella in her wedding dress with her prince (in all fairness, it also tells that princesses are smart and brave as well). Pie declared it a good bedtime book, “because it’s such a good story.” But it prompted this bedtime discussion:

Pie: Is Cinderella getting married?
Me: Yes, she is.
Pie: Can I get married?
Me: When you’re a grown-up, you may get married. But only grown-ups get married.
Pie: Can I marry Daddy?
Me: No. I’m afraid Daddy is already married to me. You can marry someone else.
Pie: Who can I marry?
Me: You’ll grow up and fall in love. And that’s who you’ll marry.
Pie: I can marry a man?
Me: You can marry a man. Or you can marry a woman. You’ll marry another person.
Pie: I’ll marry another person?
Me: Yes.
Pie: I want to marry a man.
Me: Okay.
Pie: I want to marry Daddy.
Me: Sorry. I already married him.
Pie: Can I have a baby and get married?
Me: Sure! Most folks do it in the other order, though. They get married and then have a baby.
Pie: I want to have a baby and get married.
Me: Okay.
Pie: Will you hold it?
Me: What?
Pie: Will you hold the baby? When I get married?
Me: Sure.

This feminist mommy is sure trying to be supportive, but no one told me it would get so political so young!

Part Two
Friday night dinner conversation:
Pie: Mommy, when I’m big, can I marry you?
Me: I’m ‘fraid not. I’m already married.
Pie: Can I marry Doodles?
Me: You really can’t marry anyone who’s related to you.
Adam: You can marry [he lists two boys from her school] Alberto or Englebert!
Me: Or you can marry Marvin. Or Angela or Jasmine!
Adam: Right, this is a progressive household.
Pie: I can marry Jasmine?
Me: Sure!
Pie: I want to marry Jasmine!
Me: Okay!
Doodles: That would be good. Because if you marry Jasmine, then there could be two mamas to have babies.
Pie: Can I wear a dress?
Doodles: Silly, you have to wear a dress when you get married!
Me: Actually, you don’t. But, yes, you may wear a dress.
Pie: My fourth of July dress?
Doodles: That won’t fit you by then!
Me: Yes, you may wear your fourth of July dress.
Pie: Can we dance?
Doodles: You always dance at weddings.
Me: Yes, you may dance.
Pie: Dance! And I marry Jasmine.
She goes back to eating her cookie, happy that one of the major decisions of her life are complete.

I’m at that point of parenthood where when my son asks at 1:11 in the afternoon if he can take off his clothes so he can marry his sister, I don’t even look up when I say, “Sure.”

I also say ridiculous things like, “I’ve told you! No shoes upstairs on the carpet! I want to keep this carpet clean! Now go downstairs while I finish cleaning your pee out of the rug.”

Pie’s new thing: “When I’m big…” All of these uttered at random within the past four days: “When I’m big can I drive?” “When I’m big can I paint your toes?” “When I’m big, can I have coffee?”

The most popular song these days for naked tushie dancing is Cake’s “The Distance.” Pie calls it “the flag song” and she holds a plastic Israeli flag left over from Yom ha’Atzmaut as she listens. The second “the flags go up” is sung, she raises her little flag, giggles, and says, “Play it again.” The other day, I heard Doodles explaining to his friend what the song is about: “This song is about someone riding a horse and he lost his cup.”

Do you remember way back when on game shows when one of the prizes offered was a shopping spree? Someone would have ten or fifteen minutes to run through a store and throw as much stuff as s/he could into the shopping cart. Well, that’s what shopping has become like for me. I went to TJ Maxx today to make a return, and as I’m desperate for some new summer togs, I decided to check out the clothes. The other problem was, I had Thing One and Thing Two with me. Thing Two in particular was a bit trying. I didn’t have to worry about losing her–her ear-piercing screeches (“Aieeeee!”) as she ran from one end of the store to the other was as good as any homing device.
Me: Pie, stop running. Pie, use your walking feet. Doodles, tell your sister to get back here. Pie, get back here. Pie, use your indoor voice. Pie, walking feet! Pie, you are going to lose your playdate if you don’t get over her right now! Doodles, go get your sister.
Meanwhile, I’m walking through the aisles, grabbing anything that looks remotely interesting and remotely in my size and tossing it over my arm. God forbid I hold anything up to me, never mind even try it on.
Pie: Mommy! Is that for me?
Doodles: No, Pie. It’s for Mommy. It’s all for Mommy.
Pie: Buy me something! Buy me something!
Me: You’ll get stuff for your birthday!
Doodles: Mommy can I get–
Me: No.
Doodles: But–
Me: No. For your birthday.
Pie: Mommy! Mommy! MOMMY! Look! LOOK! They have PRINCESS PAJAMAS! Mommy, can I have princess pajamas? I want princess pajamas. Can I have princess pajamas? Please? Please? Please? Puh-leeeeeeeeeeeeeease? Can I have princess pajamas? Can I?
Me: For your birthday.
Pie: Can I have them Right Now?
Me: No. For your birthday.
Pie: I want princess pajamas. Can I have princess pajamas? Please? Please? Please? Puh-leeeeeeeeeeeeeease? Can I have princess pajamas? Can I?
Me: For your birthday.
Pie: Okay. For my birthday.
Me: Good girl.
Pie: For my birthday. Can you buy them now?
Me: No!
On my arm is very random assortment of clothes. I pay for them as my kids threaten to bring down the rope barriers holding up the aisles. Suddenly, I hear another screech.
Pie: Mommy! Mommy! Look at the backpacks! Look, Mommy! Hannah Montana backpacks!
Doodles, excited: She’s right, Mommy! Hannah Montana backpacks.
I halt. I turn to Pie.
Me: How the hell do you know who Hannah Montana is?
Pie shrugs. I turn to Doodles.
Me: How does she know who Hannah Montana is?
Doodles shrugs: I don’t know. But you know, she’s a real person! She’s a real concert singing person.
Pie: Yeah! A concert singing person.
Me, mumbling, as I hand the credit card to the sales clerk for a pile of clothes that I’ll more likely than not be returning: She knows Hannah Montana.
We retreat to the car. I swear not to shop with them again. Not at least until these clothes need to be returned and I still don’t have anything to wear.