On Raising a Girly Girl and Sundries on Facebook (in no particular order)

Yeah, yeah, it's been a while.

FOR YOUR MOM.

Yup. I went there. Felt good, didn't it?

Today is a wet and gross and altogether horrid day. I hate it. It can die in a fire. Nothing particularly awful has happened to me or anything. I just find myself staring out the window and thinking of random things. Give me some precipitation and I become a picture of non-productivity. So what better time to update one's forgotten blog?

I also feel I should post because I just want to write about Alice. Having multiple children is such a trip because of how different they are. And yes, I know this is obvious. No one seriously thinks that they are going to have three little clones, gorgeous in their similarity. But when I had a daughter, I imagined her baby and toddler years would be a lot like my oldest's.

ERNK. Sorry, try again.

Gabby never was that girly. Yeah, she went through a pink phase, and a Hello Kitty phase (where it got all kinds of Mariah Carey up in my grill) but at her core, she's always been a bit strong, a bit more "steel" than "magnolia." I like that about her. She's also a bit aloof, as if any kind of label (like "girly" or "tomboyish") would be offputting on a child such as her. Gabby has been a product of two kids in college, in grad school, reading a bunch of theory. And it suits her amazingly well. But Alice, woah, Alice. Alice's feet hit the floor in the morning, and she's wanting me to do her make-up. She comes into the bathroom where I usually am when she wakes, still rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, her legs still toasty warm from the blanket. And she's reaching for the blush brush. Yes, my daughter wears Nars Orgasm blush nearly everyday. No, I'm not kidding. No, I'm not from Texas, nor was I ever on an episode of Toddlers and Tiaras.

I'm surprisingly fine with this. Yes, I am still the mother that bristles and complains when Matt calls her "my princess." She's not a princess. But she is a human being who enjoys the feeling of a natural hair brush over her cheekbones, likes the allure of "sparkles" (her word for make-up). To her, it is fun. And I agree. I think it is fun too--have since I was 13 years old and started wearing make-up, only not wearing it on days when inflicted with SEVERE stomach viruses. So I indulge her, and we do it together in the morning. Nothing strong, nothing I feel would cause a reaction with her skin. She puts on barely enough to even see. And we talk, about how we are beautiful without our make-up on. We talk about being strong girls.

Alice is girly in other facets of her life as well. She loves clothes and accessories--necklaces especially. I think this is a shared family trait because at just a little younger than her, Sam was obsessed with having things around his neck (his favorites were a big pink boa and a men's necktie that had a picture of the Eiffel tower on it). She tends toward the pink in life--she has a pink dump truck that she loves and at night when I put her down to bed, we look up at the ceiling and imagine that we are seeing a beautiful night sky. Sometimes she says she sees a plane, or a bird, or a light. But every night the moon is always pink in her little mind's eye (somtimes the stars are black, which seems to be her other favorite color, interestingly, and yes, I've dissected that like the good English major I am).

But conversely, she ADORES her big brother. And even more, his room. She goes in there and picks up cars and action figures and brings them back into her toys. The other day I found a Star Trek figure sitting in her Little People Doll House. She has become obsessed with a Batman Batcave of his and will retrieve it anytime anyone has the fool idea to put it back in Sam's room.

And then, last night, I was folding some towels. I usually watch TV while I do this, but in this case, I had the TV off. Alice came toddling in and said, "Mama, we watch baseball?" I went over to the TV happily, looking for the pregame to last night's world series. As soon as CJ Wilson's face came up, stats all around, she said, "I like watchy baseball wit you." She said it while wearing these absurd baby headbands around her neck (they are her necklaces, she says), a psychadelic patterned summer tank top she wanted to sleep in (with purple diaper and Minnie Mouse pj pants, mind you) and holding a tube of Benefit That Gal highlighter in her chubby little paw.

Yup, that one's mine.

So during the time that I'm not raising the most awesome child in existence (aside from my other two of course), I spend some time on Facebook. Don't we all? And here's the thing. I think we all have our beefs with this particular little piece of social media, but how do you resolve them? I am asking for your input on these, gentle reader. Fire away.

a) Can you defriend a family member if that family member has posted something so strange and rather off-putting (nothing political or religious, mind you) that you can't think of this person without a little uneasy giggle? Will they ever notice? What will Christmas be like if you did?

b) How wrong is it to just be friends with someone for the sheer fact they make you feel better about your own life?

and lastly:
c) What do you people spread on your pictures before scanning them? I know this one lady, who I could swear spreads about an inch worth of baby oil on each and every picture of her children and then scans it on a scanner she bought back when her screensaver was a flying toaster. And I'm sitting there wondering what in the immortal fuck I'm looking at, and people are commenting like crazy with "Lovely picture!" and "He is so cute!" Cute? That three headed beaver is cute?!?! Oh, that's her son. Nevermind. Perhaps I should pull out some old baby pictures of myself, get a bucket of vaseline and scan them up. Perhaps you will think I am cute then.

And let me just say this: when I call you, I don't want to hear music. I WANT TO HEAR RINGING, NOT YOUR FUCKING RING BACK TONE. The Beethoven you picked for Verizon to play for me does not make you seem smarter, nor does the country song about needing some rest make me think anything other than that you are an evil dumbass and that I prefer the sound of the freaking phone ringing. Because it is a phone. I'm calling you, probably for something you don't want to be called for. You don't have to entertain me. I have this thing called the internet for that.

I feel much better now.