Where They Do That At?
“Mommy, can I paint my toes?”
I grew up in a high rise building on the 9th floor. Our living room windows faced Webster Avenue, where everyone knew everyone, their momma, and their kids. I was a well kept child, the youngest of three. My eldest sister was twenty years my senior and my second oldest sister, eighteen years my senior. I thought I was a planned birth for most of my adult life until I learned that I wasn’t. I looked at my parents differently after realizing that I grew up with inborn best friends. My sisters could almost pose as young parents were they a product of an environment that pinned them to some form of lonely, internal hunger that wasn’t healthily nurtured. I wasn’t spoiled. I was visible. I was not picky. I was preferential. I knew who I was and who I was not. And you couldn’t tell me that the earth was flat or that Christopher Columbus was a hero because I would dart questions or research that made most adults, during that time, know that I was not just anybody’s kid. Though unplanned, I was special.
There were a series of things I would defend—sardines and crackers, genoa salami only goes with cheddar, and red and pink did not match. The sight of red and pink was to me a blasphemous tongue. I fell in love with the color red because Gap clothes made it attractive. I never felt as if I looked like a stop sign. As a swift runner who played football in the park with frilly dresses and socks on, it disgusted me that pink only seemed form fitted for girls. I was a girl, but I didn’t like pink and I didn’t want to feel like I wouldn’t be seen as un-girly because I didn’t prefer the color. To see a red sweater with pink polka dots or pink lunch boxes with red hearts was an injustice to retail society. I absolutely hated the combination.
When I became a mother, my hatred for the combo shifted drastically. I don’t hate the combo nor do I truly love it, but I do adore both colors, pink over red more so. Next to red, pink is not the enemy I once believed it to be. In fact, I am more in love with pink now then I was back then. I also bravely got my nails painted red for the first time this month (because red is allegedly for women of my big age, right?), but I was quickly reminded of my disdain for the combo and instead met with a memory of daughter’s inverse striving to merge the red and pink not knowing my unexplainable dislike for their pairing.
It wasn’t an unusual day or a day that left us to return to an unsettled space. She was home from school and wanted to paint her toes. I knew she had a set of kid-friendly nail polish to choose from and it wasn’t the first time we painted toes so I encouraged her to pick the color she wanted and go for it. Go for it is not a thing a parent should say to any energetic and creative thinker for a kid. She went for it and painted, not only her nails, but also her toes. It was a merger of pink and some reddish pink that I could not find the words for. Upon finishing her masterpiece, she called me to her room and showed me her work of art.
“Mommy, you like my toes?”
I froze. A reddish pink pool was smeared across each toe. I wanted to be honest but supportive of what she was obviously proud of. I pinged between several responses in my mind and landed on one that felt safe and sounded genuinely me.
“Wow. Where they do that at?”
She smiled. My tone of excitement was more than enough. I was however internally battling with the projection I almost ricocheted her way. What made you choose pink and reddish pink? I thought pink was your favorite color. Do you want to wash it off? Such an ugly and judgmental train of thought and an unfaithful bubble of experiences that had nothing to do with her. All that mattered was that she was proud of her own efforts.
It’s one thing to parent and project and another thing to parent, project, and police. I was not armored in that moment with the seamless reality of God’s permission for us to always be ourselves. I was instead focused on my own preferences and afraid if she would somehow be boxed into others’ definition of girl-ness. I didn’t want that for her. I would not have encouraged an outright rebellion against the spectrum of pink, but I also didn’t want to invalidate her preferences. So, I, with my agency and unpacked preferences in tow, offered her an applause and celebrated how her little fingers managed to handle a bulky nail wand and do her best to keep the polish on her nail-bed. I believe God endears us in this way—knowing who we are, allowing us to be that, and ushering us with His love so as to preserve who He has called us to be.
I’m sure the next time I seek his affirmation, He’ll give a better response than the one I did.
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