Nail Polish

I ... am not a girlie mom. I hate pink and princesses and froufrou frilly things. Most of the time I barely have time to comb Cupcake's hair before school, let alone style it (not that you can tell either way, because her head is just a mass of curls and frizz anyway). She rarely wears dresses, and the only reason she owns a pair of pink Crocs is because they were $7 at the outlet. ("Price before pretty" is the motto of the retail commando, after all.) Her little Laura Ashley number that she wore to Phil & Kim's wedding? My father bought it.

Part of this is intentional. We are trying to raise her to know that she is beautiful because of who she is, not what she looks like, even though she is a gorgeous girl. Looks fade (although I am already teaching her about the awesome and amazing power of proper moisturization). Figures change. Gravity takes over. Pudding has calories, but they are worth it. Laugh lines are lovely when earned from a life well-lived, and self-assurance: that's forever.

She wears Airwalks. She plays with Matchbox cars and small consumer electronics and sock zombies. World of Warcraft fascinates her. We are teaching her to say words like "truck" and "monkey" and to make Godzilla noises.

And yet, when my mother and our dear family friend Harriet wanted to paint her fingernails, I couldn't resist. Because it's so cute, dammit.