Nature or Nurture

I’m not much of a girl really. I own two purses, neither of which I ever carry. If I have to wear shoes, they are $2 flip flops. The fanciest pair of shoes I own were donated to me from a much more stylish sister that I have. I only wear makeup to my husband’s work functions and seldom pluck my eyebrows unless a sister gets married. My cell phone has been nonfunctional for 4 days now and frankly I could care less. I like sports and danger and outdoor activities and, alright I admit, the occasional sparkly thing. But overall, I am missing most of the girly genes.

That brings up this little thing I created, Rosie B. I’m pretty certain she is mine. I was there that morning when she made her appearance, albeit fashionably late. This little princess is a girly girl. Each morning while I am making breakfast, she picks out which shoes she will wear, most often her yellow jelly shoes, and locates her bucket which serves as a purse. Once slung over her shoulder, she is ready to venture into the world. Oh, wait, her hair needs a bit of a combing and a hair bow. Ready. It’s all pretty cute really, even if she didn’t get any of that from watching me.

I feel I should also admit there is a smidge of drama in Rosie’s life. Okay, perhaps more than a smidge. She has the ability to melt at the touch of a button, or the stealing of a toy, or the too slowly prepared lunch, or the end of playtime, or the slightest eastwardly breeze, or the sticking to her butt of a diaper. Who knows? Drama. Drama. Drama.

I do sometimes wish I could deal with my problems the same way my beautiful daughter deals with hers. When the grocery store is out of milk for instance, I wish it would be perfectly acceptable for me to throw myself to my knees and cry out for mercy. And if Krispy Kreme sells the last sprinkled doughnut to the lady in front of me, and I feel it necessary to flail like a fish face down on the ground, I should be entitled to that. No stares from the other patrons please. Because you know if your favorite glazed treat was unattainable, you would flop from your face to your back and keep thrashing just for good measure too.

Hmmm. Perhaps I passed a bit more girly genetic material on to Miss Priss than I first anticipated . . .