One year, five months, and two weeks: this is the time it took for my baby to decide to be a little girl. I know this because I found her, for the first time, in the Barbie aisle at Target. The staggering blaze of pink just sucked her right in- schloomp!- then froze her into a babbling trance. I watched as she looked into the faces of those wide-eyed/tight-mouthed alien dolls for the first time. Myself shocked by this initiation without warning, I said a quick prayer. "Please, Nug. Don't ever ever believe this to be your ideal of femininity..." The sudden interest in all-things-girlie was confirmed a week later when back in Target she bee-lined to the jewelry section. Facing the accessory wall as if it were her deity, she ran her hand back and forth over the jangly necklaces. I waited while she carefully checked each one for the right weight and feel, and I realized that she had made her declaration: member of the female gender.
I know I am making it sound as if it's a bad thing, but that's not the case. It's just surprising that kids declare this so early in life, and that in our somewhat gender queer household, Nug has even bothered. We speak to her with neutral adjectives, preferring words like "nice," "cute," and "lovely" over "beautiful" or "pretty." We try to dress her in neutral colors (children's clothing designers make this nearly impossible to achieve, however). I don't think she has ever seen me wear jewelry, and I don't wear pink. But all of a sudden she is playing with dolls, carrying a purse, pointing out my boobs ("baboos") and generally taking note of the unspoken ways in which girls and boys are different.
Last weekend we visited family in New Jersey. Nug's cousins love to adorn her and the latest was a sparkly pink tiara. With it fastened to her head, she came running to show me. I could hardly see past her gigantic grin.
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