Navigating the sticky, jam-covered road of life.  

Sunday, August 2, 2009

I feel pretty, oh so pretty...

Lately I've been getting too many peeks at my daughter's rapidly approaching adolescence.  I'm mean she's four, almost five, with the attitude of a 13 year old.  This should be the fun, inquisitive stage.  Not the moody, emotional stage where she'll stamp her foot, growl (yes, this kid growls), and slam her toys down at the smallest perceived slight.  She's a tiny little emotional roller coaster, bursting into tears if her favorite skirt isn't ready to wear when she wants it because, and I quote, "she wants to be pretty, not messy pretty."  

It occurred to me today that we could probably use some serious mother-daughter bonding time.  So we set off on an adventure.  An adventure that took us to a place filled with medieval torture devices, otherwise known as a nail salon.  Now I am sadly the sort of person who just doesn't take care of herself.  I go too long between visits to the hair dresser.  I don't wear makeup.  And I just don't get pedicures all that often.  But I don't want Sunshine to be like me.  At least not in that respect.  

I should have said stop the moment I heard the lady say something about an ingrown toenail.  But I didn't.  And then my big toe was attacked with a long, skinny, stabbing instrument and something that looked and felt a little like a pair of pliers, and it felt like she was actually trying to rip my toenail off.  And all the while I'm trying to sit there and smile and politely answer my daughter when she asks me why I'm gritting my teeth and making that weird noise.  And when the nail tech had finally removed the offending portion of my toenail, she put it on my toe and laughed at how big it was.  She left it there to mock me and my lack of foot hygiene.  Then she discovered three more, and I'm trying desperately to forget that portion of this afternoon's events.  

Sunshine loved her mani/pedi.  She decided that purple, with a top coat of purple sparkles would be perfect for her feet, while her fingers were just screaming for blue, with a top coat of blue sparkles.  And while I think that we bonded a bit during the time we sat next to each other in those comfy chairs, I can't really remember talking much.  At least her choice of colors reminds me of the child I think she should act like.  Gives me hope that we're just in the middle of some funky transitional stage.  That I'll get my non-snarky kiddo back.  The one who doesn't roll her eyes at every one of my suggestions.  I mean she's only four, right?

1 comment:

natasha the exile on Mom Street said...

Appreciating the unrelenting BOYNESS of the Grasshopper right about now.

Also, you deserve a Watermelon Mojito for enduring foot torture with a side of mockery.