I’m still trying to get used to the fact that I have a girly girl for a daughter – she’s obsessed with princesses, barbie, pink and makeup, the result of her one day in daycare with 3 or 4 other little girls. I can tolerate the first 3 (okay, I kind of like pink myself) but I’m not sure what to think about the makeup. I caved in this morning and bought her some nail polish (the formaldehyde and toluene free kind but still full of a long list of chemicals) because I was getting tired of her coloring the ends of her fingers with my gel pens (which does not wash off, let me tell you). I did find a special, chemical free kid formula called piggy paint that I’m going to get her next week when I’m in the area.

Still, I have some misgivings about the whole thing because I don’t approve of it, and yet, I really don’t want to turn every small thing into something too serious, and end up being a drag. I always want to encourage my kids’ interests (whether I agree with them or not) so that they will grow up thinking the world is full off interesting and fun things. God knows I’ve indulged my son’s mania for lego so much that I’m constantly stepping on it and sucking it up in the vaccuum cleaner (he very quickly learned what the phrase “bane of my existence” means) . On the other hand, I worry she will end up like my friend’s niece, embarassed to be seen with her hairy, non-makeup wearing mom. I’m kind of betting on indulging her now so that she won’t be interested in it when she’s a little older.

At any rate, my caving in this morning meant that I had to apply the nail polish, which I found to be a pretty bizarre thing, not having done it much in my own life. At least it was like painting a very tiny area with pink sparkly paint.

Speaking of painting, I absolutely love Susan Bennerstrom’s work, especially her stairways. There’s something so haunting about them, like they’re hinting at all the mysteries and complexities and multiple paths a life could take. And they’re done in oil pastel!

Black Stairs by Susan Bennerstrom