That I added to my blogroll. But it's just so...cute. Check it out, I bet you'll be as smitten as I am. But I admit, it's embarrassing.
What can I say? I have two girls. And their favorite color? Pink.Me. A tomboy most of my life, breeding two very girly, girly-girls. It's funny, because I used to think, 'what will I do if I have girly girls?' And of course, that's exactly what I got. But the funny thing is, not only do I accept it, I LOVE it. Really. I've totally embraced it, and nurtured it. For those of you who didn't know me when I was younger, this might not be surprising, but I was the kind of girl who hated pink (in fact, I remember a few choice fits I threw, when I was given Christmas/birthday presents with anything containing pink), was mortally offended if someone were to suggest girls couldn't do anything just as good as a boy, and was to be found climbing trees, riding my blue BMX or playing soccer than playing with dollies or dress-up.
And I now find myself with two girls who don't like being dirty in the least, their favorite color is pink, and their favorite thing to do is to dress up (like princesses, no less), and put on makeup (much to their daddy's dismay). Sofia changes outfits at least 3 times a day, always with matching shoes.
But you know what? I really love that they are that way. And it's really helped me to embrace the more feminine side of myself. I know you might not belive me, if you didn't know me growing up, because I'm quite fond of clothes, makeup and jewelry now (and I love pink now, too). But it took me a long time to get there. I still remember one of my first female rights of passage. When my mom made me get a bra. I can still remember the humiliation and horror like it was yesterday.
I'd been resisting getting a bra for months, when on a what I thought was routine back-to-school shopping trip to the mall, before 7th grade, she announced, on our way into Mervyns, that we'd be purchasing me some bras. She totally sprung it on me, because she knew it would be the only way to get me to the mall, if I knew we were going for that express purpose. To say I was mortified would not begin to cover it. I couldn't decide whether to burst into tears or run screaming from her. But she grabbed a hold of me, and pulled me into the bra section where an old, pinched lady proceeded to poke and prod, measure and evaluate. She handed me a stack of bras, asked me to put them on, wherein she came in, and began pulling and tugging, re-snapping and adjusting, until she found a good fit. And I had to stand there, and let her. I felt like Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles, where her grandmother gropes her, and exclaims how perky she's become. It was that awful. Not just because I was modest and not used to people arranging bras on me, but because I wanted the entire experience to be done, to never have happened. At that moment, I would've given a few years of my life, to go back to the year before; when I could still beat every boy in my class around the track (before their hormones made them faster and stronger), when I was easily accepted into a pickup game of basketball with my guy friends, and where nobody blinked an eye when I was as dirty and grubby as the boys at the end of a school day.
you! My photography blog can be found here (which is where new work is posted all the time). My professional (non-blog) website (which is out-of-date and 2.0 should be launched in January, can be found here. If you want to read about me, my family, et al, or get to know me a little better, of course you're welcome to look around here, as well. Thanks for your interest, either way!
