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An aversion to all things cute
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Original art by Mendel (4)
Having children forces one to grow up fast, but whether we as parents always grow in the right direction remains to be seen. When do we go from being ‘not old enough’ to being ‘too old’? What happened to the years in between? I wonder why the transition from carefree-to-responsible is marked not only by 401K’s, mortgages, and insurance policies, but also by an onslaught of pastels? Somewhere around the time of that first baby shower, a new mom is apparently expected to reconnect with the five-year-old princess within herself.
But what if that princess has long since bitten the dust, or, as in my case, never existed in the first place? “No matter”, society tells us, “that teddy bear diaper bag will go very well with your all-black outfit, you absolutely need the Disney borders in the nursery, and no, for the last time, we do not sell black crib sheets”.
Cute clothes, cute wallpaper, cute toys; they all illustrate that, in reality, parents aren’t expected to grow up at all. Instead, we are supposed to regress to a no man’s land where grown women are allowed to wear pink track suits and Precious Moments figurines are acceptable birthday gifts.
I used to think there was a hidden ‘cute’ gene, activated by pregnancy hormones, but I knew something was wrong when I read in my pregnancy book that pregnant women “can’t bear to watch violence on Television”. The hormones supposedly make women so weepy that they’ll burst into tears the minute someone on the screen fingers a gun. The book was wrong; I used to fight my pregnancy-induced insomnia by watching countless episodes of CSI back to back, and the only bad consequence was a disturbing dream about Gil Grissom.
Now that my daughter Isabella is seven years old, I am starting to see the power of genes: my intolerance for all this babyish nonsense has been passed on to her. The pink frilly shirts others have bought for her disappear to the back of her closet while she wears vintage frocks from the thrift store. She has no idea who the Jonas Brothers are. She doesn't care for Hannah Montana, but worships Tim Burton, even if he’s caused her a nightmare or two over the years. She’s jealously eying the stack of Stephenie Meyers’ books. I don’t stop her; I’d much rather work with Corpse Bride in the background than try to ignore yet another sappy Disney song. Plus, I believe when it comes to books and film, my daughter knows what she likes and what she can’t handle; I’ve never felt the need to censure her much. As a teenager, I liked nothing better than watching horror movies and reading Gothic novels. Although she is not a teenager yet, I think I know where Isabella is headed.
Of all the ghouls and monsters out there, vampires are my favorites. Needless to say, finding those Twilight books was like a Hanukkah present in September; I read them so fast that my daughter nicknamed them “four books in four days”. Going to see the movie was a different experience, considering I was the oldest person in the theater. By far. Were I a teenager, the lead actor’s face would have been plastered all over my bedroom. But sadly, I haven’t been a teenager in twenty years or so; nowadays I can barely remember the actor’s name, and the first thought that comes to mind when I see him on the screen is not “oh-my-god-he’s-hot”, but “I bet his mum’s real proud”. My friend says I’m full of it –she’s nine months pregnant and still contemplates leaving her husband for an imaginary vampire. I disagree; Orlando Bloom has very adequately filled my ‘younger-man-crush-quota’ (although only with elf ears).
It’s thoughts like these that make me wonder from time to time, should I get different hobbies and act my age, whatever that means? Does the girl with the two-tone hair and the 17 piercings at Hot Topic wonder to herself what that tired housewife is doing in her store? Is my fondness for punk rock and scary movies -not to mention my aversion to anything cute- just masking a refusal to grow up?
It’s not that I resent being a mom; it’s just that motherhood should be more than minivans, swim practice, and carpools. We can’t all fit the mold and sport a “World’s Best Mom” sweatshirt. So what if I read my daughter Shakespeare instead of chapter books, so what if I teach my son to head bang rather than throw him a baseball; when you become a parent you have to adapt your ways, but you don’t need to dispose of your personality. I may be flirting with 40, but the party is far from over.
Having said all that; sometimes I cry over sappy commercials. What?!
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