My Little Girly-Girl

My funny daughter is going through a very girly stage right now. It totally cracks me up! I am so NOT a girly-girl. Yeah, I like to wear nice clothes and make-up, but my top speed from stepping in the shower to out the door can be fifteen minutes if it has to be. I also like power tools and think Salma Hayek is hot.

I don't do nail polish. I've never had a pedicure. I don't like to spend hours on the phone, never have. I detest chick flicks and consider them a waste of time. I'm not big on cut flowers as a gift -- I'd rather have something I could eat or use. I prefer online shopping to real-life shopping. And I get my hair cut once a year or so.

But along comes my daughter. When she hit the ripe old age of two and received clothes and shoes for birthday gifts and was THRILLED. She has very definite opinions on which boots/shoes she wears with which outfits. She also has a shoe-addicted grandma who enables her growing collection. She brings me the phone regularly to call someone, anyone who will listen to her babble about what she's doing.

Recently, she has finally decided that she'll let us brush her hair -- or, better yet, she'll do it. Naturally, she'll do this as she stands in front of the bathroom mirror, turning her head, preening, and flipping her hair over her shoulder so that it is "soft and pretty, mama!"

Four months ago she would run away shrieking if she saw the hairbrush, but now? Now she'll take off running to brush her hair as I try to get her winter coat on her, then she'll chastise me for putting the coat over her hair and "messing it all up!" Sigh...

One of the most humorous outcomes of her girly-girl phase is that she's not remotely interested in playing with boy things. OK, she wasn't really into trucks or trains to begin with, but now all of her doll families are Amazons or something, not a male in sight. We gave her Cinderella's prince for Christmas and he is still in the packaging, watching the other dolls enjoy the doll mansion because she refuses to let us open him. The doll family she got from my sister? Dad, Grandpa, and big brother are all in the bottom of the dollhouse accessories, forlornly huddled together for warmth.

And now she's insisting that she will marry a girl, too. Which is fine, if she really wants to do that. Lesbians rock. But her reason? "Boys are icky." Also fine for a three-year-old. And "Girls wear prettier dresses, so I wanna marry another princess. But I'll still be the best princess."

Why is it that I can see yards upon yards of organza and tulle in my future? Bottles upon bottles of lotion, perfume, and nail polish? Eighty-seven varieties of pink lip gloss? And a cell phone bill whose total rivals the GDP of a small nation?