I can't tell you about it because you're a grown-up. Grown-ups can't know about these things.

Let her be... Let her be


I want one with blue and pink flowers. Not little ones, big ones. But not too big and with no freckles or bumps.


When we first arrived in Hong Kong, Kate was still pretty malleable in terms of fashion. Yes there were certain “itchy” or “yucchy” items that she refused to wear, but basically whatever I put on her stayed on her. I thought that I was an old hand at these quick-change days in Toddlerville, but I was completely surprised by the arrival of a pint-sized Valkyrie swooping down to her closet in full screech. Overnight Kate has become a snarling fashionista – somewhere between Anna Wintour and Stevie Nicks - rivaling a full-blown tween in her fierce unwillingness to allow certain pieces of clothing anywhere near her body. Strangely for me, her fashion taste is decidedly, well… weird. She likes things to be “close” to her body and she prefers very bold statements. This roughly translates into tight, garish, flowery summer dresses with no shirt underneath. Cold weather does not threaten these choices. Kate does not mind suffering for her beauty ideals.

Living in the market, we have instant access to a mouth-watering array of discounted children’s clothing. I have no idea what Gap truck pulls into these windy streets, but there are name brands at deep discounts literally hanging from the trees here. I know I’m feeling more at home because I recently balked at paying US$8.00 for a beautiful corduroy Oshkosh dress - an item I would have paid at least $20.00 for at home. It’s a good thing I balked, because Kate is not interested in the nice stuff – if it’s pretty or classy it’s not for her. Splash a day-glo rainbow or a giant rose on the front, plop a pink-tongued Japanese doggie in repeating patterns down the side, and she’s patting down my pockets panting, “buy that, I wanna buy that…”

She is starting to stand out at the playground. So many of the children here come from moneyed homes and their deliciously swank clothes are a reflection of this. Ever the label conscious New Yorker, I have become wincingly aware of my daughter’s incredibly odd-looking get-ups. Ever the aching-to-be-perfect parent, I have become increasingly uncomfortable with my uncharitable thoughts. Should I compromise her iconoclastic tendencies so she’ll fit in better? Should I force the matching tights, the pretty ponytails, the imitation Burberry skirts? It’s not like I would go broke outfitting her beautifully here. It’s not like I couldn’t just insist that she wear what I choose. I am the parent, I do rule.

Lately these irksome thoughts are starting to spread into other areas. Like when her meltdowns attract the clucks and stares of the Chinese grandmas and the Filipina helpers. We have always tried to ignore her typical toddler fits – staying calm but slightly detached when she loses her emotional cookies in public. We know that this is a necessary evil, and she usually bounces back very quickly. These days she is going to school during what used to be her nap-time, and she is a bit more irritable than usual. I’ve decided that she’s a cross between a raging lunatic and Shirley Temple. The fun part is that I never know who I’m going to pick up at school. I try to be prepared with snacks and sympathy. Often Shirley accompanies me to the playground, chatting or singing merrily away, holding my hand or sweetly popping grapes into her mouth. Unfortunately, it’s usually Chuckie who walks home with me. A snarling, wheedling, wildcat who, at a moment’s notice, can throw her possessed little body on the ground in despair at whatever fresh horror I have provoked by asking her to keep her voice down.

I’m slowly realizing that we live in a bit of a fishbowl. It’s an incredibly friendly place but we are swimming by the same fish and the same fake sea castles every day. I’m just beginning to notice how upset everyone around us gets when I don’t immediately peel Chuckie/Kate up off the ground. I have to fight all my self-conscious, good-girl instincts in order to just let her be. It looks and sounds and feels so much worse than it is. Or, that’s what I tell myself, over and over… We’re an attractive pair, while she’s frothing on the ground, I’m muttering to myself above her. Once she gets it out, she’s usually much better and we can walk home in peace. Now that I’m confessing, I’ll admit that sometimes she trips and falls in the market and I don’t rush to pick her up. If we lived in the suburbs, the same thing might happen in the backyard and I wouldn’t even notice. I’m pretty sure that those who witness these falls think I’m a heartless heathen who should have her motherhood license revoked. Though they look dramatic, most of her falls are pretty harmless. 95% of the time she jumps up and continues on her way. Now I wince when she falls, but it’s not for her, it’s for me. I know I am going to be the subject of gossip and whispers and, ever since 7th grade, I’ve always hated that feeling.

I am trying so hard to let my daughter be her own person. Trying so hard not to let my inner control freak spoil her fun. But, every time I see another mom check out one of Kate’s bizarre outfits, I am transported to 7th grade Social Studies and Barbie Alfieri’s withering gaze. Every time some well-meaning person leans down to pat my yowling, prostrate daughter, they might as well be handing me a report card with a big red “F” on it. And I really want to be the good girl, the best girl, the one with the gold stars for extra credit whom everyone wants to be friends with. How can I be that person with this unpredictable child clinging to my legs?

Today we went to the local cafe after music class. Some of the other moms from the class were there and they were chatting while their kids played. I bought some drinks for Kate and me, I turned around and found I couldn’t breathe. I was back in the High School cafeteria, emerging from the food line with my tray, goofy smile on my face as I desperately tried not to look desperate. One of the moms smiled at me and gestured for us to join their merry party. Relief washed over me. They like me, they really like me. Then I noticed that Kate was heading up the stairs. I tried to get her to turn around and come down. I patiently explained that we were going to sit with these nice, friendly folks from our music class who had INVITED us to have some fun together. I guess my voice got really high and squeaky, because she turned to me and said, “I want a mommy with a regular voice. Read to me upstairs. I don’t want to sit with those babies.”

We never even apologized. I’m sure those moms think I’m incredibly rude. I probably am. We read three books, upstairs, and talked about what happens when you lose your baby teeth. She is who she is. I am who I am. I just have to be her mom.

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Mama & Kate

Mama & Kate
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