Our Little Princess

Sprinkle glitter on it, stick on a mermaid fin, and top it with a crown. Whatever the object -- bicycle, book, cup, car -- Eliot likes it better if it sparkles. Any old color is just fine most of the time for your average bubble wand, straw, or backpack, but if it comes in pink, all other colors are suddenly unacceptable. If it lives in the checkout aisle and wears fairy wings, I know I'm probably not going to buy it. But I might start carrying earplugs to share with my cashiers and fellow shoppers because the squall at my refusal is unavoidable.

I have known for some time my son was drawn to pink and ruffled. Who can blame him? Most of us can't help but look twice at someone passing us on the street if they have accesorized with sequins. But this kid's affection borders on obsession. Potty training has illuminated the depth of Eliot's love for all things princess. Searching for rewards for success in the WC took us to the toy store where I wheeled Eliot up and down the robot aisles, the digger aisles, the book and art supply sections. He looked quietly but showed about as much interest as passing the pickles and vinegar at the supermarket.

Then we passed pink aisle. You know the one. Floor-to-ceiling gemstones and dollhouses, taffeta and lace. And there Eliot found his appetite. Pointing every which way, begging, reaching. And now that Eliot has managed to rack up four days without a diaper, he has become the proud owner of an Ariel bathtub barbie, a Dora-mermaid-princess sippie cup, a pair of Cinderella heels glammed out with feathers and beads, hot pink swim goggles, and a trio of mermaid underpants. And, of course, every inch of arm along with a good chunk of leg is now adorned with tinkerbell tattoos.

I have to say that Eliot is just as much boy as he is girl. Yesterday, on a walk to the lake, the kid froze in his tracks for a good 15 minutes just to watch an excavator claw boulders from the beach and wheel them over to a rock pile. He'd still just as happily bash a stick repeatedly against the picnic table as wave it around in the air singing "bippity boppity boo." He has no problem reaching out to pet a toad or a snake, and our living room dance parties often devolve into bouts of body-slamming off the couch onto a pile of cushions shouting "Rahr!"

Isn't this what most parents want? A kid that's as comfortable singing lullabies to a doll as scaling a heap of gravel? A child who can practice caring and adventure in equal measure? Who can delight in the effervesence of sparkles and tuille, then roar in joy when stomping in a mud puddle? I suppose this is what I would hope for my child. For myself, even. That I am some boy, some girl, and a little of whatever is neither. That I am willing to let in the next marvel, this unexamined color or hobby or cuisine or friend. That I am ready to give it a whirl and forget whatever prejudices or preferences I imagine I have already formed. I want both Eliot and myself to notice what is right here within our reach, waiting for our our eyes, our skin and ears, to notice, to explore it, to take it in and say, "Wow, isn't this something!"

Swamp Walk

We stroll across the low bridge crossing camp's swampy wetlands. The water shimmers even though the air is still. We bend closer. Below the surface, we see a flash. Then another. Our footsteps on the wooden planks set of a flurry of motion. Tiny, bubbly, black bodies scatter and scurry in a crazy matrix of seemingly choreographed movement. "Polliwogs!" I cry.

Eliot gets down on his belly and hangs his head uncomfortably close to the fetid water. Murky leaves and moss-furred sticks carpet the bottom, just inches below the surface. First, we see dozens of the tiny critters. Then hundreds. Then thousands. They shoot forward, freeze, shoot again, all seeming to know how to avoid their neighbors, how to scoot under and over the rocky mud.

"There's one!" Eliot says, inhaling sharply. "There's another one!" He points, almost touching the water. Its surface dances with their movement. "Is it ice, Mommy?" he asks. He has walked over this boardwalk through two seasons, and now a third. He has crossed its crust of snow, and has soaked his feet up to his ankles when the brige was submerged under the rushing flow of wintery runoff. And now it dips into a muddy morass teeming with life.

"No, it's not ice, honey," I tell him. "It's algae." I think. The surface of the water appears oily, greenish. And it stinks. As we sit still looking over the side, the black, tic-shaped critters with the wiggling tails poke up to the surface, grab bits of green dust, and scoot away.

"Look mommy!" Eliot shouts. "A mosquito!" Sure enough, a mosquito, in the company of a few other thin-legged insects, dart across the surface of the water. Still too big a mouthful for the teensy polliwogs. I tell Eliot those little black critters will be froggies someday soon. And they will eat all these mosquitos.

As we head back up to dry land, I see a welt already swelling on Eliot's temple, and I scratch two on my ankle. Eliot asks, "What you scratching, Mommy?" He is not even aware of his own itching bump. "A mosquito bite, honey," I tell him. As we plod on past the stable and the new farm, we say, "Hurry up, froggies! Grow up, froggies! Eat these mosquitos!"