is a single mama in the city, super-savvy editor, writer, video host and shameless shoe whore.
And then the testosterone hit like a tsunami
Monday, February 2, 2009 It's no secret my child is one 3T t-shirt away from being a full-on metrosexual. He cringes if I call him fancy and is quick to correct with a "No, Mommy. I'm COOL." And how could I mistake the preschooler holding his hand daintily up so my turquoise beaded bracelet doesn't fall off for anything else but cool? Inevitably the conversation goes:
"Oh, sorry," I apologize with a smile. "You're right. You are totally hip. You're preschool hip. You're a prip."
"Huh?"
"I know. Sorry again."
Despite the resistance, he's a small boy living under the influence of a mommy who, as he describes "likes the make-ups and sparkly stuff and pink and...OH! and SHOOOOOES!"
"That's right, darling," I say, thinking all the while that resistance is futile.
But really, truly, I want him to be who he is. And, of course, we all say that until we see our children being who they really are, which equates to a monkey diving off of someone's $6,000 leather sofa or talking loudly about a boog stuck up in their nose at Whole Foods or in a tantrum puddle in perfect timing to some declaration to another playgroup mommy about how we really do have it pretty much together these days. When it comes to fancy or not, I am good with whomever this boy is and it really does delight me to see his passion for head scarves and plastic power tools ebb and flow.
This weekend, though, there was not a drop of fancy in whatever room he was tearing through. First, there was the incessant discussion of Star Wars. There were movie scenes to recount and trivia to announce and characters to dissect -- all of it based on hearsay from his older, wiser, very in-the-know 5-year old friends at school and questions he's asked his dad. He had a lot of questions, and then resulting frustration for me, since most of my knowledge of Star Wars centers on kissing a Luke Skywalker trading card with my friend Lizzie.
Lil E shows off his homemade foamie Darkthhhh Maul mask and light saber. No glitter. This time.
I gave in and played with light sabers made from clothes hangers and tried to follow complex storylines involving "DARKthhhhhh Vader" and pretended to be Princess Leah running through the snow for what seemed like a feature length trip to the park.
But it all ramped up when, exhausted from our day of storm trooping, he asked if we could watch the Super Bowl.
Huh? I swore I still had eight to ten years on my no-contact-sports contract stapled to the back of the divorce papers.
A buddy of his from school (again, a 5-year old) is all about the Steelers because his dad is all about the Steelers, and so, Lil E is now all about the Steelers. It's something I just don't get. It's an obvious case of trickle-down testosterone.
I couldn't deny the kid the opportunity to be even more cool than his purple fleece pants projected, so I turned it on just a few minutes before halftime. Just as I am sure he was about to crack an MGD and dig into a plate of wings, Bruce Springsteen hit the stage.
Just like The Boss, Lil E exploded in an explosion of energy, dancing, singing crazy words and pure spectator bliss.
"I LOVE SHEL SILVERSTEIN!" he screamed toward the television dancing.
And just as I was about to explain that Bruce Springsteen was of a slightly different genre than Shel Silverstein, he was doing some crazy, half-nakey kid dance and professing his love for an apparently even-cooler cat on the best show he's ever seen ever on TV. That's right, the kid was totally digging on Steven Van Zandt.
"Look at that woman's killer blue guitar," I said, dancing in the middle of the living room with the self-pantsed preschooler man-child.
"BUT LOOK AT THE HEADBAND GUY! LOOK AT HIM! HE'S EVEN COOLER THAN SHEL SIVLERSTEIN! HE IS SOOOOOOOO COOL! I WANT TO BE HIM. I'M HIM!" And then with just pause enough for one shallow breath, he added, "I AM HIM! I AM HEADBAND GUY!"
I'm not sure if this is disturbing or phenomenal but when I texted my brother to tell him about the situation that was increasingly making me feel like an X-chromosone out of water, he just responded with "Let Lil E be a man."
And so that's what I did. I danced when he asked me to, I sat and stared at the screen when he requested company, I even explained with relative accuracy what the quarterback does and something or other about downs when he wanted to know. I almost wished out loud for cheerleaders.
Then, when it was time, I put him to bed, kissed his sweaty forehead, snuggled his flush cheeks of my playground star warrior, my little boy feeling just a bit bigger and closer to 5 himself as he drifted off, my fancy pants football fascinated rocker kid, sleeping peacefully in the darkthhhhh.
Reader Comments (8)