Mae comes strolling out of the bedroom...oops, I mean dressing room...across the dining room floor...oops, I mean cat walk...wearing several layers of pop-star-inspired clothes and lip gloss (covering cheeks and chin as well). She stops in front of me, swings out one knee on a pointed toe, kicks out a hip and places one hand on it, cocks her knitted brimmed hat, and gives me a grin that shouldn't be allowed on a child of only 7 years. Next is Keegan, slightly less confident, shuffling more than strolling. She stops and stands straight and still in front of me with an unsure smile for just a second before she shuffles off back to the...uh...dressing room. This goes on for three or four outfits. I smile an encouraging smile at them as a good mother should, putting on the facade that she is happy that her children are A) playing contentedly together for once, and B) using their imaginations...But a little part of me...ok...a big part of me really just wants to throw up a little. Can't you go outside and find a tree to climb or something?!
My daughters fish with their dad, play wiffle ball on occasion at camp, and ride their bikes (if the conditions are just right), and I've always considered them tomboys, maybe just because we live out in the woods where it's dirty and wild. But after a visit a couple weeks ago with some friends of ours who have two boys of similar age as our girls, I realized just how girly my girls really are. And I sat and pondered my own little-girl upbringing, realizing they really are lacking the necessary roughness to hold such a title. I think maybe a brother (or two)...throw in a boy cousin (or two) that live next door..for influence...and then you might have the makings of a genuine tomboy.
Let's take a walk down memory lane to a few parts of my childhood I remember with fondness: Romping with the boys in the hills of Unity, NH. I grew up on roughly 90 acres with my two brothers. When we'd walk out the door in the evening, ready to ride our bikes (it was all about the bikes), we'd cup our hands around our mouths and do "the call"...this sounded something like "AAAAW-UUT!" And wouldn't you know it if my cousins, Hugh and Charlie, next door (by next door I mean across about 10 acres of pasture and trees) heard it and hollered it back. Must be they were playing outside. Amazing. If that was Cousin A hollering to Cousin B in 2010, you better hope you aren't disemboweled or on fire, 'cause Cousin B is sure to not only to be deeply embedded inside his house but also his iPod is deeply embedded in his ears and up so loud that you can rest assured he won't be able to hear his grandkids calling him someday either.
But I digress (by now you know I enjoy digressing)...So we'd all head down our driveways on our bikes, meet, and do lap after lap along the stretch of dirt road in between, making adventure where we could, up banks and through water, racing, and playing Chicken...and of course making alterations to our handlebars, pedals, seats, and chains when necessary or unnecessary.
When we weren't riding bikes we were picking berries or apples, hanging from bendy birch trees, swinging on the tire or 2x4 swing near our clubhouse in the woods, playing ball, limbo, or badminton...or having rotten tomato wars. The latter sounds fun, but when you're the long-haired girl of the bunch, that sort of smelly and unpalatable thing sticks with you, literally. We'd look for worms in cow patties, make paths and forts in the woods, and climb trees. I can't get my girls into trees (or out) without drama, or at least having to help them down those two whole branches they climbed. When I would "run away from home" I would always climb the pine tree at the right-hand corner of our yard, where the woods began. Nobody ever noticed I was gone, though (another sign of the times), so I'd just climb back down and into the house at dusk, disappointed I hadn't made my point..whatever it may have been. Maybe the self reflection sitting in that tree did me good anyway. And I loved the challenge of simply climbing. Using my strength and strategical sense to move my feet and hands to the limbs I needed to next. I hope my girls find that simple physical kind of pride in something that they do. They must - I have two very confident and strong-willed girls. It's just different.
Back in the day we would also ride our bikes (when we didn't huff that 7/10 of a mile on foot) to the bus stop and conceal them in the woods nearby. On the walk home from the bus my cousin, Hugh (5 years my senior) walked with me; while my older brother, Jim, and Charlie would lag behind. We'd toss things in the brooks to see if they'd make it through to the other side of the culvert (something I do with my own girls now), check the minnow trap, and entertain ourselves on the meandering walk back up the hill. In the wintertime we'd give each other whitewashes and in less violent moments just make "chains" in the snow on the road with our feet.
In our grandfather's barn we'd swing on ropes, climb the ladder to the hayloft (many times falling and knocking the wind out of ourselves), tease the bulls, and help our grampa harvest his fields. There's nothing like the smell of hay, and you just can't forget the chafe it gives you either after you've been jumping in it with your cousins. Good times.
When I was very small I had an innocent crush on Hugh. To this day he still calls me Baby Amber (a name I apparently insisted he call me, jealously, after my baby brother was born - although I don't recall). Hugh and Charlie both have almost-teenage sons now, and I adore their wives and have built strong friendships with them. Charlie lives just a couple towns over, but Hugh lives way down in Louisiana. I'm so proud of them and I think it's safe to say we still have a very kindred spirit even though we aren't able to get together very often. Cousins are cool. I just wish Hugh could hear my "AAAAH-UUT!" from Vermont to Cajun country.
When my first daughter was in the womb I started having urges to wear pink and be more feminine. And it's just gone downhill from there. My favorite thing is to clothes shop, and now I can take daughter #1 along with me to my favorite store. I love to dress them up and do their hair (although most days they leave the house looking pretty scraggly, wearing caps and mud boots...maybe there's more tomboy in them than I give them credit for). In the summertime, I'm all about painted toenails, flowy hair, and cotton dresses. But September through April you'd be hard pressed to get me out of my jeans, hoodies, and Chippewa boots. September is coming fast, my friends...and although she hasn't soaked up nearly enough sunshine yet, this girl is ready.
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