My extroverted feeler son is four. He announces that he wants a Barbie for Christmas. Hmmm, I think.
I tell my mother. She sends him a Barbie. Blonde hair to her ankles and in an itsy bitsy blue glitter bikini. My son names her Pocahontas.
Back to school. On the first day back to daycare, my son is searching for something. "Mom?"
I am rushing around getting ready for work.
"Where is my backpack?" He has a small pink backpack with shiny gems pasted on it. We moved from Portland, Oregon to Alamosa, Colorado. All the kids in the Portland parent run daycare insisted on pink jelly sandals, both girls and boys. My son has stopped wearing pink immediately when he goes to the Colorado daycare.
I find the backpack. He stuffs the Barbie in headfirst, satisfied. Hmmm, I think. Taking Barbie to daycare. I take him to daycare and then stand and watch. He is working the room. He goes to a girl, says "Look!" and holds the backpack so she can see inside.
That evening I ask him. "Who did you show the Barbie to?"
"I showed it to Anna and Marni and Becka and Marie," he says.
"Did you show the Barbie to any boys?"
"Mom!" he says with scorn. "You don't show Barbies to boys!"
IRON NODER: TOKYO DRIFT 30