My kiddo is obsessed these days with sports cars. Sports cars. I’m not horrified; more mystified than anything. Her father once owned a Porsche for a year without his then wife knowing. Isn’t that wierd? Anyway, I think she has maybe a bit of his need for thrills (ok, Mama has some degree of that going on, too). Mama likes motorcycles, not moving boxes on wheels. Mama likes the wind in her face, and the feel of the two wheels careening curves on the road. But Mama’s not telling her that. Yet, anyway. I remember the closing shot in one of my favorite movies, Orlando (whatever happened to Sally Potter?), with flame haired Tilda Swinton astride a motorcycle, kiddo in the side car. And I thought, “That’s it. I want that.” And maybe, sometime, we’ll do that.
The kiddo has a favorite pair of pants. They are black sweat pants that she insists on wearing exclusively. It’s apparently a comfort thing. She likes the elastic legs. Because, the bottoms of one’s pants are not to touch the ground (even Mama’s, though Mama likes hers that way. Mama, she counseled, needs to get a belt. Because leg bottoms are not to touch earth. Right.). Shoelaces are not to touch earth, either. They are to be tripled tied, or more, because she can’t have that. Anyway, she likes the black pants so much, that she hides them from me, lest I, gasp(!), wash them. For only the third time this year, I’d managed to get her into a dress last week. With the pants underneath.
The teen years frighten me a little bit on the rare occasion that I think of them. Fast cars. Willfulness. Yikes! But I fully expect that, like her Mama and her Aunty, she’ll do an about face and completely girl out, and embrace all feminine accouterments, and we’ll someday have a good laugh about those pants. I can wait. For now.
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