"Do you want to do it?" My wife asked.
"No." said the Peanut
"Ok."
I strode a few steps ahead, relieved.
We made it about four more steps through the mall before the Peanut said, "Yes. I want to do it. I want to get my ears pierced right now!"
And I felt a trickle of freon roll down my spine.
I don't handle this stuff well.
My wife wanted to have it done when the Peanut was still a baby. Her mother did it to her, her grandmother did it to her mother, etc.
If you ask me, tradition doesn't cut it. Not when you're talking about the altering of a child's body. Add the issue of gender roles to that and why don't we just bind her feet while at it. I don't handle this stuff well. Seriously, it's a problem.
We'd still be fighting about whether or not to have the Pumpkin Man circumcised if the W.H.O. hadn't recommended it for the prevention of AIDS about a month before he was born. I figure he's going to travel, and he's already devestatingly handsome, so . . .
With the ear-piecing, I told my wife I wanted it to be the Peanut's decision (which probably would not have been a good tactic with the circumsicion). I just thought she'd make it a lot later in her childhood. Like her twenties. I really don't handle this stuff well.
It's my own fault. I spent most of her third year convincing her that piercing her ears would hurt like hell. Inadvertantly. Mostly. I just told her that they used needles like the ones the doctor used to give her her shots. Except musch bigger. And dull. And red hot. And filled with bees. Not the right thing to do, I know. So I spent her fourth year convincing her it didn't hurt at all.
I wish I had never said the thing about leaving it up to the Peanut to decide. Four year olds have horrible judgement.
But now it's done. We walked into whatever mall bauble store happened to be there (Maubles? Sparkle-tacular? The Icing on Your Face? Rings'n Things By Dr. Mengele? I truly do not handle this stuff well) and the Peanut hopped on the stool and just did it.
The woman brought those little white, plastic, zipguns up to each ear and the Peanut didn't flinch. She didn't flinch, didn't move, didn't make a peep. Barely batted an eye. She was so brave. So grown up. I was shocked. Or more, I was in shock. She picked sparkly, pink, crystal daisies, of course.
When it was over and our daughter had taken yet another small step away from us and towards controlling her own destiny, I looked to her little brother. The Pumpkin man is still my baby. I reached for my youngest child and he looked up at me wide eyed and excited and exclaimed, "Daddy. Me too!"





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