This from a Barbie-wielding, Bratz-loving GIRL! My girl.
Fred has a friend who has land, who hosts a “Bow-Shoot” every year for youths. Fred took Krista practice shooting a few days ago in a hunting store. Krista came back stating she loved it, had shot a turkey, a bear and a caribou--all foam of course.
As a Mom, in theory, I want her to do what makes her happy. As a woman, I feel her drive to do something boys “typically” do—I applaud that. As Heidi, I am brooding.
Fred and Krista came back from the “Bow-Shoot” Saturday night. Krista traipsed in with new clunky, brown hiking boots, slinging her quiver and holding out the binocular strap she won as a prize. When I saw my little princess in those bulky man boots, my heart sank. After they unpacked, Krista said:
“Mom. Can you buy me a foam turkey for practice shooting?”
“I think that is your Dad’s department.”
”He said I should ask you. He’s not sure how you’re going to handle it. He didn’t think you’d let him buy it.”
“Could you please go in your room? Daddy and Mommy need to talk.”
If words could cause movement, mine would have. I would have been the cartoon you see when someone is yelling, blowing hair and cheeks back like a G-force. Fred meant well, but turning my daughter into a bow-toting, huntress with big, bulky, hiking boots was the equivalent of shaving all her beautiful hair off and saying, ’Don’t you LIKE it?”
“NO. I don’t think a foam turkey is a good idea.” I pushed out my lips, later, through gnashed teeth.
“Because it implies that she’s going to shoot an ANIMAL.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
Hyped on “Yooper,” and the deer meat his mother served them for dinner that night, Fred was unwittingly conjuring a Mad City Woman.
“Because MY daughter loves animals and if she kills one she will never be able to forgive herself.” I hissed.
And so began the night of “right vs. wrong”, “instinct vs. upbringing”; a never ending culture and territory dispute. It is under these conditions, that I can feel the passion and sentiment behind war and feuding. Passion can be irrational, at times, and with irrationality comes a plethora of colorful, sometimes surprising words.
“$%^#&*! &*(&^%$!” Fred said
“Well, ^%#&,&*(#* to you too” said I, conniption subsiding to a dull harpy mode.
Back to our corners, I spent the time between bells formulating a very wise, indisputable comparison to blow him out of the water, which would:
- render him stymied, bowing before me
- groveling for forgiveness
- begging for another chance
- promising to wrong-me no more
- even agreeing to return the hunting boots in a blink of my RIGHTEOUS eye
I spoke it:
“It’s as if I took the boys to Make-up Artist Camp and they came back talking about eye-shadow and wanting their own brush sets.”
I spread the word banquet out for Fred to feast on. He would have no choice but to see my point of view.