Big Girl Day

Darling Maggie,

Yesterday we downed a quick breakfast at the Cafe with Ellie, then took her to Portland to hang out with her father. You and I continued south to Tigard to see the Broadway Rose Theater Company's version of The Little Mermaid. It was over 100 degrees outside, your first experience with the thea-tah and your first close-up encounter with an actual mermaid princess. You were a big girl on sensory overload, and I want to tell you how it went, so when you have a young daughter and decide that you want to get her showered, dressed up and expose her to a little culture that you have something to compare it to.

You woke up with the single-minded focus of a fighter pilot. "Maggie, you need to take a shower this morning." "But, I thought we were going to see The Little Mermaid." "Yes, but first you need to clean up and get dressed." "Oh, okay. I'll wear my black skirt and my princess shirt. I'll go get them." (And then you DID. And you showered in record time, calling out "Mom, I'm done!" before I even had time to comb the unruly curls from my hair which had air-dried overnight squashed into my pillow. This may not seem incredible unless you are reminded that on a typical day, you profess yourself completely unable to select your own clothes. Also, your showers generally wrap up minutes after the household supply of hot water has expired.)

Once you were dressed and ready, we had to get Ellie up and get some food into us. To get us out of the house quickly and save time, I suggested going out for breakfast. ("...but Mom, I thought we were going to see The Little Mermaid." "Food first, Mags." "Oh, okay.") So, you were a good kid at the Cafe, helping me prepare my coffee and trying to keep Ellie content, which was nearly impossible yesterday morning, for some reason.



















We got to Portland on the early side of when I had planned, which surprised me a little since we are always on the back end of on time and usually actually kind of late. Then I realized that we were making good progress because you were actually facilitating our forward movement instead of your usual tendency toward well, slowing us down. Anyway, we got Ellie dropped off, you announced to your father that the two of us were going to see The Little Mermaid(!), and we made our way down I-5.



















We arrived at Tigard High School at about 10:20 - the play had open seating, so lines of children displaying all kinds of manners and attire congregated at the closed doors waiting for the magic time when the doors would open and we would have the chance to stampede into the auditorium and scope out seats. You waited patiently. You had been clever enough to think of bringing your favorite Little Mermaid book, so we were able to sit and read quietly while we waited. I don't know if you noticed the envious glances of little girls and mothers alike as a happy glow emanated out from the pages of your book and possibly from the contented mother-daughter tableau that we presented. You sat on my lap, happily entertained.

When we got into the theater, lots of good seats were taped off for clusters of daycare kids, including a large group of KinderCare tots in their blue summer t-shirts. We ended up in the VERY front row. I looked around and noticed the orchestra pit right below us. I suggested at that point (knowing how much you DETEST loud noises) that we might want to look for other seating. You resisted a bit, but then listened to what I was saying, locked your hands over your ears to keep from hearing anything too loud, and kept those darling little hands locked in that protective position for the next 30 minutes. (To those of you who think loud fireworks don't leave a lasting impression on children, think again, my friends.)

We found seats one row behind the middle aisle in the middle - probably, actually, among the best seats in the house. Great view - and easy in and out. The rows were wide, and you were able to comfortably sit in my lap (which was nice, because you don't get to have my lap to yourself for very long all that often). After a while - and much convincing - you agreed to remove your hands from your ears. I'm so glad we had that time before the play to get you situated and comfortable. You even moved over to your own chair for a while, and did a great job trying to keep it from closing in around you as auditorium seats are wont to do. When they turned the house lights off and got things started, you were a perfect little lady - sitting up straight and clapping ever so correctly and delicately at the end of each musical number. You didn't seem concerned that the Broadway Rose people had created a version significantly different than the Disney version - It didn't phase you that instead of King Triton, we had King Neptune or that Ariel's friends were two fish sisters instead of a crab, a seagull and a boy fish. Yeah, the storms and the Sea Witch were loud, but you handled it like a pro.

Afterward, the characters assembled outside in the unusually hot afternoon to sign autographs. Based on my experience, I asked 7 or 8 times if you REALLY wanted to go see the characters, and you insisted that yes, you did. Of course, when I say "characters," what this really means is, "Ariel," since the other players were merely accessories to Ariel in your mind - and certainly not worthy of autograph seekers. So, we allowed ourselves to become part of the ever morphing girly circle that was engulfing the fair Ariel. You grasped your program in one sweaty hand and my fingers in the other. You would not push forward - stuck, I think, in between WANTING to see Ariel and abject terror. I tried gently nudging you ahead, silently cursing the oversized grandmas who, with complete disregard for other guardians or children, had to snap the PERFECT snapshot of their little angels sidled up to Tigard's version of a make-believe princess. Eventually, as the crowd thinned a bit, you ended up getting close. I scanned the crowd for other children with a hint of fear or trepidation in their eyes. I wondered what I might have done at some point to foster this kind of double-edged discomfort/fascination in you. I thought about when I was a kid and if I would have even dared to TRY to get Ariel's autograph. And, I held onto your hand and stroked your hair and told you to hold your program up so Ariel would notice you. Sweetheart, you held that thing up in the air directly over your head - and Ariel took it from you and signed it. She asked you if you enjoyed the play. If you could have turned yourself inside out, I know you would have. When Ariel handed your program back to you, your little legs collapsed under you and you began to sob. I'm still wondering if it was just the unspeakable heft of the moment that left you completely undone - as if you were a teenage girl in 1964 and you had just witnessed the Beatles arriving in America.

























Even after removing you from the situation, getting you back into the air-conditioning and lovingly changing the subject - it took a bit of doin' to get you back to your good old self. Even then, you were unable to even look at the piece of paper that Ariel had signed - as if that blue program brought all the emotions flooding back. Darlin', I have to tell you. I think when I was a kid, I was so shy that I probably wouldn't have even tried to get that autograph, and from what your Papa says, so was he. So, maybe that's your shy gene acting up - sorry about that.

We stuck around long enough that by the time we left, we saw the guy who had played the prince come out a back door dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. I think you kind of liked getting that behind-the-scenes look at him and having your a-ha moment around that - however exactly you interpreted it. I actually think you just decided that the prince had changed his clothes, not so much that it was just a kid who was acting in the play, but whatever.




















We went out to lunch at Pastini Pastaria Bridgeport Village, and you announced that you didn't want any food - just lemonade. And, well, big girls make their own decisions - but I ordered you some food anyway, and guess what? You didn't eat it - just drank lemonade. (Do you like the picture we took when we realized that the camera strap was dipped into Mama's wine glass?) Normally, eating exactly no food at lunch would not have led to gelato, but it was over 100 degrees and we were having a special day, and you only live once. So, we went to the gelateria and you chose the blue mint gelato which was very sparsely sprinkled with little mint pastille chips. Your treat had exactly two pink chips, and you ate that gelato around them leaving two little pink mint pastille towers which reminded me of an illustration in a Dr. Seuss book. Then, you reached for a napkin and knocked the bowl off the table and the gelato right onto the floor. You could almost hear the music from your book about Elmo's feelings - "What makes Elmo feel sad? Bye-bye goes the ice cream. Waa waa waaaaa." Do you know what goes through a mother's head when two prized pink chips and a bunch of blue mint melted gelato hits the floor of a crowded gelato place? Do I even need to say that I wondered if I could rescue at least one chip and maybe it hadn't actually picked up any of the dirt off the floor? Quickly, my mom senses noted that, while you were devastated, you were not about to make a scene. I concluded that indeed, it would be too gross to allow you to eat off the floor. I also noticed that outside, there was a free-standing Sweet Factory store. Rolling the dice in my head, I decided that we'd leave the gelato place as quickly as possible and that I would walk my oldest daughter into the Sweet Factory in search of a few mint pastilles. Know as I write this that under normal circumstances, I would be as likely to walk you into a candy store as I would be to walk you into a biker bar in a bad neighborhood in LA. But, it was Big Girl day, and it was over 100 degrees out, and well... we went in.

After going in, I immediately began scanning the containers and (mercifully) quickly spotted exactly what we needed. I scooped about 20 of the little candies into a bag and asked if there was a minimum purchase. The nice lady (with the red hair, as you noticed) told me that I had selected the "Mommy Amount" and could have it for free. FREE, Mags! As in "somethin' for nothin'!" And, she was happy about it. And, so were you. And, that might have been the best moment of my entire day - a happy kid, and a restored faith in the kindness of strangers.

Then, we stopped at Borders and had not one, but two encounters with an evil self-flushing toilet, but that's a story for another day. I hope you had a fun time. From the way you're telling people about what we did, I'm pretty sure you enjoyed yourself. I love you, and I understand all about being shy, even if I don't really tell you that for fear of reinforcing your reluctance to engage even with people you've known your whole life unless the circumstances are JUST PERFECT. I also know that for me, it's generally been the case that my shyness goes away when I'm on a stage - whether it's been training a room full of people or dressed up in a silly costume in a dance recital. That's one reason why I want you to get to go see plays and stuff like that whenever we can. And, just so you know, even if you have to share it with your sister sometimes, you can always sit on my lap if you're feeling a little unsure of yourself or just if you want to feel appreciated and safe and comfy.

Mama