As I mentioned earlier this month, my 2 yr old daughter is obsessed with all things pink, to a perhaps unhealthy degree. But the horse has left the stable, or whatever it is they say, and it’s a little too late for me to do much about it now. I am waving the white flag. Fighting her is hard, pleasing her is easy: she will gladly wear winter boots, as long as they are pink, so just get her the pink boots already, Mama.
Maggie loves pink so much that she is starting to use the word “pink” as a generally enhancing sort of word, whether or not it actually applies. She insists that it was a “Pink Santa” who brought her toys, despite the more popular representation of St. Nick as a red-wearing sort of fellow. She goes to “pink playschool.” And when she picks up her pink cell phone, it is nearly always to have a lengthy (and imaginary) conversation with “Pink Mollie,” her aunt. “I don’t even LIKE pink,” Aunt Mollie admitted to me, “but I like being a Pink Mollie. Sounds like a swanky cocktail.”
Last night, I put Maggie in her crib and was at the door turning the light out when she said, “Mommy, you come back?”
I went back to the side of her crib. She stood up.
“I give you pink hug,” she said. And she did. A pink hug, for those of you who haven’t had one, isn’t just ANY hug. A pink hug takes your breath away that this little creature could really be yours.
I’m going with the pink love.