Today, I watched my seven year old daughter execute the wardrobe-change-while-riding-in-a-car maneuver.
We left her soccer game, where she displayed 2 scissor moves, one fake, one thigh trap, five right footed-goals, 1 left-footed goal, and 1 left-footed shot on goal, and she had to do a quick transformation before getting to her next destination, a birthday party. Before we pulled away from the curb, she had changed out of her soccer shorts and into her cute little cut-off jean shorts. Next, the sweaty soccer jersey was whipped off, replaced by a sassy little pink t-shirt, complete with rhinestone doohickeys on the front. She topped it off with a black half-length vest, and then set about brushing her hair as the van careened down the hill towards the party.
I kept sneaking glances at her in the rearview mirror. She was "doing herself up," as much as a 7 year old can, transforming herself from rabid athlete to bounce-house party girl. It was poignant. I pictured her older, and found myself hoping that soccer grows up with her and stays with her into high school. Having never been an athlete as a child, I love the idea of my girls challenging themselves physically, pushing their bodies and growing up strong. Visions of prom night swirled in my head, with a dazzling Lady E dressed to the nines after a fierce competition on the pitch. I don't want her to be a debutante or anything, but I like that she's got both going for her. I kept sneaking glances at her as she brushed and brushed her unbrushable mop, and I smiled to myself all the while.
She was worried about being sweaty. "Mom, when we get there, I'm going to use the bathroom first, so I can wash my hands and face, and my pits, Mom, because my pits are gross!" Emphasis hers.
Happy as I was about her taking care of her personal hygiene, I gently suggested that she couldn't actually bathe in her host's bathroom, and that it would probably be fine to just wash her hands and face. After all, I figured, she's seven. And she's going straight into a bouncy house with a bunch of other seven and eight year olds, where they will bounce like mad for 2 or 3 hours. It's not like the pits are going to matter.
When we got to the party, we found our way through an immaculate, show-ready house, said hello to the hosts, then we found our way to a gorgeous bathroom, with cute little soaps, pretty towels, and matching everything. I re-did her un-doable hair. She washed up. Washed her face and hands, and reached for the towel to dry up. And just as I was marveling at how extremely lovely she is, and before I could reach over to stop her, she took that nice pretty hand towel and mopped up both her pits.
I'm pretty sure the rough and tumble athlete is going to kick the debutante's ass in this little girl.
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