the cute grown up

Around the time that Frances turned one, she developed an obsession with eyeglasses. She showed a marked preference for strangers wearing glasses, gleefully identified them in magazine and newspaper photos, and even added a big round pair to every face she drew (including an enormous bright blue crayoned pair on the protagonist in one of her favorite books at the time). We eventually figured out why she was so gaga for glasses: she had discerned that when I arrived bespectacled to greet her in the morning, it was a weekend. When I already had my contacts in, I would be heading shortly for work. Glasses=available Mama.

Fast forward five years or so. Apropos of a conversation about whether or not people older than toddlers can properly be referred to as "cute," Frances took to occasionally calling me "the cute grown up." Seemingly at random, she'd look me up and down and with a look of great satisfaction say, "Mama, now you're the cute grown up!"



Over a bubble-painting project yesterday, I finally got her to articulate the conditions under which I qualify as the cute grown up. They are, in her words:

*when my hair is messy, preferably in a ponytail
*when my face is shiny ("you know, like, sweaty")
*when I wear my patched jeans
*when I wear clogs
*when I smile lots of real smiles ("not the pretend kind")
*when I wear cable knit sweaters

Why does she like it when I look a particular way? (The fashion-forward dark skinny jeans her grandma just bought me are, incidentally, decidedly not cute grown up style.) According to Frances, I act differently when I'm the cute grown up. I'm nicer, and quicker to smile, and pay more attention to her (her words).

At first it just sounded crazy (Frances, I do not act differently when I wear different shoes!) but then it occurred to me: it's the glasses thing all over again, but with a six year old's more nuanced powers of observation. And I probably do act differently. I hadn't thought about it before, but cute grown up apparel is my at-home winter uniform. When I'm going somewhere for work, or to meet a friend, or even to yoga class, I wear other things. And when I'm putting on the heeled black boots or at least attempting to have less-messy hair, my mind is usually on the place I'm heading to, not on stories and baking and bubble painting.

Well. It explains why Frances asks me nearly every day to wear my hair in a ponytail. According to her logic, if I'd only put it in a ponytail, it would ensure my availability to her all day long.

I hated when my mom went to work and paid attention to other people, too.

Yesterday was a definite cute grown up sort of day, so there was no need to fret about my hair. The bubble painting was really, really fun--especially once I backed off and let the kids go a little wild with it. Unfettered straw bubbling! It's a thrill. They made spider's webs, nests, something called canopies, volcanoes, and generally acted like unhinged mad scientists for well over an hour.

All you do is mix tempera paint, a little water, and a little dish soap. Mix, insert straws, and bubble away. Then, if you can stop making bubble creations for long enough, transfer the bubbles onto card stock, carefully pop them, and make some really striking prints that capture the delicate, ephemeral nature of bubbles.

Here's a photo of me as almost-cute grown up (alas, no ponytail), taken yesterday by Frances.

Sometimes I wish my life afforded more opportunities for glamour, and maybe one day it will. For now, cuteness isn't too bad. And when an occasion for heels presents itself, I'll just have to bear a certain someone's disapproval.

(On a completely separate note: have you liked Homemade Time on Facebook yet? If not, please do!)