The Dictator: My Pink Princess

Fancy Dictator, pretty in pink.  Plans for world domination
begin with the wardrobe.

Before the Dictator was born, I decided that--as I loathed the color pink--we would paint her bedroom in butter yellow and grass green and decorate with a crisp, primary colored farm theme.  Most of her baby clothes, though decidedly feminine, were blue, green and yellow.  She got called an adorable boy by little old ladies on any number of occasions (despite the fact that she was so obviously clad in a dress).  And I was okay with that.  I don't love pink, and I certainly didn't want to impose that nauseating color on my precious offspring.  If she had to be mistaken for a baby of the opposite gender, then so be it.  She would be too young to remember anyway.

See?  I think she looks quite fetching in brown, don't you?

Little did we realize that our Dictator has an alarmingly sharp memory, or that she was taking mental notes in that coffee shop as she sucked violently on her pacifier and sought revenge on the "nice" little old lady who dared to mistake her for something so hideous as a boy.

I don't know that she'll ever get that revenge, but she has put into place a diabolically simple corrective to all the gender-confusing lifestyle choices we mistakenly made for her so long ago.

The Dictator's Plan For Reclaiming Her Feminine Identity

Phase One:  DRESS LIKE THE GIRLY GIRLS

Phase One has been active for about a year or so.  About a month into kindergarten, the Dictator announced that "wide at the ankle" jeans were verboten; only "thin bottom" jeans would do.  While the vast majority of kindergarten girls at the Dictator's school were happy to sport jeans of any make and model (I don't think kids become fashion snobs until at least second grade, right?), it turns out that one crucial kindergarten fashionista, Pretty Headband Girl, exerted especial influence over the Dictator's choice in legwear  As the Dictator's chief rival for the affections of Little Blond-Haired Boy, Pretty Headband Girl's pants mattered; and Pretty Headband Girl's pants were skinny.  And so the Dictator took the necessary steps to get her man, hiding each and every pair of offending "wide at the ankle" pants she owned.

PHASE TWO: REFUSE ALL PANTS (or, OUTDO THE GIRLY GIRLS)

But this was only a gateway pants decision.  Soon, the Dictator found it necessary to up the ante.  And something inside of her, some vague, gnawing past hurt pointed her in the direction of her next man-trapping move.  If she was to snare the heart of Little Blond-Haired Boy, it would prove necessary to establish that she was, without ambiguity, a girl in the girliest sense.  To prove this to herself, Pretty Headband Girl, Little Blond-Haired Boy, the Disney Princesses, Fancy Nancy, and the world, the Dictator took the extreme measure of shifting to a Skirts Only Wardrobe.  Tights and leggings had to be procured.  Second-hand stores were scoured for cast-off fluff of an affordable nature.  Pants were handed down to an unwitting Anarchist.  And a girly girl (er...girly Dictator?) was born. 

Did I mention that pajamas must also abide by the no-pants,
all-pink Dictator wardrobe guidelines? 

PHASE THREE: GO PINK OR GO HOME

It took a while for me to adjust to the overtly girly wardrobe choices of my eldest spawn.  I had to put aside my dreams for preppy, sleek tweed pants  and sweaters and let my little Dictator make her own decisions...even if they involved sequins, fluff, and nothing but skirts.  And I had made my peace with that. 

But then something terrible happened.  Last week I took the Dictator and the Anarchist back to school shopping.  Nothing elaborate, we just needed some shirts, leggings and tennis shoes.  I walked into the store, enamored with the rainbow of jewel-toned tees in brilliant turquoise, ruby red, amethyst and emerald.  I suggested fluffy shirt after fluffy shirt in pumpkin orange, indigo, chocolate and slate.  My suggestions were met with looks of disgust and a strange growling noise. 

"What's wrong with this?" I asked, naively, "It's covered with sequins, strewn with tulle flowers, has the word 'princess' on it in glitter, and smells like roses!" 

 "No. No. No," the Dictator said, rolling her eyes in disgust and waving the unacceptable apparel away with an irritable flick of the wrist.  "I only wear pink!" 

And despite my best efforts, we walked away from the mall with six brand new shirts in varying shades of pink, pink tennis shoes, pink leggings, pink tights and a pink headband.  We also have a brand new pink leotard for dance class, along with pink tights and new pink ballet shoes (thank goodness her new class level switches her from white shoes to pink, or I don't know what she'd do). 

And so, my daughter the Dictator has achieved maximum girliness.  And I am doing my best to keep my cool.  I know it's wrong to say this, but I may very well get sick of looking at my daughter every day.  It's not her, she's a lovely girl...it's the pink.  So much pink.  I suppose it's my own fault, really.  If only I had seen fit to dress her in all the stereotypical pink "it's a girl" baby clothing, we probably wouldn't be having these problems right now.

What was I thinking, putting her in
blue like that?!  This is all my fault!

But you know what?  I'm not going to blame myself for this.  There are other scapegoats to be had (although not Pretty Headband Girl, because she's just doing what she needs to do to get herself a man).  So I blame you, Fancy Nancy, with your big words and your fluffy skirt-filled wardrobe.  And I blame you, Disney Princesses, with your palaces and jewel-encrusted dresses.  Also, I blame you little old lady from the coffee shop, for not knowing a floral embroidered dress when you see one.  Okay, that's completely insensitive.  You are old and probably find it hard to see.  So I don't blame you after all.  Sorry.  Sorry about that.  And finally, I blame whoever decided that pink was a girl color.  I don't know who you are, but if I ever find you, I may release the Fat Assassin on your fleshy calves.  You'll totally deserve it.

Thanks, Disney Princesses.  Thanks a lot.

My First Death Threat

Let me preface this post by apologizing profusely for not having posted anything all summer.  I know everyone has suffered greatly in the absence of my super-stellar writing.  I am terribly sorry.  Let me also let you know, right off the bat that I will not be writing about any delightful summer activities like birthday parties, Music in the Park, running through sprinklers, family barbeques, etc.  While these topics all make excellent blog posts (for good mothers who like to brag about their wholesome family-ness), every single one pales in comparison to the exciting milestone the Morton's achieved today.  This is one for the scrapbooks, folks: My First Death Threat.

Is that just red marker on the Anarchist's face? 
Or is it something more sinister?

I suppose I have been threatened with an untimely demise before (by the Bureaucrat in a bid to obtain insurance money).  And my children have threatened me countless times with bodily harm, destruction of property, loss of dignity, usurpation of authority, etc.  But never has one of my children had the motivation to actually threaten to wipe me clean out of existence.  Until now.


"No!  Mommy, I don't WANT to put away my HIDEOUT!!" screams the Anarchist at nap-time.

"But we have to clean up.  It's nap-time, Sweetie," I reply, lovingly (like one of those Moms in paper towel commercials, responding to a grape juice disaster...it's almost unreal how lovingly I respond).

"That's IT!  I'm going to DIE YOU!" the Anarchist snarls.

She's.  Going.  To.  Die.  Me.
Or something like that.

"What now?" (I am certain she means dye me, like wool, which makes no sense, but sounds ever so colorful.)

"I'm.  Going.  To.  Die.  You." 

"Sweetheart, do you mean that you want to make Mommy go away and have no more Mommy ever?"  (I'm sure this will clear things up...she couldn't possibly want that.  It would be such a disproportionate response to the request to clean up toys, right?)


"Yes.  No.  More.  You."


Okay, so she means what she says.  At this point, the Dictator, having overheard, is completely distraught.  She comes running out into the hallway weeping and flings herself into my lap, clutching my clothes and refusing to let go.


"Don't worry, the Anarchist doesn't know what she's talking about," I explain.  "She's too little to understand what she's saying."



And of course, despite her indignant response of, "No I NOT!" she really is.  The minute I walk away, giving in to her request--at least, temporarily--of no more Mama, the Anarchist flies into a shrieking fit of epic proportions.


"Come BACK!!  I WANT YOU MAMA!!!  MAMA!!!!!   I NEED YOU!!!!"

"But I thought you wanted to die me," I say, coming back as requested.


"YES!  I want to die you!  I want you to GO AWAY FOR ALWAYS!"

"Okay."  (I turn and walk away)

"COME BACK!!!! I NEED YOU!!!"

"So...you don't want to die me anymore?"

"Yes, I do.  I just need you to stay."


I'm still a bit confused (and obviously, so is the Anarchist).  Does that mean that she's simply conflicted as to whether or not she really wants me gone?  Does it mean she doesn't understand the concept of forever/death (which is extremely likely)?  Is she incredibly bipolar?  Or does she just want me to come back and stay put long enough so that she can actually "die me" for real...none of this pretend simulation nonsense for her, she's in it for realsies?  I suppose I'll never know for sure.  One thing, I think, I can know for certain.  Unlike her father, she isn't in it for the insurance money.

How I Got Yama the Kung Zhu (by guest blogger: the Dictator)

Guest Blogger, the Dictator, continues her shopping-themed blog in this classic follow up to her original, "How I Got Tank the Triceratops."  She labored over this entry for a mere 47 minutes.  Enjoy:

it all started out wen we, or me and the anarchist,  were going to spend  our allowance.  we went to target.  we got the thing,s mom needed first.  then we went to the toy aisles.  i fond squinkies that i liked.  then mom saw kung zhus for only 2 bucks!  i saw yama  i really wanted her.*  then we went to the check out line.  i saw my teacher do you know what her name is?**  then we went home.  the end.

 *The gender of all male Zhu Zhu Pets have been changed to protect their girl-friendliness.
**If you don't, too bad.  The Dictator's lips are sealed, apparently.

Study in Black and White, by the Dictator.  From L-R:
Pinkie the Zhu Zhu, Rivet "River" the Kung Zhu, and
Tank the Triceratops.  Yama would eventually join the clan.

NOTE: While we dotingly believe that the Dictator is brilliant for five, we readily acknowledge that she's no prodigy.  Thusly, we would like to point out that the accuracy of the spelling in this blog is due only to the Dictator's insistence that we "make the red squiggly lines go away."  All grammatical and punctuation errors were left intact.