April 4, 2006
She starts off trying to play with three little pretty princesses, all of them carrying orange-haired little dolls from their Happy Meals. Schuyler's possession of an idential doll does not seem to be granting her entrance into their circle, however, and for a good ten minutes I watch her chase them around as they intentionally shun her, turning their backs on her and running away when she tries to talk to them. I can't make out the words they're saying to her, but the tone is unmistakably unkind.
Schuyler's a little doll herself, you know, and she either doesn't realize they are blowing her off, or she just doesn't give a shit.
She takes it in stride, I do not. It's hard, watching little girls be little girls to each other, which often means being horrible little shits. (For the adult version, go visit any Attached Parenting discussion forum.) I want to interfere, I want to say mean things to these little girls and make them run off crying, just for shunning the Chubbin. I don't. I sit here and I watch.
And when I sit and watch long enough, I see the thing that often happens with Schuyler. I see her shrug it off and play with other kids, and I see her begin to attract a little following, the kids who see that she's different but don't yet know enough to treat her like a freak. They'll learn one day, I'm afraid, but not just yet. I see the Schuyler Pied Piper Effect kick in, and before long I'm watching the little mob that inevitably ends up following her, like she's the strange mute drum major in the Weird Kids Parade.
Then it happens. The snotty little princesses that treated her like a leper half an hour ago want to play with her now. She has popularity, and they want some of it.
And to her inexhaustible credit, Schuyler lets them, without hesitation. I am a tiny bit frustrated that they are getting away with it, but I am mostly proud of her for being a bigger person than any of us.
Earlier, we were at the drugstore and she repeated a refrain that's been going for about a week now. Although this photo makes it look otherwise, Schuyler's hair color has faded, as it was supposed to (although, and this is important, not completely), and she wants it redone, this time in red.
"I want red hair." She's been saying it for about a week now.
We went to the aisle where we picked up the last hair color experiment (L'Oreal Color Pulse Concentrated Non-Permanent Color Mousse, for those of you who care, and I assume that's everyone), and she immediately grabbed the one she's been looking at every time we go in. This time it's "Red Pulse", and by golly, it's RED. Nothing subtle here.
So fine, no problem. No ammonia, no peroxide, washes out in eight to ten shampoos (except that it totally doesn't), safe for your hair and loads of fun. There's just one problem this time. She made a special request at a father/daughter bonding exercise.
"Red hair Daddy."
I'm not accustomed to denying Schuyler her requests, particularly the ones she makes on her device. But, um, this might have to be the first.
Well, okay. Maybe just a hint of red. Maybe. She did ask nicely.