It's Christmastime, which means that la p'tite, who lives a ludicrously pampered first-world-plus existence at baseline, is bang in the middle of an eight day stretch of truly mindblowing indulgence, as the trifecta of her birthday, Christmas, and a contentious co-parenting relationship convene to (transiently, one hopes) stamp out any vestiges of moral fibre, restraint, and humility that may have developed over the preceding 12 months.
For her birthday/Christmas this year, the present she has most consistently requested whenever the subject has come up is, I am not making this up, 'shackles.' Rather than go deeper into what she would plan to do with shackles, should Father Christmas decide he's down with this (because I really, really don't want to know), I have been trying the Good Mummy diversion tactic of "what presents are you excited to make/give other people?" which turns out doesn't really work if you have the kind of kid who wants shackles to begin with.
When I was little, I wanted a Barbie for Christmas; my mother, like any self-respecting hippie feminist child of the 60's, was horrified, but she squared it with her soul, and stayed up late the night before Christmas sewing Barbie outfits. Thus I awoke on Christmas morning not just to a new Barbie (with a plastic panel in its back which you pushed to get a kissing noise eeeeeuw) but also to a whole wardrobe of tiny Liberty-print floral hippie smocks, all ready for Barbie to start boiling her own soap, dipping her own beeswax candles, and putting on her wellies to go out to the pea-patch to harvest her curly kale to make a bulgur salad. I do remember a slight pang of disappointment at the time that my Barbie did not have more flashy outfits as-seen-on-TV, but I now think of my Barbie's flower child/Mennonite wardrobe as an act of tremendous beauty and sweetness by my mother. (By the time I was la p'tite's age, my mother had taught me to sew myself, and there was no looking back: all my teddy bears had reproduction Elizabethan ball gowns for regal functions, executive suits for work, and chintz floral prints for casual daywear while on tropical vacations: truly the gift that has kept on giving through the decades.) Neither my Barbie (unless you count her lurid pink plastic high heels) or my teddybear, however, went in for BDSM, so I don't have much in the way of parenting precedent to lean on, here.
La p'tite's interest in sewing is cursory, but her interest in dominatrix gear has been pretty consistent since the age of about six, long enough to not really be a phase, I think. (Favourite superheroines are without fail the baddies, the ones who dress in skintight black leather, carry whips, and have fangs). There are plenty of things I make her do that she's not into (piano lessons, chewing with her mouth shut, math) so I should honour her other interests when I can, right? So: shackles. I stopped by JoAnn Fabrics this afternoon and picked up a yard of chunky plastic silver chain and a strip of black leather with silver studs, and I made the girl her shackles. (All her other presents, scouts' honour, are entirely virtuous, innocent, and focused on self-improvement: art supplies, musical instruments, books, etc.... with the possible exception of a pair of socks which say "Fuck off, I'm reading" which I couldn't resist.)
I am going to wrestle in private with the murky question of whether I should have indulged this particular whim at all BUT here's the question for the wide reading public: is it creepier to receive your gift shackles from an weird old semi-magical dude you've never met who sneaks into your room at night to leave stuff at the end of your bed (Santa)... or from your mother?
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