Mazzy likes her father more than me. I made that clear last week. This is true for most little girls, I've heard, so I'm trying not to take it too personally.


Mazzy's love of Daddy goes beyond her need to be around him— it's a need to BE LIKE HIM as well.

The most clear example of this is her extreme dedication to her Giants t-shirt. I know I've mentioned it already but I really want to hammer this home.

She asks to wear it EVERY SINGLE DAY— temperature, occasion, be damned. Even Mike has begun to insist she wear other clothing. I have tried to relegate it as "bedtime only" so neighbors don't start to suspect neglect.

The daddy-like attire doesn't stop at her shirt. She has also become obsessed with Mike's baseball hats. She likes to wear them backwards and struts around like she's the coolest thing since, well… Daddy. (Doesn't she know that I'M THE COOL ONE???)


Don't get me wrong— It's very cute. I'm just struggling to adjust to the arrival of my new little tomboy.

I have read article after article on how to make sure girls get exposed to math and science and how to compliment your daughter's intellect over her looks. I want my daughter to feel empowered and like she can accomplish anything she wants.

So I never imagined I would be saddened by Mazzy's unwillingness to wear a dress.

After all, I refused to wear ANYTHING BUT DRESSES, when I was little.

A few weeks ago we went to a Purim party where all the kids were supposed to dress in costume. The story of Purim revolves around a Queen so mostly, the girls dress up as princesses. 

Try as I might to get Mazzy to wear a tutu, it was just not happening. And by not happening, I mean Mazzy stood in the middle of her room sobbing and screaming, "TAKE IT OFF! TAKE IT OFF!" like she had just stepped in a mouse trap.

We scrapped the costume and opted for jeans, a t-shirt and bear ears instead.

Then, at the party, while all the other girls sat with their mothers in little circles decorating crowns with stamps and stickers, Mazzy ran around in the back with a bunch of sword fighting ten-year-old boys.

I tried to slow her down and bring her back to the safer, more ladylike activities but it was no use. Mazzy had discovered that if she picked up enough speed, she could slide across the dance floor on her knees.

Three times she was taken out by an older boy and just got up to continue running. No crying. Mazzy doesn't cry unless she's really hurt. (I'm excluding emotional meltdowns, of course.)

The girl's got no fear. She's tough as hell. She's kind of bossy. And now she wears t-shirts and baseball caps on a regular basis. 


My husband, that's who.

Even her semi-patronizing displays of affection point to lessons learned from my other half.

"Awww….Mommm-Meee. I love you." She'll say as she gives me a brief crooked one-armed hug before running back to what she really wants to do.

On Friday, Mike and I went to a parent teacher conference at Mazzy's pre-pre-school. I expected them to give us a glowing review just like last conference. But this time, they said in the nicest way possible— Mazzy's been acting a little agressive lately and won't sit still.

I looked over at my husband's restless leg itching to get out of there.

Yep, I thought— don't look at me…