I am somewhat amazed by the fact that this will be the third post I’ve written about bikinis in the past week, particularly since it’s the first week of April. But Seconda is wildly obsessed with bikinis: in particular, a hand-me-down pink string bikini which I would have instantly tossed in the garbage if I’d had any idea how much she would have grown to love it.
I’m not the kind of mother who would intentionally buy my four year-old a two-piece over a one-piece. Don’t get me wrong, I love bikinis -- I wouldn’t be caught dead in a one-piece, even now when I risk being asked if I am pregnant again when I am, definitely, not. And it’s not so much that I think they are inappropriate for a little girl. In fact, I don’t think they are inappropriate. If Sec were older, maybe – 7 or 8 – then maybe. But she’s so little now, I don’t find her wearing bikinis, or smearing lipstick over her lips like a crazy clown, or her wearing my high heels inappropriate, because she’s barely out of toddlerhood and she’s just pretending. But I also don’t think it’s necessary. I feel the same way about video games. I’d never introduce the idea to Primo, but when someone else did, I didn’t very well say “No” altogether because if you handle it responsibly, then video games are fine.
My point is that I have no freaking idea how it happened that my daughter has been wearing a pink string bikini nonstop for the past four days. Including to sleep. And to school -- though, at my insistence, under clothes. Every time I turn around, I see that kid undertaking some impish shenanigan in her pink string bikini, including drawing on her bunk beds (“I AM RAPUNZEL AND ITS MY ART GALLERY AND DON”T YOU DARE CLEAN IT OFF, MOTHER GOTHEL!”) and sneakily eating a tiny box full of pink Nerds.
But the best part about the bikini fixation is that she can’t remember the word for bikini. This is a kid that, when my mother asks her if she can pick up the jacket she threw on the floor, will reply “Unfortunately not.” She has no problem with big words but the word “bikini” eludes her completely. Instead, she refers to her preferred swimwear as “her tortellini.”
At first, it was “her ravioli,” It was one of the most formidable communication challenges we’ve ever had, the day I tried to figuring out what the hell she was talking about when she told me next Halloween she wanted to dress up as Ariel in a pink ravioli.
“You want to eat ravioli for Halloween?”
“No Mommy, I want to WEAR IT!”
“You want to wear ravioli? On Halloween?”
“Yes. A pink one.”
“Sure. But why?”
“Because Ariel wears a ravioli with her tail. So I need a tail and a ravioli.”
“OK, I’ll get you a tail and a plate of ravioli.”
“MOMMY YOU ARE DRIVING ME FREAKING CRAZY! I DON”T WANT TO EAT THE RAVIOLI , I WANT TO WEAR IT!”
It was the revelation of the century, really.
After some correcting, she understood that ravioli did not mean bikini. That’s when she switched to a different kind of stuffed pasta. Now its “DID YOU WASH MY PINK TORTELLINI LIKE I ASKED YOU TO MOMMY?” and “I WANT TO PUT MY TORTELLINI ON UNDER MY PRINCESS DRESS!!!”
I don’t like to play favorites but it might be my all time favorite kid-speak ever.
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