Tori stands in the middle of her beautiful, sunshine-filled room, scowling at the walls.
“I don’t like my room. I want it pink,” she says, little hands resting on her hips in a perfect mockery of me.
“Pink? Why would you want a pink room? Your room is gorgeous!”
“It’s not gorgeous. It’s lellow. I don’t like lellow.”
“Yeah, it’s yellow. But it’s also blue and green. And look!” I gesture dramatically at the wall above her bed. “You even have your own sun. Sun for my sunshine!”
“I don’t want the sun.” Her arms cross over her chest, and her scowl deepens. “I want pink.”
“Well,” I sigh. “It’s good to want things.”
“Not going to happen, honey. I’m sorry.”
“Why you so MEAN? I want a pink room. It’s all I ever wanted!”
“Well, I’m sorry. We can’t paint your room today.”
“This weekend?” she chirps.
I’m lying through my teeth, of course. I have no intention of painting her room this weekend. I love her room. Love. It.
Brian and I agonized over every part of it in the months before she was born. We didn’t want anything cutesy, or stereotypical, or, well, pink. We wanted something that would last a while.
So instead, we painted it the colors of summer and decorated it with flowers and sunshine.
Did I mention I love her room? Because I do. In the weeks after her birth, when she was still sleeping in a bassinet next to our bed, I would bring her to the comfy blue chair we had put there and just stare at the sun.
It made me happy. It still does.
And, dang it, she’s three! Surely that’s too young to start making interior design decisions.
But I know it’s just a matter of time.
Sooner or later, I will get tired of the whining. I will start to rationalize that her demands are a good thing, indicative of an independent soul.
And I will give her her pink room.
But I’m not going down without a fight.