My daughter is trying to wear me out
According to my three-year-old daughter, as she again refuses to put on her jumper for nursery, “blue is a boy’s colour”.
“But everyone will be wearing blue,” I say. “No,” she repeats, “blue is a boy’s colour. It’s ugly”.
She crosses her arms and pouts. She hates the colour blue. Just hates it. Pink is her favourite colour. She would wear a pink jumper no problem but the |nursery jumper is blue. And blue is a boy’s colour.
This is not good. At times like this, I become like a cowardly cop — I just back away and let the perp watch Peppa Pig. (Peppa Pig. Oink! Oink!) I fill the dishwasher while waiting for her to disarm herself. She watches me leave the room, making my excuses: “All right, honey, you watch Peppa Pig (Oink! Oink!) for a few more minutes while I tidy up and,” I add very quietly, “we’ll put your jumper on just before we go to nursery.”
“No,” she says. (There is nothing wrong with her hearing.)
I potter about in the kitchen keeping an eye on her and Peppa (Oink! Oink!). The arms come down, the pout disappears faster than a politician’s promise, faster than a Northern bank note in a white van, faster than a box of doughnuts in a police station The clock ticks on. There is no back-up available. I am on my own. This is it. Custer’s Last Stand. The Alamo. Dunkirk and D-Day. “Hello, honey,” I say, “time for nursery. Let’s put on your jumper.” “No,” she says, “blue is a boy’s colour.” “But you can wear your pink coat over it,” I say. “No,” she says again.
I choose the nuclear option. “Well, Santa won’t bring toys to little girls who don’t wear their blue jumpers. No, he won’t. Santa likes blue.”
She looks at me unafraid. “Daddy,” she says, “Santa doesn’t wear blue either; he wears red.” Peppa Pig. Oink! Oink!