Pudd’ng is now into make-up and stilettos

Battle lines are drawn. And they are drawn with lipstick, face powder, lip gloss, mascara, and all manner of cosmetics.

The players are moms and daughters. I can see it in our house. Tenderoni versus Pudd’ng. It’s subtle, but it’s there alright.

There are times when these battle lines become real. Like this afternoon after church. Tenderoni decides to take a nap. Pudd’ng isn’t one to take a nap, especially when there are cartoons to catch up on. But, shortly after, daughter follows mom.

It is what Pudd’ng does – or doesn’t do right – while mama’s asleep that makes mama to lose face. Literally. Tenderoni woke up normally, passed by the bedroom mirror, where the image staring at her made her balk. I think. She must’ve done a double take, which prompted her to read the riot act.  

It’s one thing going to sleep with one face. It’s another waking up with another. Am I lucky, or lucky? Had I taken a nap, I would have woken up looking like a wannabe metrosexual whose makeup attempt went awfully drag.

Beautification and the blues

Months ago, our daughter blundered. Big time. She partly blamed her friends. After a talk and profuse apologies, we agreed that one thing she will be doing is thinking for herself.

Still, I know Pudd’ng is not totally sold out to this notion. When she’s hanging out with her girlfriends, thinking is a corporate affair. 

One Sunday, after church, they visited her cousin’s place. She returned with fingernails and toenails painted red. “It’s my cousin who did my nails,” she replied when I asked.

“What happened to thinking for yourself?”

Silence.

Come Monday morning, she got the blues. The obedient schoolgirl was convinced that her teacher would punish her. We had to literally scrub off the nail polish. If only she had thought about that – and thought for herself – she wouldn’t be freaking out. 

This proves one point. Sometimes for little girls, when instant beautification rears its fine head – pfft – logic disappears. 

Exchange program

This morning before Tenderoni took Pudd’ng to school, I heard her asking baby girl what lotion she had used. “I can’t see it where you always keep it,” Tenderoni went on, ruffling through our daughter’s stuff, searching for the tube of Cussons Baby Lotion.

It was probably buried somewhere between the cluttered clothes that, I reckon, only our daughter loves “arranged” that way.

That’s not the first time that mom has used daughter’s lotion. Same applies for daughter. Severally, I have heard Pudd’ng asking, right before they leave for school, if she can use Tenderoni’s lip gloss. As if on cue, mom will also start searching for the misplaced item.

My (unspoken) clue: clutter is where she always keeps it.

With these “exchange programs”, I guess our daughter is starting to feel as if she has certain cosmetic entitlements. I’ve even heard her say that she wants a weave. Imagine. My stuff is safe – from misplacements, misuse or hogging – because of one instructive word written under the brand name: MEN.

Powder struggles

Anything that reads “beauty product”, especially female, will get our daughter’s attention. Now she’s taking over the wardrobe. Sometimes Pudd’ng wears Tenderoni’s stilettos and struts – more like staggers – around the house, seeking our opinion on how she looks.

This Sunday, instead of taking a nap, Pudd’ng got her little hands on her mother’s face powder, and got carried away. I think she first did her own pretty face and, wanting to surprise mom, decided to give her sleeping sucker an impromptu makeover. 

“What just happened?” I heard Tenderoni screaming, a couple of hours after waking up. By then, the usual suspect was in her bedroom, making cute clutter of it. Most probably, she had forgotten about her makeover misdemeanour.

“How many times have I told you not to touch my things?” Client screeched, as Makeup Artist screamed her head off.

Reality check. When it comes to cosmetics, mama ought to know that there isn’t such a thing as “my things”. Not now. Not ever. She better get used to it already. Me? Man, I’m non-aligned in these powder struggles.

27 kilometres

PSST. As we’re coming home from school, Pudd’ng gives me the day’s lowdown.

“The last time I measured my weight was when I had diarrhoea, and you took me to the hospital, and I weighed 20.”

I remember that time. About two-or-so years ago.

“Dah-dee? When I weighed myself today, I found out that I’m 27.”

I weigh in on this weighty matter: “27 what?” I ask.

After a long pause, she shoots: “27 kilometers.”