Right before Thanksgiving, during the most convenient possible time of year, our dishwasher died.
It suddenly & irrevocably refused to close.
I couldnt fix it, the Tornado couldnt fix it, the Traveling Husband wasnt around to fix it & the plumber (who was here visiting for a different broken-stuff reason) was irrationally pissed & frustrated he couldnt fix it.
I share this with you as I believe there are no accidents.
The days which followed taught me a lesson about the Tornado, life & human nature.
I immediately bought myself a pair of utilitarian yellow dish-washing gloves.
The Tornado spied a pink pair at the store & promptly set to helping around the house in order to earn them.
I knew better than to think she planned to wash dirty dishes with her pink procured pair.
I assumed she’d wear them in the bath & hoped she’d be distracted & would let me wash her hair without a fight (and yes. I also had the delusion hair washing time might become fun! I could borrow her gloves & we could play hair salon. I naive like that.)
I was wrong.
I surprised her with the gloves one morning and she immediately fashioned a pink outfit to go with her new accessory.
I assumed she’d play in them around the house, yet when I told her it was time to leave she announced she was ready.
Gloves still firmly in place:
We ran errands & stopped for a banana-snack.
Never did the gloves leave her HAD TO BE SWEATING fingertips.
We headed to the library to return books & for story-time.
I assumed *here* she’d remove the gloves as she’d be surrounded by her gloveless peers & playing.
I was mistaken.
And the day(s) continued in this manner.
All pink-glove clad. All the time. No matter the activity (they actually seemed to help in her sportball class. who knew?).
She wore em all day *until* it was time bath-time when she’d take them off and put them away (of course).
Why am I sharing this with you?
Sure as her mom I think this is nauseatingly sweet—but that’s not why.
More than anything to do with the Tornado & her penchant for pinkery I was surprised by the reactions of adults.
More than anything to do with the Tornado specifically they all shared with me a deep longing to return to their pink dish washing gloved days.
Each adult who yanked me aside to make sure I’d gotten a picture also shared she wished she were young enough to do what she wanted and not give a damn what society thought.
To them a five year old wearing pink rubber gloves was cute— yet a woman of indeterminate age donning the same was, well, mildly insane.
This was simultaneously sad & thought provoking to this misfit.
When do we lose our ability to don our pink gloves & is there a way to avoid this happening?
The longing in these women *not* to care what others thought was palpable & made me more determined to foster the trait in the Tornado for as long as possible.
It also caused me to step back & attempt to identify what my pink gloves were.
Are they my tattoos?
My non-traditional career choice?
Or, is there a pair way way back in my childhood, Ive completely forgotten I ever put on?
And thats where I leave you today.
With the question (rhetorical or not. you decide.) what are your pink gloves & do you don them anymore?
Please to hit us all up below…