They have to be just right–match the lining on the curtains and the border on the photo frame. Why? Just ’cause.
My problem is choice: Raspberry Pink, Fuchsia, Rose, Bubblegum (it’s horrid); I just can’t think of the right pink!
I never thought I’d care this much. But turns out I do.
And now that I’ve got my own place to decorate, I’ve translated it to mean where I live somehow reflects who I am. And that if the lime green doesn’t blend perfectly with the cream, I’m subject to judgement.
By whom?
Friends, random visitors, the delivery man, and anyone on Skype.
This obsession with the perfect pink has led me to the obsession with a perfect child.
Perhaps when you have your own little person to call yours, you want everything to be just right. You show off this new possession to the world, and should anything be out of line (or out of shade), you’re afraid the finger will point at you and say, “Look how she raised her child.”
It’s a stretch, I know–babies and bedsheets.
But I’ve discovered that the same patterns of behaviour manifest in strangely separate ways.
Kids ask unimaginable questions:
“Mum, why can’t I keep my nits as pets?” ()
A child’s imagination makes you fear his vulnerability, and you warn him against strangers. ()
This overprotection becomes overbearing, and you no longer recognise your son. ()
He grows up into his own person, facing his unique fears. ()
Thirty years later, he credits you, his mother, for being the inspiration. ()
How did it all fall into place?
I’m not sure, but the point is it has. Like how I found the shade of sheets I was looking for last night. They’re called “Baby Pink”.
