I don't know what to think of our daughter's future...I really don't. Rather, it's not so much that I fear for her, but that I fear for the men who will inevitably fall under her spell, only to find themselves turned into trolls and enslaved in her enchanted garden where they will be forced to bring her tea cakes and peel blueberries for her all day.
Here's the thing: They're already dropping like flies.
Recently, I've noticed gradeschool-age boys gaping dumbstruck as she strolls by. It's like their eyes are drawn irresistibly to that little rosebud of a face. The other day, we were going for a run downtown, and we passed a boy of about nine or ten shadow-sword-fighting with a pole on the side of the street. As we passed, he dropped his "sword" and gazed at QQ with that particular, loopy look people get when they see her for the first time. When he could finally tear his eyes away, he looked up at me and said, in a deadly-serious voice, "She's cute."
The very next day, we were at the mall running some errands, and happened to pass by the pit-of-germs that passes for a play area for toddlers. (As you can tell, I'm not a big fan of those crowded mall play areas, so we tend to avoid them like the plague). The older brother of one of the toddlers was sitting on the wall of the play area, looking bored and kicking his feet in the air while his sister clambered around on the plastic waffles. And let me tell you, this kid was a looker - he was gonna grow up to be a hottie, for sure. Dark curls, syrupy skin, long black lashes. When he saw QQ, his face did that same loopy thing that they all do. And....here's what frightens me more - I saw QQ notice his glance and instantly turn on the charm. She batted her eyes and dimpled and and smiled and waved her rubbery little hand, and the kid just visibly melted. You could feel it happen. "She's cute!" he told me. "Yeah," I said. "We get that a lot"
Yesterday afternoon, on our way back from the art museum, we passed a gaggle of hardcore teenagers, pierced, tattood, spiked and clad in ragged clothing and combat boots. Next thing I know, QQ is dimpling and reaching out to high-five a young man with anarchy symbols tattood on his shaved head, and a spike through each side of his mouth, chin, and both eyebrows. He grinned back at her, showing still more internal piercings. QQ just waved and cood and batted her eyes at him.
Of course, it's all very innocent. It's even funny to watch at this stage. But these boys, they don't know what they're gonna be up against. Because, let me tell you, QQ knows her arsenal of weapons well and uses them with deadly accuracy in order to get what she wants. She will take your cheeks between her tiny hands and press her little peach-smelling mouth against yours, all just to get you to reach her something off of a high shelf. In the middle of a busy road, she will say "Ma-ma?" in her most lilting and syrupy voice, just to watch your head whip around to see what she might need back there in her carseat. Then she will laugh out loud in amusement at how easily she was able to make you jump to attention. Trying to talk on the phone when she wants the attention for herself? She will dimple and coo and rub eskimo kisses onto your nose, and giggle sweet nothings into your ear, and tickle your chin, until you've completely forgotten any sort of conversation you were attempting to carrying on, and the person on the other end of the line is thoroughlyexasperated with your lack of attention. That's our Q. She has the power. She knows it. She uses it. It's like she has fairy dust that she sprinkles in the eyes of all of those around her, leaving a trail of staggering, cross-eyed acolytes in her wake, all ready to catch her ball for her, pick up the toys that she drops in her wake, bring her bits of chocolate and packets of sugar - anything in order to bask again in the sweet sorcery of that enchanted smile.