The other afternoon as we were winding down for nap time, I was cuddling on the couch with Q while she played with her Barbie laptop (or her "pink iPad" as she calls it). 

Normally, I don't like to get too close to that Barbie "computer", but it had been missing for a couple of months (I won't say who was responsible for its disappearance) and she was so thrilled to have rediscovered it. So I sat, clenching my teeth just lightly, as she pressed a button for a numbers game, and commenced matching. Once she had successfully navigated the first level of the game, the rudimentary screen of the computer flashed the silhouette of a woman's purse, and a staticky female voice chirped, "Great job, fashionista!"

At which point, I made a sound. It was a small sound, an involuntary sound, not even what you could call a snort, but apparently Q has reached that point in our relationship that she can guess my line of thinking based on even the subtlest of tells. 

She turned around (I was sitting behind her, her back pressed comfortably into my stomach), and shot me an astute, narrow-eyed glance over her shoulder.

"You don't like Barbie," she said, in an accusatory tone that said "I just realized".

 And at that moment, I had a parenting revelation.

Let me back up and say that I don't have many revelatory moments when it comes to parenthood. I don't over think it. I am not a control freak. I am, much to my own surprise, a very laid-back parent. I go with the flow.

 "Well, you must think about it," said a good friend of mine, who has chosen not to become a parent. "I mean, you don't just parent on instinct?"

"I do just parent on instinct, actually," I said.

Since becoming Q's mommy, I don't read the latest frightening statistics. I don't tremble with apprehension if my daughter eats a cupcake before lunch. I do buy organic foods whenever possible, but I don't censor food choices at restaurants, and I don't leap into self-righteous action if someone offers her a Cheetoh. 

Before our adoption, I had all sorts of ideas. I imagined myself enforcing a strict moratorium on Disney Princess movies, video games, and social media. I read up on the least-toxic type of finish for wooden toys (and yes, I imagined her playing only with wooden and/or homemade toys). I learned how to aerate a new crib mattress so as to run the least risk of releasing toxins into the air of my child's room. 

I also read everything I could get my hands on, and trust me, when you are preparing to adopt a child - a child with medical needs, no less - the list of recommended literature is both staggering and terror-inducing. Two or three books on post-institutional-trauma could easily result in several prescriptions for panic-disorder medication for a prospective adoptive parent.

I stayed up late into the night, month upon month, plowing through tomes on the subject of attachment disorders in abandoned and/or institutionalized children. I read one heart-rending case scenario after another until my hands shook as I held the books under the tiny circle of my bedside lamp. I read of parents whose adopted children physically attacked them, and others who suffered from such debilitating post-adoption depression that they were unable to display affection to even the most gentle and willing child. I read forum upon forum on the subject of post-adoption palate surgeries, the pitfalls, the surgical failures, the children who refused to eat for weeks after surgery, or woke each night with violent post-traumatic night terrors that left the parents torn, battered and defeated.

By the time we were finally cleared by both governments to travel to China and meet our then 11-month-old daughter, I was grim and clenched and ready for every worst-case-scenario known to mankind.

And then we brought her home. 

Stunned and disoriented at first, sure, but the happiest, smiliest, most resilient of children. After the first disorienting weeks, I fell into a sort of waking dream from which I have yet to emerge. With all my studying and worrying, all my worst-case-scenarios and personal fears, I found that parenting the Q was an exercise in pure, unadulterated joy. 

For two and a half years now, I have lived from day to day, confident in the fact that I did all my studying and my worrying and my dire predicting ahead of time, and that now I am free to simply enjoy. 

So, my revelation, you ask? 

Well, here's the thing. I am not a control freak as a parent, except when it comes to aesthetics and taste. 

When I was small, my parents schooled me in culture and art and the finer points of good taste. They took me to art museums and gave me books far above my age level. My mother forbade me Barbie dolls and refined sugars, and gently told me that I was not to emulate a school-friend's style of dress because it was "a bit tacky". My parents urged me to play out of doors, to read  use my imagination, do draw and sculpt and create rather than purchase and own. My mother disliked the color pink, and so I did as well. 

My greatest secret fear has been that my child would want to wear pink princess outfits and play with Barbie dream homes, that she would prefer Cheerios to salmon fillets, that she would want to watch Cinderella and wear plastic tiaras and gaze into vanity mirrors saying "Who's the fairest of them all?"

But when she turned to me with that hurt look that said, "Mommy doesn't like my Barbie toy, and all this time I never realized..." It broke my heart a little. This one toy was not going to hurt her. She doesn't even like Barbie dolls. But she likes the color pink, and she likes this little computer that lets her play number games. And what harm is there in that? This toy was not going to hurt her, and there was no need for me to scoff at the toy that she was enjoying. So I took her face in my hands and apologized for laughing at her toy. "You know what, Q" I said. "You're right. Mommy isn't crazy about Barbie. But this is your toy that you enjoy, and that's OK. You and Mommy don't always have to  like the same things. We can be different and still love each other very much."

These are things that I was discussing, quite rationally, with a three-year-old. A three-year-old who calls herself my daughter. And I wasn't just saying these things because I have to. I was saying these things because - here's the thing - it's OK. It's really OK with me.

I realize now, two and a half years into motherhood, that my perceived need for control over my child's tastes came from a deep-seated and entirely irrational fear that she might somehow go off the rails, that only my own guidance could save her from an innate inclination toward wrong things. What I've realized, belatedly, is that I am not worried about this child. I trust her. She is a good and strong and viable human being. She is not like me, nor need she be. She may, in fact, turn out to know things that I do not know, and to understand things about life that I have not yet learned to understand. My place is to gently guide her, yes, on the basis of my own limited life experience. But I need not think that she is about to take the wrong path at every turn, if I let my guard down for even a moment.

Tonight, after a long day of Easter celebrations with family and a distinct lack of napping, we came home to a long, early evening of trying to keep our daughter awake until a viable bedtime. We set her in front of the computer screen for a couple of videos in an attempt to wind her down before bed. I asked her what she wanted to watch, and she began to hum the Spongebob Squarepants theme. Now, I have never liked Spongebob. To me, he is a bit coarse, more than a bit crass, and full of simplistic, scatological jokes that do nothing for me. But I have learned that Spongebob is popular in China, and that her love for him probably stems from his constant presence on the TV screen in her orphanage during the first 11 months of her life. It's a memory that she enjoys.

So I told her, "You know what, Q? You can watch Spongebob for a little while, as long as you don't mind if Mommy doesn't watch with you. Mommy doesn't like Spongebob Squarepants. But remember, if Mommy doesn't like something, it doesn't mean that it's not OK for you to like it. We can have different tastes, and like different things, and we can still love each other very much. And that's OK." 

And, here's the weird thing, I actually meant it. 

ps - Yoli is right, our case is not like all, or possibly even most, cases of adoptive parenting. Many people do experience the worst-case scenarios of post-traumatic attachment disorders, night terrors, and many other issues. Q was extremely lucky to come out so well-balanced and happy, for any number of reasons, most of which we can't know. Partly her particular personality, which is confident and resilient, partly the care and attention that she received in her particular institution (which, it seems, was better than most).  We are all very, very lucky. But I have addressed this subject in other posts in the past. These are not our dragons to fight. We will have others, I'm sure, as time goes on. 

 Happy Easter weekend!

 Do you see that look of anticipation and excitement? 

It kills me every time her eyebrows shoot up into her bangs. 

I had to post this entire series (albeit a series of iPhone shots) because this gift that came in the mail for Q was so unique, so thoughtful, so heartfelt and so special.

 Our blog friend April noticed that Q loves her Keroppis, and went on a hunt for Keroppi paraphenalia left over from her school days. She packaged them all up (each individually gift-wrapped, mind you!), included several origami critters and notes, and sent them off to us.

 The origami-folded letter to Q was of particular fascination for her. So exciting...a secret note just for her!

 Each little wrapped parcel was a new treasure to unearth!

 A little Keroppi vanity case with mirror and comb sent her into raptures!

 But the multi-purpose Keroppi notebook with stickers, stamps and tracing paper was probably her most precious treasure of all.

 She admired each and every origami object one at a time..

 ...and wanted to pin this ribbon to her clothing.

 The origami ladybug was an object of great reverence and respect.

Thank you, April!! You've made a little heart so glad.

Just a moment of pride here while I tell you about the gorgeous and talented Jane D'Haene of Anais & I, who has just launched her new website (and yes, you can shop now!)

And just btw, you can see a couple of my illustrations (look for the bunny and the deer) on her designs for the upcoming fall/winter 2011 collection, which is all-around FABULOUS! So stay tuned!

Q-the-clothing-hater loves Jane's clothes (they are just loose and athletic enough to suit Q's personality), and you will have seen her wearing them frequently on the blog. Her favorites are the summer playsuits and the über-stylish sweat-dresses.

 An afternoon walk to the icecream shop, with the days growing longer and the early spring sun dipping its fingers into the daffodils.

 A new friend on the curb.

 Go home, kitty! For in the street lies danger.

 On the way out, Q had me stop by the local antique toy store for a pink truck that she spotted in the window. Fortunately, its price was not too high, plus it had a horse trailer in tow, with a proud black horse in it, so Mommy was feeling indulgent.

 One of the best toys yet.

 Q loiters and dances on the steps of a local Latino church from which emanates, each time we pass, the most inspiring music.

 Q always wants to linger and listen.

 Picking a tiny flower outside the church doors.

 Such minute and exquisite beauty in a moment.

 At a favorite playground, as the sun begins to set.

I know that there are many who doubt my assertion that Q is a tomboy who worships sports and shuns clothing. Understandable, based on the sartorial extravagance of this blog. 

But I have the photo to prove it. 

If you've never seen the Q actually kiss a basketball, you might not really understand. 

So...here you go. Q making out with someone else's forgotten basketball, while wearing the BOdeBO dress that Mommy literally forced over her head  before leaving the house.

Now do you believe?

 Our Easter eggs!

Q and I did a post on how we made them, over at momfilter today.

The Market is something of a Denver institution. My husband brought me here for a weekend brunch when we were first dating, and still living up in Vail. It's a bit of local flavor in Larimer Square, with its Aegean-blue awnings, its tiled floors and well-worn woodwork, its massive old-world sandwich menu and its expert, no-nonsense coffee bar.

Though we don't often eat downtown anymore, when a sunny Sunday comes along, it's nice to venture into LoDo and revisit an old haunt.

There are no servers - it's strictly counter service, but nothing you could dream of is missing from the numerous menus and chalkboards.

The sandwich board is, as I said, enormous. But when I saw this COUS (creampuff-of-unusual-size) in the pastry case, I had eyes for nothing else. Mike claims that, had it been a creampuff of ordinary proportions, its siren song might have been less strong. But I disagree. Is this not a spectacular creampuff in every way? The touch of marzipan in the cream was my undoing. Fortunately, Q was there to inhale half of it before I got my spoon anywhere near it.

Basking in the sun with daddy.

I love the doors. Do you not love the doors? They make me want to ride a carousel...or eat an oversized creampuff with my bare hands.

When daddy stood to re-button his overshirt before leaving, Q tucked herself inside. Nothing like the warm safety of a daddy's embrace.

Crossing through Writer's Square into the 16th Street pedestrian mall.

The lobby of the clock tower, which unfortunately was not open to the public this year. You can see the disappointment on  Q's face. She loved it when we visited last year...climbing the steep metal stairs between the gargantuan cogs and gears of the great clock, standing on the balcony at the very top for a few vertiginous gun-turret views of the city...

But the lobby has a jazz-age flair to it, and there's a cabaret downstairs. We've never been, but we peeked in, and it's like stepping into Lauren Bacall's dressing room. Or maybe Lotte Lenya's. We might have to get tickets one of these nights.

I don't know the name of this park, though I'm sure it has one. It's actually rather dangerous, and clearly not intended as a playground, but it looks straight out of a Tarsem film, and I couldn't resist snapping some photos...

...while Mike ran around trying to act as a human freefall cushion in case she decided to launch herself over the edge of something high.

A final walk through, escorted by mommy, for everyone's peace of mind.

Lastly, a stop into Union Station, one of Denver's most recognizable landmarks (and perhaps my favorite, visually. But then, I love trains. I really, really love trains.)

The picture at bottom right is actually a scale model, and not the station itself. 

I love the names of the various railroads, and Mike and I both always swoon over the California Zephyr. Can you imagine a name more evocative of a far more optimistic and misty-eyed era of travel? A time when the West Coast was still newly-minted and full of hope, when Restylane had yet to be invented, and no banks of irrefutable smog hung dankly over the orange groves.

For the first time this year, we were able to make our way downstairs to the basement, which serves as home to the model train museum (and a few very impressive safes).

Last year, when we tried, the wait for entry was a minimum of 45 minutes, and the line contained so many double, triple and quadruple strollers that I immediately broke out in hives.

To tell you the truth, I wasn't 100% sure I even wanted to see the model railroad. I mean...

But I have to tell you, after the fact, I'm a card-carrying convert.

Sign me up, I'll join the club. This place is amazing. Just look at that little Indian trading stand, with clay pots on the ground and strings of dried chilis hanging from the rafters. Look at the tiny "Shell Oil" sign. The Sinclair station...

I have a confession to make. If I had money to spare, I would probably be at the antique toy store down the street buying vintage toy cars from the Vietnam vet with one leg, half a dozen medals and a sweeter-than-chess-pie disposition. I know - it's weird. I don't even know how to change my own oil. But I have a thing for vintage cars - particularly toy ones, since they don't require alternator repairs. I blame my parents (and grandparents). My grandfather drove a Bugatti in his 20s, and had a Bentley shipped over from Europe in the early '60s after he relocated his family to the US. One of my mother's first cars was a yellow MGTD. When I was three or four, my parents bought a 1960s Bronze Green Land Rover in which we roadtripped through Europe and then the US. When I was in middle school, my parents sometimes drove me to school or play rehearsals in one of their MGBs (though the brakes were always tricky).
Don't get me wrong, I am not a vintage car person. I can neither fix them myself nor afford the specialty garage fees. I drive a 2008 Subaru Outback with a roof rack and mud mats. But...well, you can see where I get my vicarious fascination.
In any case, judging by the avid look on her face, I'd say the model train museum was a hit with the Q.