I don’t paint my nails. Partially because I cannot be bothered with it, partially a rebellion from my childhood where my nails were always an issue (I bit them--still bite them sometimes) and the argument usually with my mom and my mom’s mom was if I was good and did not bite them, I would get to “do” my nails. So, despite my TomBoy oath, when I was growing up, I did paint my nails and have earrings. As I got older, the colors reflected my teenage tastes and once I got into college—well, we entered into the “I can’t be bothered” phase I am in now.
I will occasionally paint them, but my husband doesn’t actually like painted nails, so I have further reason not to be bothered.
However. My daughter. She has found this ritual FASCINATING. Her daycare provider was painting her nails one day…and a few weeks later, I come to pick her up and my daughters toenails were painted.
Every so often this becomes something that she wants to do. For a while I had set aside a paint brush and water for her to play at painting her nails, my nails…whoever would let her. (Cats said NO)
I thought it was a phase, hadn’t heard about nails in about a month—and then last night. I picked her up from daycare and she was displaying her feet, asking our provider to paint her nails. I wanted to get moving (brother was in the car) and get home, so I said—we can do that at home.
She did not forget that. So, as I enter the house and try to get a few things done (fix garbage can that Kif got into; feed the cats; help steer hungry boy onto fruit before eating a popsicle; steer him into prioritizing his homework; look at the mail). All was done with “nails now?” in the background.
We go up to my room. I only have two nail polishes. Black and glow in the dark. (obviously for Halloween)
I decide on the glow in the dark polish. And we sit on my bed and I paint her nails. And she paints mine. And I smile, because I can see I will be needing to buy some more nail polishes soon in my future…and I don’t mind a bit.
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