Rejecting pink

My daughter spent the day rooting out the last vestiges of pink in her bedroom. 

Only three years ago, while house hunting, she begged her daddy to buy a particular one because it featured a pink, girly bedroom.  As soon as we finished moving all the furniture into the house we chose, daddy decorated her room with butterflies, flowers, and – you know – pink. 

Then she turned into a teenager.  It happens to the best of us.

Over time, the stuffed animals got relegated to the closet and the china dolls to a bottom drawer.   The pink and lavendar pillows fell behind the bed and stayed there.  When an older friend offered her curtains and a bedspread done in animals prints, she grabbed them with a big grin.

Last week, she went off to California on a spring break adventure hosted by the grandparents and celebrated her 13th birthday with her “triplet cousins,”  who just HAPPEN to be little girls turning thirteen, too.  When she came home, her bedroom seemed just a little too childish for her, so she fixed it.  The framed kitty picture came down.  An afternoon with a spray bottle took care of the butterfly wallpaper border, and a ruthless rampage through the closet and the pink plastic chest of drawers took care of the rest.  Those drawers are in a corner of my living room now, looking for a new home.

She doesn’t miss the pink. 

I do, a little.


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