Sometime before I could walk, before I even knew about Lincoln Logs, bicycles, and make-up, I had my ears pierced. And even though I have no recollection of this event and couldn't tell you what it even feels like, I've subconsciously worn this like a badge of honour. As if my ears are shouting, "Hey, look how tough I am, I withstood piercing at such a tender age, blah blah blah." And so, before Esmé was born, I intended to raise my daughter like I was raised (as we all do), by hitting up her first birthday with a badass piercing.
Then the day came that this perfectly marvellous, pure, complete, untouched infant was born into my arms. And I sat for days and months staring at her velvet skin, in awe of its flawlessness. The thought of ear piercing sounded horrid, "How dare I ever alter this perfection by sticking an ugly piece of metal through it?"
But things change, I guess. Because just one month before her first birthday, we went for it.
Don't get me wrong, I still faltered. Right up until that dreaded day, I second guessed my decision. And then as we walked into the mall, I braced myself for the wailing and crying that was sure to come.
We sat on a stool together, her on my lap. I adjusted my position several times, stalling as long as I could. She sat contentedly playing with Auntie's cell phone, completely unaware that two armed women were approaching her. Her head was steadied, her arms were held, and... click...
Silence.
Little fingers still pushing buttons on the phone.
We all stared for a second at the baby and her new earrings. Finally someone clapped, "Yay! Good job!" We all joined in. Esmé looked up in confusion, clearly wondering why everyone was erupting in applause.
And that was it. No tears, no tarnished perfection, and no sudden entries into baby beauty pageants.
After all, they are just earrings.
