Are You Her Babysitter?

I dropped my daughter off at preschool one morning last week and two of her girlfriends, probably five years old, ran to meet us at the door. One of the girls eagerly helped squeeze her lunch bag onto the shelf, and then looked at me as if for the first time. Are you her babysitter?Ӕ she asked. I said, No. IӒm her mom. She pet my daughterԒs silky jet-black hair and looked at me strangely, impressed yet unconvinced. My daughter crinkled her eyebrows and pulled her head away. Her friend stopped petting her. But you donӒt look alike, she said to me, looking from one of us to the other and back again. My hair is strawberry blonde, long, less silky than my daughterԒs. My skin is pale and freckled. My daughter's whole body is bronze. We have lots of colors in our family, donӒt we? I asked my daughter. She was now sitting quietly on a small chair next to us, gazing evenly at me. All morning, sheԒd been distracted and slow, not eager to come, and she was clearly content to let me handle this conversation on my own. I realized she had never yet held this conversation, herself. But she would, many times. What I said next mattered. Why do you always drop her off?Ӕ her other friend, Martina, chimed in, bouncing lightly on her feet as she spoke. My little girl looked at her. Because I love her, and I want to see where she spends her day.Ӕ No,Ӕ Martina explained. Why doesnӒt her dad come? ԓOhhh. I understood. ԓShe doesnt have a dad. She has two moms,Ҕ I told them, with an excited emphasis on the two moms. Hey Ӗ thats like Nicholas,Ҕ the first girl told Martina. I smiled. Cool,Ӕ I said to the girls, as I unfolded myself from the crouched position Id been holding just inside the classroom door. ғI gotta go, love. I gave my daughter a kiss on the top of her head. She stood, but lingered at the door a moment. Quickly, her new friends pulled her inside, gaining a small smile from her, and they disappeared together into the classroom. And I understood what IԒd heard so many times from political activists and moms, alike: THIS is why we share about our family. So a five year-old can say simply, ThatӒs like Nicholas! when I explain the two-mom thing, and affirm the interracial make-up of our family. And our children, in all their colors, shapes and sizes, with all their different families, can go about the business of stringing beads and squishing clay with their friends.