Disney World

Disney. 

 So many things come to mind when I hear that word.  Some good, some notsomuch, but one thing I know is that a three-year-old-princess-ballerina-adventurer would love Disney World.  So when my mom and I realized we had just enough time to squeeze in a visit (maybe our last chance before we move beyond driving distance) we went for it.  

 It was a pretty packed trip. 9 hours of driving to get in at 1am, hit the park at breakfast time on Miss's birthday and pack in a day of fast-pass park criss-crossing (we stayed until midnight) then a morning at the pool and another long drive late into the night.  Whew!

Was it worth it? Peanuts.  They don't call it the Magic Kingdom for nothing. 

Little One knew what the top priority was for Her as soon as we got past those castle gates.  

Meet. The. Princesses.  

She was completely star-struck.  She used Her best royal manners; offering Her hand and curtseying, "nice-a meet you!"  She was completely unamused by the overt spunkiness of the tinkerbell lot, but treated Minnie, Mickey, and Pinocchio like old friends.  

After having been introduced to all these VIPs, Little One deemed the trip a success! 

But there was more.  Dancing.  Singing. 

Possibly Her favorite part- "the singer-guys from the Music Man!"

  

Popsicle.  

Nice of Disney to give Little One a free popsicle for Her sister's birthday

And, oh yes.  Rides.  

Little One LOVED the rides.  She didn't even mind waiting in the incredible lines for the rides.  She asked for the kiddie-coaster ("Little too scary, Mama. But it's ok, we can tell Dada how I was so brave on there!") She was giddy over the teacups, She's still talking about the Pooh ride with Nana.  

Now.  

In case any of you felt like taking the word of a teenaged employee, having not been on the ride since loooong before Jack Sparrow swashbuckled, I am here to tell you.  

PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN IS TOO SCARY FOR 3-YEAR-OLDS.   Let alone one-year-olds.  The acrid smell of parental guilt and the thick smoke of impending doom as the boat departed into a dank tunnel ringing with the croak of "Deeaaaad Meeennn Teeelll Noooo Taaaaaaaalllleeeeesss!!" will unfortunately go down as a black spot on our cartoonishly happy Disney experience.  

As will the next six agonizing minutes of huddling together, trying to cover the disturbing soundtrack with my own cheery narrative- 

"Ha ha. Ha.  Look, that pirate has a pet pig.  Cute little piggy! Oooh, those ones are having a big campfire.  Maybe they are running to get marshmallows! Oh yes, silly doggy! Silly doggy tricked those funny pirates into getting in his cage! Look there, he's bringing back the keys! He was just pretending, good doggy! Ha. Haaa haa!  Such funny little pirates!"  Right. 

The physical trembling of my poor Little One (why don't those things have an emergency eject button?) made us a little wary of the next ride.

Especially since my parents are still telling the tale of how I was so horrified on it that I literally tried to jump overboard when I was Little One's age. 

But you all know Little One (aka Little-One-Lilly-Ti-ger!) and Her love of- Peter Pan. So we tried it. 

 

She LOVED it.  In fact, at the end She told every passer-by how UN-scared She was; how much fun it had been.  And how the fact that the croc was letting Hook dance on its head, and that Hook was so joyfully doing so, proved to Her that they were actually both friends. That they were nice, after all! 

If you say so, kid.

What surprised me most was how much Little Miss enjoyed the whole thing.  

She loved it! First of all, It's A Small World.  

"This trippy place is a-MAZ-ing!

 Ho. ly. cow. If I had left Her in there, She'd still be bopping around.  Dancing and grinning, giggling and clapping, waving and ooh-ing and aah-ing.  

A whole land of eternally happy, dancing, tiny people?!  

She found where She belongs, guys.  We went through twice. 

It IS a small world, after all!

Miss was also hugely into the parades, the carousel, and the multitudes of people to flirt with (the one person in Disney who actually likes long lines). Not to mention all the hanging out with Nana time while Little One and I hit the big(ish) kid rides. 

"why did we stop? I need some spurs fer this hoss."

"I get to ring this just 'cause it's my birthday?! You people rock."

We did just about everything there was to do, staying until the park closed.  Disney was even so kind as to provide the Littles with their all-time favorite dinner (salmon and broccoli).  And Nana was so kind as to provide Little One with the one object She had coveted all day long.  

 

It could not have been more magical.  

 

Despite the insanely long, overstimulating, and jam-packed day, despite the no-naps, the late dinner, and the long lines to get anywhere (including out of the park), I am happy to say that there were no tantrums, no cases of the gimmes, no complaints from my little princesses.  

Around 11pm- Little One a little disheveled but still having fun! Missy all magic-ed out.

The only tears shed all day were a few shimmering down Little One's cheek in the moonlight 

as we walked away.  

"Bye Disney wor-wold.  I just miss you so much.  I love you all the days."

At least it didn't break

First of all, today we went to church at the Basilica. It was our first time.  It is "passion Sunday" in lent; a particularly somber mass.  Nearing the end of the very deep (I'm sure, I couldn't really hear the priest, he was SO somber) of the homily, Little Miss- who I could have sworn was two millimeters from a deep sleep guys- suddenly took Her glass baby bottle and chucked it on the hardwood floor. 
BANG!
Ga-baang-baaang-baaaang-baaaaang...
As it rolled, echoing, beneath the sensibly-shoed parishioners of one...two....three rows of pews. 
Luckily She made up for it by waving and blowing kisses to all the people who turned to stare.
"Why hello! You finally all realized you should be paying attention to ME!"
Little One, for Her part, was a perfect angel all mass. Quiet as a ladybug, smiling sweetly and minding Her manners.  Of course, there was the part where we all walk down the aisle for communion.  
A long aisle, looking strikingly like some sort of catwalk. 
Don't worry.  She only took out about three elderly people by tripping, surprising, or slamming into them during Her seriously rockin' dance routine down the red carpet. 
Luckily She atoned for Her sins too, sweetly delivering a handmade masterpiece in crayon and stickers to the priest once we made our exit. 
We know how to make a first impression, don't we?  A lot of people came up to meet us afterwards. All fans, miraculously. 
Church is such a good place to pray, right?  I sent up an extra one.  Something about thank you.  For the lesson in humility, for the kindness of strangers, and for the sweet innocence of my smiling/waving, dancing children.  I couldn't hear what the priest was saying, but thanks to the Littles, I'm pretty sure I got the point. 

Ka-Pow

Sometimes when I have too much to say, I blow a fuse and say nothing at all.
There has been a lot happening around here! After my trip, Little Miss turned one.  That blew several fuses, actually.  We threw a party for Her, and the next day my mother and I (who share the crazy gene, obviously) capriciously decided to haul the kids off on a whirlwind road trip to Disney.  We got back, had to say goodbye to my mom, and had school, and parties, and playdates.  There was St Patrick's day in there too, and a Pristapulka for Miss who is WALKING among so many other things that the upcoming birthday post is going to require a lot more time to write than the current laundry situation can possibly allow.  But it will come, Peanuts, and pictures and all that too.  In the meantime, everyone is ok.  Especially me, because I bought a half-gallon of ice cream for the party, and never served it.  Sneaky.

Celebrating 30

On my first solo vacation in over four years, I expected it to be relaxing.
And it was! Sitting in an airport and having nothing else to do but sit there was pretty amazing, not to mention sitting in front of a fire with a glass of champagne! 
I expected it to be glamorous.
And sitting at the airport bar with my veggie burger and my Guinness (working with practically no interruptions whatsoever, leaving no extra tip out of guilt for floor debris around my spot) was glamorous.  Then we went out to fancy dinner, we went wine tasting...  woo hoo, Peanuts!
Like trying on a ballgown at a designer store I could never afford, I put on this un-mom lifestyle and turned this way and that way, feeling how light the fabric was, admiring the sparkle.
I expected it to the freeing. At 7am when I was still snug in bed, at 7pm when I didn't have to feed or bathe anybody, at the pool where I wasn't the slightest bit concerned that anyone might drown, I might as well have had actual wings.

Birthday Candles

Getting together with the girls I have shared over a decade of ups and downs and hysterical laughter with, I expected it to be fun.  I expected the joy and the gratitude for knowing such amazing people.
I was not disappointed.
But there were a few surprises.  The champagne and sweet note waiting for us in the room, sent by my thoughtful sister was a good one.  Being told by the "yoga" teacher to "grab onto our stomach flab, shake it like jelly, and laugh like this: 'ha-ha-ha-hee-hee-hee'" was certainly not expected.  Nor was finding myself locked into a "family" restroom, pumping milk at the Dallas airport.  (Well I didn't want to overdose on the glamor guys.  There must be balance, right?) 
But the thing that surprised me most about this trip was that while of course I also expected to miss my little family, I could never have guessed that I would miss them SO. Much.
It's Something, I think, that even though I truly had the most wonderful trip and birthday celebration possibly imaginable, I still missed my babies, my J, and my mom (at my house helping with the Littles) so very, very much.  So sharply, constantly much.
The truth is that traveling without the Littles is hugely easier and less exhausting. But airports and airplanes without them are so....boring.  For months I had looked forward to my three-hour layover on the way home from California.  I spent all of those three hours wishing I had my kids with me.
I need trips like this sometimes.  I need to break out of my routine, shake it free, dust off those little corners of Me shoved into storage 99% of the time.  A good spring cleaning.  Try on something new and different just to shake things up a little.
And also to remind me that while it's fun to try on the fancy-free ballgown sometimes, well it just doesn't suit me as well as the sundress with the spots of magic marker and babyfood at the hem.
To reiterate our collective birthday toast to ourselves: Here is to turning 30.  A happy day, a great day.  Because we all happen to be exactly who and where in life we want to be.  Can't beat that. 

 

All My Stuff Fits In One Carry-On

Remember how you felt the night before your first trip to summer camp? Or college?  Like all super excited but also a little nervous and homesick?
Tomorrow at the crack of dawn, I am heading for an airport.  It will be the first time in TWO YEARS that I will spend fully 24 hours away from my babies.  In fact, it will be nearly four times 24 hours, till I get back on Sunday night. 
I am going to miss the holy heck out of my kids and my J.  I have all kinds of guilt and sadness pangs over leaving Little Missy for the first time in Her adorable baby life.  I am not thrilled with the (TMI alert) pumping involved with a separation between mom and nursing child. 
But Peanuts.  I am going to have a three hour layover.  All. By. My. Self. 
I will read.  !!!  And sip something that would both stain and scald if spilled and I will sit. very. still. 
It will be glorious.  People my nails are painted.  Yup, all of them, and do you know what that means?! I will be actively engaged in practically zero menial labor for the next four days. That's what.    
I'm not going to vacuum an ever-loving thing. And I'm going to wear things that are dry clean only, and I am going to have a martini and I am going to do it with two of the best possible people out of six and some billion on the planet.
Two of my very best friends since high school and I are all about to take on a whole new decade in life.  So some time ago, we made a decision.  We are not going to bemoan the passing of this decade and the involuntary reassignment into a new census bracket, no.  We are not taking this getting older crap laying down! Nope, we're going to celebrate the awesome fantasticness of the next 10 years. 
So even if I did get a little teary-eyed putting the Littles to bed tonight, I know that with J and my mom here they are in good hands.  And, after a weekend of celebrating and relaxing with people who make my heart happy, when I get back I think they will be in better hands with me, too.  Happy hands. Zen hands.  Shiny, pink, nail-polished hands. 

Mommy Fail.

Today all the gals are sick. 
Little Miss and I woke up looking just icky and feeling the same.  Little One swore She was well and wanted to go to school.  So I jinxed myself nicely by saying, "Ok, but if you feel sick at ALL, you have to tell your teacher to call me so I can come and get you."  She promised. 
J dropped Her off at school and I spent the next few hours comforting a very fussy Little Miss. 
I spent a good long time nursing, cuddling, reading, rocking in Her nursery and had just set Her down for a late nap, when I heard something odd, and the dogs went wild. 
Something by the front door.  Like someone was trying to get in. 
I tiptoed down the hall, trying to make it out, when I heard a man's voice, clearly coming from inside my house.  OMG. 
But after a brief moment of panic, I realized that I recognized that voice, and rushed to the door. 
Where I found one of J's close friends standing in my living room, holding my daughter. 
"I've been knocking," he said, as if that fully explained what the heck was going on. 
"Um...the school has been trying to call you? J was calling?  I called, too....but She was sick at school so they asked me to pick Her up."
Being the only person we knew when we moved here, he was our "emergency contact" person. Apparently, Little One did exactly what I said and told Her teachers She was sick when She started coughing, wheezing, and running a fever.  And they had been trying to call me for an HOUR AND A HALF!  I never heard the phone.  J didn't answer because he was at work. 
I'm pretty sure I've kicked myself from every possible angle for this, but if you see any new ones, feel free to kick also.  I apologized profusely to our friend and to Little One, then called while Missy screamed (the commotion having wiped out any chance for that nap after all) to apologize to Little One's teachers.  And I'm sure I'll soon be apologizing to parents for their kids catching whatever this nasty bug is.  Kick. Kick. 
There have been several instances recently where the school did not call me and I wished they would have.  The one time they actually do call, I don't even pick up.  Thank goodness it was a cold and not something worse.  Kick. 
This cold is pretty nasty, I haven't slept, and I'm worn out from taking care of the two sick Littles this afternoon.  But nothing feels nearly as bad as having let my daughter down.
Sometimes I feel like I've got the hang of this parenting thing, but then again.  Some days it kicks my youknowwhat.  Ouch.

Stepping Up

Yesterday at exactly 8:23am, something big happened!
Little Miss stood up. She didn't wobble.
I held my breath, She held onto nothing.  Then She reached out for me, took a step, and fell into my arms. I clapped and exclaimed, pulled Her to Her feet, and let go. I stepped back as She balanced there.
We've done that dozens of times.  She thinks about it, sometimes She starts to move forward, then you can see Her deciding "Nope! Not gonna go there!" and She plops down.
But yesterday.
She stood there kind of hovering.  Thinking it over.  Then She sllooowwwly, slowly lifted Her arms towards me, keeping that precarious balance... and She went for it!
A step! Two! THREE steps!!! 
And then whoa! Teeter, wobble.  She fought to hold on for a moment, came to a balance again for a moment, then looked up at me and grinned. And dove into my lap.
After that, She demanded an immediate nap.  Whew.  Walking wears a girl out!
WALKING!  Guess who else around here is about to get worn out.
From the chasing a walking toddler, but also from the cheering Her on.  Go Missy, GO!  Yay! 

J's Job Description

Remember Little One's description of what I do all day? Today it was J's turn.  All the kids were asked what their dad does all day while they are at school.  Here is Little One's answer:

"He works at work and he comes home and gives me a kiss"

As far as I know, that is the right answer.

MARDI GRAS!!

Down here, they have this little thing.
Called MARDI GRAS!!.
It's kind of a big deal.
For our introduction into MARDI GRAS!! some of our new friends helped us get started.  For one, we were given our first ever "King Cake", which is similar to a familiar (to me) Mexican tradition, but with a twist. 
We were told all about the holiday from those who have been here long enough to know, and we decided to jump right in.
Did you know that the birthplace of the MARDI GRAS!! parade is not actually New Orleans, but Mobile, Alabama.  Fact!  Since the New Orleans version of this celebration is just a teeny bit much for the under-threes, we decided to check out Mobile's time-tested, original version.  Mobile understands our wish to participate without scarring our children. Too much.  So the parade there has a special "family friendly" street, where there is no alcohol or nudity, and the people on the floats throw stuffed animals along with beads and moon-pies.
It was packed, and given my many experiences with various DC-area parades, along with the wild reputation of MARDI GRAS!! I was a little apprehensive as the street filled.  But you know what's nice about the South? Even when they get wild down here, they still have manners. People kindly made room for us at the front so the Littles could see.  The people next to us shielded the kids from incoming moon-pie projectiles and chatted jovially with us between floats.  The older kids caught prizes and handed them sweetly to my girls. Amazing.
 The parade itself was LOUD, colorful, quite the spectacle.  There was music, costumes, amazingly decorated floats.  We caught obscene amounts of beads and other 'treasures' and had a really nice time hanging out with friendly strangers.  It was purely fun. 

So fun, in fact, that when our own town had a local version, we went to that parade too! Even though it was raining, we had a good time there, too!
Little One did get a bit chilly.  I wrapped Her up like a little waif in my scarf, and Her pitiful look turned out to be a great marketing strategy, as people jumped down from floats to gently slip scores of beaded necklaces over Her head.  Between all the attention, the goodies, the music, and the allergy-safe moonpies, She had a ball in spite of the cold.

And Missy? Oh lord. 

Heeeyyy! 

Rain? What rain? Cold? What cold? Insanely loud noise and overwhelming crowds and sights and sounds?  Bring it! Love it!

Up Top! We scored tons of random stuff!

Our little MARDI GRAS!! queen sat up as high as we would lift Her and grinned ear to ear.  She waved the princess wave and clapped Her hands for all who passed.  She giggled and
squirmed with delight when She was bestowed with beads or a teddy bear, She bounced Her diapered-booty to the beat of the blaring speakers as they rolled by.  She had SO much fun.  ...Maybe TOO much fun.  I'm thinking I may just have to watch
out for this one!

 
We hit up our favorite fish market and had a big seafood dinner to celebrate, along with our King Cake, and decided that these Southerners know how to have a good party! 
Little One spent the next few days dressed to the nines, parading through the house hurling plastic beads at everyone.
Miss, in the absence of an adoring public, has learned how to get Her sister to fetch Her the box of necklaces, and how to loop them over Her head Herself so that She sounds like a locomotive coming, crawling proudly with Her weight in plastic dragging under Her belly. 
I think it is safe to say that we are all hooked. 
Bon Mardi Gras!!!

If The Shoes Fit...

You know how parents always have Those Stories? About like, the time you stuck something up your nose or whatever?  Something you did that made no sense and drove them nuts?
I blessed my mother with plenty of Those Stories.  One of them would be how even though we lived in the mountains, where it would freeze and snow all winter, I adamantly refused to go to school wearing anything but my patent-leather maryjanes.
Through most of high school, believe it or not, I made my own purses to match each pair of (sky-high-heeled platform) shoes, and I painted my finger and toe nails to match my outfit- every. day.
In college I did my fair share of velour pants and flip-flops- when in Rome, I guess- but I still spent most of those Arizona days in heels and sundresses.
I wore a grey and pink pinstriped, satin-lined business suit and heels to my job interview to be a nanny.  For an infant.  I dressed up for most of my jobs; from director to diaper-changer.
And then I became a mom.
I stopped working and stayed home.  Barely sleeping, rarely leaving the house or interacting with other humans, and spending most of the day handling various body fluids and cleaning agents.  Some strange hormonal imbalance due to childbirth drove me with inexplicable force to chop off my hair (This is an epidemic among new mothers. The CDC should check it out). I wore ballet flats on a fancy day.  
Like Canadian Geese just KNOW which way is south, I intuitively sensed that heels were no longer allowed.  That in my new station in life yoga-pants, T-Shirts, and ponytail was the required uniform.  I wasn't a complete mess (most of the time); I had a washed ponytail, I wore clean ugly sweatpants- I just knew that getting all fancy only to be spit-up on 11 times was silly.  SILLY guys.
But here's the thing.  When I got pregnant with Little Miss it really hit me.
I'm grown up.
I'm not just doing this for now, I'm not doing it on the side.  Someone asked me at a party when I was about six months along, what I "do".  I pointed to my round belly and laughed.  "This is it."
This is it. 
I started thinking about what that means.  I started thinking about what I wanted to "Be" when I grew up. I realized that while the occupation might have varied over the arc of my youth- from ballerina to nurse to professor and so on- what I wanted to Be was more of a feeling; the way I wanted to conduct myself and feel about myself, in any role.  While there are dozens of things I've wanted (and still want) to do when I grow up, you know what I really always wanted to be?  Myself.
Happy with My Self.
And here I am, all grown up. Really.  So if I'm ever going to be what I want to be when I grow up...now is the time.  And so for starters I started waking up in the morning and instead of wearing the "uniform", I started getting dressed like Me.
I was happy to find out how much better I felt from day to day, how much more I felt like I was in the right line of work because I felt more comfortable in my own skin. 
But what really surprised me was the reaction I got from my "colleagues".
Since moving here, where my daughter goes to school with children who all have these dazzlingly pretty moms, for Pete's sake, I have received SO much attention over my SHOES.  I tell you I have had literally dozens of comments- at least one from almost every mom I have met, as well as all of Little One's teachers and several of J's coworkers- about my shoes.  
 People seem to be as shocked by a stay-at-home mom in heels as if I showed up for preschool drop-off wearing a leather cat-woman suit and a couple of writhing-snake medusa heads. 
"You wear those to clean the floors?" "
You can carry a baby around in those?"  
"Is there some reason you wear those all the time?"
In not particularly mean-spirited tones (but still interestingly, I think) I have been called Betty Crocker.  I have been called a Stepford wife.  Partly I guess because I like to bake and do art projects with my kid, but honestly I think it's mostly about the shoes.
I've met some amazing moms here. We've had some great conversations about, among other things, the various complexities of raising girls in today's America.  About the Pink Princess culture and the messages of objectification, materialism, and over-sexualization that batter them from all angles.  Issues I am plenty concerned about.  But when these issues come up, they tend to circle around...to my shoes.  Not in a nasty way, but a "why do you feel the need to thwart my message of feminism by parading about in those contraptions all the time?" kind of way.  A dumbfounded way.  A why on earth would you? kind of way.
Recently during a conversation like this, I was asked what kind of message I think I'm sending to my daughter. By wearing, you know.  THOSE.  All the time.
So I thought about it.
In case you've seen me walking to school in THOSE and you are wondering also, here is the answer:
I don't know.
Little One once overheard Her friend's mother (who is going through a divorce) talk about how the friend's daddy didn't live in her house because her parents weren't married anymore. And for a week She cried every time J left for work because She thought that if he wasn't at home we ceased to be married. And you remember the Say Cheese episode? Not to mention Her interpretation of what I do all day.
Which is simply to say that my child is three and some things are lost in translation.  That She extrapolates what She will from any given circumstance and I have very little control over the way Her brain processes things, when it comes down to it, even when I try.  So I don't know what message my child gets from the elevation of my footwear.
But I can tell you what I hope.
IF my shoes are sending messages to my little girl, I hope they are saying this:

1) Take yourself seriously
You might be the CEO. Or the President! You might not.  Whatever you do, take it seriously.  I don't care if you are a senator or a businessperson or a teacher or a janitor or an artist or a stay-at-home-mom.  Never put "just" before your job-description; not when you say it, not when you think it.  If it's your job, treat it like it matters.  Show up in whatever outfit and attitude help you do that.

2) Get up in the morning and take on the world
Wake up. Today day may bring a jet to France! The day may bring 8 hours of collating papers. It might be seven loads of laundry.  But the point is, go for it. Get up like you are ready to take it on, whatever it is. Take it on! And remember that anything can happen. So get ready for it.


3) Glamor comes from inside
 No, you don't need fancy shoes to be fancy. You don't need to be a princess or a ballerina or a supermodel.  You don't need perfect hair or the perfect figure, or expensive clothes or anybody's permission. Glamorous is about feeling as fancy as you want to be.  Go ahead and wear your party dress to the grocery store.  Wear lipstick when no one else will see it.  Or just be confident and use good manners. Smile. We all have a little princess, a little diva in us. Express yours any way you want to, whenever you want to, as much as you want to.  For you.

4) Have fun with life
Even if you were a princess, life would get mundane at times.  We all have to go through routines and get our chores done.  It's not all five-star hotels and roller-coasters.  Not literally. But day-to-day life is fun- as fun as you make it.  That's why we have sudden dance parties in the kitchen. It's why we jump in puddles. It's why we play dress-up.  Find what's fun for you, then sprinkle it like spices into a pan, all over your life.

5) Don't buy into stereotypes, and don't be afraid of them.
Girls don't all like princesses.  Boys don't all like sports.  Stay-home moms don't all wear sweat pants. Powerful people don't all wear suits. Sometimes the innocuous-looking person is dangerous, sometimes the scary-looking person is sweet.  Wearing glasses doesn't make you a nerd, or smart. Being a cheerleader doesn't make you shallow, or cool. Sometimes tough guys cry. Sometimes little girls in pink tutus are feisty and tough.  Sometimes the mom baking cupcakes in heels is a graduate-degree holding feminist who has worked as both a butt-wiper and construction worker. 
You seriously never know.
So resist the temptation to label others. And, more importantly, resist the tendency to label yourself. If you like glasses, wear them. Don't think whether it will make you "seem" too smart or too nerdy. If you like tackle football, play.  If you like rap, or country, or heavy metal, or showtunes, listen and Rock Out! Never let someone elses idea of of "should" dictate you.


 6) Be Yourself
Which brings me to the Main Thing.  If my shoes are talking and they say nothing else, I hope they say this: Be You.
Don't be what is expected. Don't be what you think is 'normal'. Don't be what doesn't rock the boat.  Be You.
My Nana, in her 90's, still wears splashy colors and gaudy jewelry.  If someone were to call her tacky, she'd say "hell yes I'm tacky! Ha!" But mostly people just call her awesome.  Because she rocks those three-inch hoop earrings. She looks amazing because she is the right kind of coordinated- her outsides match her insides.
Does everyone belong in 3-inch hoops or 3-inch heels?  No. Do I give a flying rat-squirrel if you don't like my style and you prefer air jordans or converse sneakers or tivos or CVS flip-flops? No! Will I be some kind of disappointed if my girls grow up and wear the same pair of scuffed-up hiking boots every single day? Hell NO! Will I be some kind of disappointed if they don't? No. In the much-overused (but I think very wise) words of my sister's ex-boyfriend:  
Girl. You do you, and I'll do me.
Me.
I happen, by whatever concoction of nature, nurture, DNA, MTV, or heavenly mandate, to be a girly girl.  I am not a baggy-jeans T-shirt kind of girl.  I'm a "oooh, can we bedazzle that?!" kind of girl.
I am not a sit-on-the sidelines, follow-the-leader kind of girl.  I'm a walk-tall kind of girl. A maryjanes in the snow girl.   I retain the right to change my Self and my style whenever and however I want to. Because my feet and my Self belong to ME and I can do whatever the heck I want to with them.  But for now, myself has a few pairs of shoes.  They have heels.  And at the moment they fit me.  So I'm going to wear them.