When I was Three, My Painted Toenails Almost Got My Family Excommunicated

I am the eldest child.  Therefore, there was a moment in my life when I was siblingless and had the undivided attention of my parents.  The three of us lived in harmony and unparalleled happiness.  I have no recollection of this, but I have a hypothesis that I simply blacked out from the sheer volume of joy.

I hit my renaissance early, unfortunately, because a year later, this golden era was cut short as my mother subletted her uterus to a new tenant.  Shortly thereafter, we incorporated my little sister into our happy little family. 

It didn’t take me long to realize that I wasn’t too keen on this “sister” thing.

Suddenly the attention I was getting had been cut clean in half.  Why were my parents hanging out with my sister?  Why was she so cool?  It couldn’t be the conversation.  She just gurgled like a gunshot victim and poked at my mother’s eyes and face.  If I was having a party, I wouldn’t invite her back, so what the hell did they see in her?

I decided to take a stand.  Seven days after my sister was born, I took a brown crayon and dragged it down the hallway, leaving a huge, crumbly streak the length of the wall.

This temporarily made me the center of attention again, but not necessarily in a positive way.

Attention was attention, though, and I wanted to get the majority of the market share.  To do this, I began thrusting myself into situations where my parents were with my sister and trying to steal the spotlight. 

One day I found my mom painting my sisters fingernails.  Guess who else suddenly wanted his nails painted too?

My mom was incredulous at first, but played along eventually.

"Sure, honey.  What color do you want?"

"Pink."

I chose pink because if my mom wanted a daughter so badly, she was going to get the most kickass daughter ever:  me.   I was going to get my nails painted and she was going to forget all about that stupid toddler cooing in the corner.

My mom made me promise that I would be careful so I didn't get any on the furniture or the rug.  She showed me how to splay my fingers to keep them from bumping in to each other or anything else.

I walked around with my fingers stretched out into stationary jazz hands for hours.  I didn't want to mess up my nails and jeopardize my progenal coup.

This continued for a while.

If my mom and sister were gone for a suspiciously long time, I would go hunting for them and if I found them painting their nails, I demanded to be a part of it.

I had my nails polished.  A lot. 

My mom was well aware of the social taboo of this, especially in the small town in North Carolina where I grew up.  If I ever had polish still on my nails before a school day, my mom would always make sure she used nail polish remover on them.  I didn't really care, but my mom knew that painted nails would attract bullies to me like lone men with mustaches to a child beauty pageant.

But, I didn’t like the smell of nail polish remover, so one day my mom proposed a compromise.  She suggested that we paint my toes instead of my fingers so that my shoes would cover the polish and I could go to school without having to get it cleaned off.

I was sold.  She painted my toes from then on.

Weeks went by, and the painting of my toenails continued.  I got to steal the spotlight from my sister and I didn’t have to suffer through the stench of acetone.  Everything was going according to plan.

Then, one day, the pastor of our church, Mr. Walters, came to our house to visit my sister to see how she was doing after her recent baptism.

Mr. Walters was a very nice man, but his principles mirrored those of our small town.  He was very…how to put this.  He was very white.

My parents were giving Mr. Walters a tour of the house, when I popped out of wherever I had been previously and pattered through the room. 

Mr. Walters greeted me.  "Hey, son.  How are y-"    

He stopped short as he noticed that my toenails were bedazzled with a fresh coat of lime-green paint.

“Are your toe nails painted?”  He asked me as he looked at my parents.

My mother threw my father a furtive glance.  I could see that she was nervous, but I wasn’t sure why.  I decided that I would clear up the situation.

“Yes, my mom painted my nails.  She paints them because I’m a better daughter than my sister.”

Mr. Walters brow furrowed. 

“Nail polish is only for girls, though.  You know that, don’t you?”

“Well.  I showed Bobby at school and he liked it.  I think he asked his mom to start painting his nails too.”

Mr. Walters’ jaw dropped.  He had found the gay patient zero of the church’s preschool class!  No wonder all the boys had started playing with dolls!  It was spreading!  The R-Naught must be astronomical!  (Tidbit:  I watched Contagion yesterday)

My mother whisked me away up to my room and left me there while she went downstairs to diffuse the temporarily speechless pastor’s growing urge to prescribe me a homosexorcism.

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That was the last day I asked to get my nails painted.  My mom didn’t tell me I had to stop, but even at that young age, I could tell something was amiss.  It was clear that this man didn’t want me to paint my nails, but I had no idea why.  I just wanted to edge my sister out of the family equation, what was the big deal?

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Disclaimer:  My position toward my sister has evolved since I was 3 years old and now I don't mind her as much.