Monthly Archives: December 2013

Baby Girl

She’s got this little round belly and this confidence that just goes on forever.  She sings at the top of her lungs and dances with complete abandon.  Watch me!  Look at this!  I made this song for you!  She is all that is beautiful and if you ask her if she is smart she will yell, “YES!” and then tell you all she knows, and some things she doesn’t.  She knows she is funny and isn’t afraid to tell a joke, and even if no one else gets it, she will be the one laughing the loudest.  If she wants a hug, she will just open her arms and know that arms will enfold her too.  She knows she is loved.  She knows she is precious.

She will always be beautiful to me.  But I want so much, so, so much for her to keep this ability to see the beauty in herself.  When she has lost her chubby baby belly, is that when she will start judging the way her body is shaped?  At what point does the world teach her to lower her voice, her eyes, her head?

I want to wrap her up in her innocent self-love so that it stays with her always, so that she never, ever wonders about her own worth.  I don’t want her to lose her golden-fine little girl hair only to gain her mother’s insecurities.

I can’t stop the world from affecting my child in ways that I will not always like.  But I can show her every day a woman who is not afraid to laugh, to love, to sing loudly, and to dance with abandon.  A woman who loves herself, as she is.


I Should Probably Come With A Warning Label.

This is our first Christmas with a cat.  I was expecting some Christmas tree shenanigans, but was pleasantly surprised at Leeloo’s great restraint.

Then I wrapped her present and put it under the tree.  Her catnip-stuffed present.

Photo credit: Pinterest

I woke up to her circling the tree in a wild-eyed frenzy, batting at ornaments haphazardly, but with no apparent joy.  We adopted Leeloo, so who really knows what sort of shit she was into on the streets.  I’m not judging.  But I’ve seen junkies who didn’t look as desperate as this cat.

You may find it hard to believe, but this is not the first time my Christmas spirit has gotten in the way of good sense.

There was the year when I decided to give my mom hermit crabs and a plant as a gift.  Both of which I bought weeks before Christmas, wrapped, and put under the tree.  You’re welcome, Mom.  Please enjoy these dead things.

I swear, it never even occurred to me that they would die without food or water.  Or oxygen.

Then there was the first Christmas that I fortified myself with antianxiety medication before the family gathering.  It went well.  So well that afterwards I told my little brother, “Wow!  I love those guys.  Everyone was so cool tonight, I probably didn’t even need that Xanax.”

Yeah.

One Christmas when I was a moody teenager (and had yet to be prescribed the calm-the-eff-downs) I got furious with my dad and, in the heat of the moment, decided his Christmas present was going for a swim.  It was a toolbox.  Quite a chore getting it out of the pool once I calmed down.  That’s actually maybe the most effort I’ve ever put into a gift, if you count drying it out and all.  Anytime, Dad, anytime.

There was the Christmas that I made bath products for my extended family and some friends.  They smelled wonderful and were so pretty.  It was sad that I didn’t think to test them out until it was too late.  It was also embarrassing to have to call people and say, “Oh, about the gift, it’s just decorative, okay?  DO NOT LET IT TOUCH YOUR SKIN.”

I’m not even going to go into the Christmas when Santa brought the kids a trampoline.  Yes, I made my husband and my dad put together a 16 foot trampoline in the dark, in the cold, in the snow, on Christmas Eve.  And they did it, because they love me.  Or because I’m scary.  Whatever.

This Christmas I’m going to try use my head for something other than testing to see if the pancake griddle is hot.  Because that freaking hurts.

 

 


Practice Does Not Always Make Perfect.

When my boys were little I used to always cut their hair.  We live in the south, they are boys, buzz, buzz, save 1o bucks.  No big deal.

Thing 1 was about 7 or 8 when he sat down in the chair in my kitchen, towel over his shoulders, ready for a haircut.  I had the clippers in one hand and, unfortunately, the phone in the other.  I made one pass over the center of his head and quietly hung up the phone.

A lot like this, but with less happy.

A lot like this, but with less happy.

That was the last time I cut anyone’s hair until my daughter was about 3.  She had never had a haircut.  Her hair was long and golden and so, so soft.  So long that it was getting in the toilet when she went to the bathroom.  So my husband and I decided to cut the wispy baby hair off, just the bottom 4 inches or so.  We talked about it, and for some reason, I have no idea why, decided that I could do it.

Even I can tell that this is not straight.

Even I can tell that this is not straight.

It makes me cringe just to look at the picture.  How in the hell?  Anyway, obviously after we got done freaking out, we took her and got it fixed.   It was a little shorter than we wanted, but it was reasonably straight.

So after that debacle, I had no intention of ever cutting anybody’s hair EVER again.

But my husband is a pain in my ass.  He cuts his own hair, and then badgers me until I trim the back of his neck and around his ears.  Every time I put it off as long as possible.  Every time I tell him I’m going to mess it up, and inevitably, I do.

Friday night I was working and he comes in and sets up a chair in my office.  I knew what was about to happen.  After he gets done and there’s a pile of hair in the floor he asks me if I’m ready.

I keep typing.

He starts playing a tune with the clippers.  Bzzz.Bzz.Bzz.Bz.Bz.Bzzzzzz.Bz.Bz.

Me: *sigh*  OKAY!

So I go over and grab the clippers and as usual, I have no idea what I’m doing and I start to freak out.

Me:  So…I can’t remember…how high up do I go?

Husband:  Okay.  You got this.  Find where you would make fun of me if I cut it up that high and where it still looks messy, and cut right in the middle of that. (Seriously?  Those are fucking terrible instructions.)

Me:  Hmm.  Okay. Buzzzzzzzzzz.

Silence.

Me:  Ahem.  I think I went too high.  It’s kind of…I think I went too high.

Husband:  You made me look like a dork on purpose, didn’t you?

Me:  No I didn’t!  I have told you and told you that I am not good at this!  I don’t know why you keep making me do it!

Husband:  Because I expect anybody, if they do something over and over again, to get better at it each time, not worse!

Trying to trim around his ears, I may have been a little rough.  I was upset, and also laughing.

Husband:  Is there something wrong with my ears?

Me:  No.  Not with your ears.

Husband:  Just what’s between them? (He knows me really well.)

Me:  Exactly.


Ice, Ice, Baby

In 2009, this happened.  January 25, 2009 to be exact.  That was also my due date.  Since this gorgeous disaster caused us to lose electricity for more than a week, I’m thankful my daughter came two weeks early.  I think it’s pretty safe to say that I wouldn’t have handled a home birth well.

Yes, it was pretty.

Yes, it was pretty.

Imagine, if you will, having a newborn child and two other small children.  In an ice storm.  With no heat, no water, no electricity, and most definitely no sleep.  And No.Way.Out.

No way out.  None.

No way out. None.

Let me just go ahead and admit that I can be a little high-strung.

I did not handle it well when the power went out.  Or the days after that when we camped out in my mother’s living room near her fireplace.  Or when I developed mastitis and thrush in my left breast and feeding my daughter felt like lighting myself on fire every two hours.

There was a lot of crying.

The baby cried some too.

According to the weather people, we are under a Winter Storm Warning.  I haven’t been that concerned, because I don’t have a newborn and we have our own fire now.

But then my husband went to the store to stock up, only to find out that some motherfuckers have bought all the Coca-Cola.

Now I’m panicking.  How does a store run out of Coke?  I don’t even think that is legal. 

Is this the apocalypse? 


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