'Tis the season to have hot flashes, fa-la-la-la-la, La-open-a-freakin'-window!
JAO will be wearing a t-shirt, a button-down and his suit jacket and still put on his long, wool coat and gloves. Meanwhile, I am driving the kids to school in a tank top and bare feet. I suffer through the drive in the stifling heat because their little hormonal systems have yet to undergo the assault mine has, and then as soon as they jump out of the car, I roll down the window and stick my arm out into the wind trying to direct more of the cold air onto my overheated torso.
I really miss wearing turtlenecks and cute sweaters. Okay, so I wouldn’t wear a cute sweater now anyway because my extra body bulk would only look even more bulky, but still. I have figured out that scarves are the way to go. I can wrap one around my neck when I am a bit chilly and still be able to easily yank it from my steaming body when I start to over-heat.
I know everyone is complaining right now about how cold it is her in the South. And I agree that if it is going to be this cold, we should at least have some snow. But, there is nothing as refreshing to a hot-flasher as strolling out to the mail box in shorts and a t-shirt when it is 25 degrees outside.
It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when I could wear a camisole, a sweater and a scarf and be quite comfortable. Now, just thinking about that makes me want to open the freezer and sit inside.
Worried that I might have developed some exotic ailment that affects only the body’s ability to regulate its temperature -- like some South American reptilian disease or something -- I had the doctor run a complete blood work analysis on me last year. Sadly, the lab said there was nothing exotic about me at all.
At first I attributed it to just one other way having children has wrecked my poor body. However, I do know women who suffer from this and have not birthed any kids. So, now I’ll just blame Eve. She’s the eternal fall-gal for any weird body thing that women must endure but from which men are unjustly exempt.
Too bad I can’t develop some magic, rapid weight-loss disease.
Wait...I think that’s called cancer.
Never mind. I’ll just stick with the hot flashes.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
It's What All the Kids Are Doing
Well, it was bound to happen. Every time I drive my kids to school wearing my pajamas and no make-up, I think, “Gee, I hope I don’t miss carpool or else I’ll have to walk inside in my p.j.’s.” And, you know how some mornings you just wake up looking better than others? Well, this was not one of those mornings.
Thanks to the stupid, little, hybrid car in front of me going 30-miles-per-hour in a 45 zone, this morning I paraded myself through a throng of smartly-dressed ladies on their way to Bible study while wearing my red and white striped Old Navy pajama bottoms and looking like death warmed over, frozen, and then re-heated.
At least I was wearing a bra today. That’s something.
I suppose I could blame myself for not leaving the house earlier, but I like me. I’d rather focus my anger toward someone else. Plus, people who drive hybrids annoy me. Save the planet on your own time and get out of my way -- I have places to go and ozone to destroy. Oh, and my stuffed and mounted baby seal is ready at the taxidermist.
Tra-la-la.
Yesterday, my children invented a new game. I wish I could say that it was brilliant and worthy of a quick trademark and immediate release just in time for Christmas. But, well, it’s not.
I was in the kitchen preparing some very yummy potato soup, which is extremely time-consuming, but totally worth it. L and Z were playing together in the den. Which is to say, they were teasing and baiting each other, wrestling around and alternating between laughing and crying, “Mom! He/she hit/bit/slapped/kicked/insulted/maimed me!” Typical afternoon.
They were hungry and I was only halfway through the peeling and cubing of 5 pounds of potatoes, so I offered them some grapes. After only a few minutes I heard, “Mom! These grapes have seeds in them!”
What? I never even looked at the bag because why would I think the grapes had seeds? Why the heck do they even sell grapes with seeds anymore? Is anyone buying bags of seeded grapes and going home and planting them in their back yard?
So, the seed announcement was followed by, “Mom! Z just spit the grapes out all over the carpet!”
Great. “Bring the grapes back in the kitchen, guys!”
Silence.
“Guys?”
The next sound I heard was the sound of all the grapes being dumped out on the floor.
“Hey! Pick those up, L! Z! Are you still there?”
Then I heard laughter and L said, “Okay, my turn!”
I put down my potato peeler and went to investigate. As I walked into the living room, I saw L standing at the top of the nine-foot ladder and Z standing underneath it.
(Side bar: Since we are still in the middle of Christmas decorating, the ladder is still in the middle of the living room. Z has a stone bruise on his heel from climbing to the top and using a long piece of rope garland to repel back down. The last time, he repelled just a bit too hard.)
Anyway, I arrived just in time to see L dump the entire bowl of grapes down onto her waiting brother’s head. And he laughed because, apparently, that is what he knew she was going to do and he was okay with that.
“What on earth are you doing?” I asked, surprised. Though I really don’t know why I bother with surprise anymore.
L informed me, “We made up a new game.”
“What is it called?”
Z piped up with, “The Grapes Dumping on My Head Game!”
L gave him a withering look. “No, Z, it’s not.” Then she turned to me. “It’s The Grape Dropping Game, Mom.”
Oh, well, that sounds much better. “What are the rules?”
“There are no rules.”
“Well, how do you know who wins?”
“We’re all winners, Mom.”
“Yeah…if you’re a Socialist.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Pick up the grapes. And, Z, get down off the ladder.”
He protested, “But it’s my turn!”
“Fine. But if you fall, L is driving you to the hospital this time. I have to finish my soup.”
And they say too much TV hinders the imagination.
Thanks to the stupid, little, hybrid car in front of me going 30-miles-per-hour in a 45 zone, this morning I paraded myself through a throng of smartly-dressed ladies on their way to Bible study while wearing my red and white striped Old Navy pajama bottoms and looking like death warmed over, frozen, and then re-heated.
At least I was wearing a bra today. That’s something.
I suppose I could blame myself for not leaving the house earlier, but I like me. I’d rather focus my anger toward someone else. Plus, people who drive hybrids annoy me. Save the planet on your own time and get out of my way -- I have places to go and ozone to destroy. Oh, and my stuffed and mounted baby seal is ready at the taxidermist.
Tra-la-la.
Yesterday, my children invented a new game. I wish I could say that it was brilliant and worthy of a quick trademark and immediate release just in time for Christmas. But, well, it’s not.
I was in the kitchen preparing some very yummy potato soup, which is extremely time-consuming, but totally worth it. L and Z were playing together in the den. Which is to say, they were teasing and baiting each other, wrestling around and alternating between laughing and crying, “Mom! He/she hit/bit/slapped/kicked/insulted/maimed me!” Typical afternoon.
They were hungry and I was only halfway through the peeling and cubing of 5 pounds of potatoes, so I offered them some grapes. After only a few minutes I heard, “Mom! These grapes have seeds in them!”
What? I never even looked at the bag because why would I think the grapes had seeds? Why the heck do they even sell grapes with seeds anymore? Is anyone buying bags of seeded grapes and going home and planting them in their back yard?
So, the seed announcement was followed by, “Mom! Z just spit the grapes out all over the carpet!”
Great. “Bring the grapes back in the kitchen, guys!”
Silence.
“Guys?”
The next sound I heard was the sound of all the grapes being dumped out on the floor.
“Hey! Pick those up, L! Z! Are you still there?”
Then I heard laughter and L said, “Okay, my turn!”
I put down my potato peeler and went to investigate. As I walked into the living room, I saw L standing at the top of the nine-foot ladder and Z standing underneath it.
(Side bar: Since we are still in the middle of Christmas decorating, the ladder is still in the middle of the living room. Z has a stone bruise on his heel from climbing to the top and using a long piece of rope garland to repel back down. The last time, he repelled just a bit too hard.)
Anyway, I arrived just in time to see L dump the entire bowl of grapes down onto her waiting brother’s head. And he laughed because, apparently, that is what he knew she was going to do and he was okay with that.
“What on earth are you doing?” I asked, surprised. Though I really don’t know why I bother with surprise anymore.
L informed me, “We made up a new game.”
“What is it called?”
Z piped up with, “The Grapes Dumping on My Head Game!”
L gave him a withering look. “No, Z, it’s not.” Then she turned to me. “It’s The Grape Dropping Game, Mom.”
Oh, well, that sounds much better. “What are the rules?”
“There are no rules.”
“Well, how do you know who wins?”
“We’re all winners, Mom.”
“Yeah…if you’re a Socialist.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Pick up the grapes. And, Z, get down off the ladder.”
He protested, “But it’s my turn!”
“Fine. But if you fall, L is driving you to the hospital this time. I have to finish my soup.”
And they say too much TV hinders the imagination.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
The Sign Says "No Soliciting"
Yeah, yeah, it’s been forever since I last blogged, so I don’t blame you if you hate me and never want to read another word I’ve written. But, just in case you do, I have to share my latest encounter with the bizarre.
My doorbell rang and I wasn’t expecting anybody. In this day and age, with cell phones, texts, email, Facebook, etc., it is rare that someone will simply show-up on your doorstep unless they want to sell you something or kill you. Since I was pretty sure I hadn’t ticked anybody off badly enough to warrant a killing, I assumed the rather normal-looking man was a solicitor. (Though, it should be pointed out, that there is a nice, little wooden sign posted at the entrance to the neighborhood that says, “No Soliciting.” Unless, of course, you are soliciting cookies or candy. Then I’ll let you get away with it.)
I opened the door and the man looked at me quizzically and asked, “Do you remember me? Have you lived here for more than six years or so? Because I have cleaned this house before. So, if you have lived here for more than six years, then you’ve met me before.”
“Um...what?”
He then pointed to my next-door neighbor’s house and asked, “Didn’t that lady have cancer? Or she has cancer or something?”
“Uh...not that I am aware of.”
To further prove that he had, indeed, cleaned my house before, he then pointed to a house down the street and said, “And that guy had a big boat, didn’t he? Were you living here when he parked his big boat on the right-hand side of the house?”
“Er...I have never seen a boat there.” Then thinking perhaps the poor man was either lost or loony, I asked, “Are you sure you are in the right neighborhood?”
He laughed at that, but then proceeded to tell me that he was an exterior house cleaner and could pressure wash my entire house, from the gutter to the ground, and make it look like new. He started pointing out the black, moldy stuff on the door jamb and other areas where foreign matter was growing on my stucco. Quite frankly, I had never even noticed any of that. So then I got all paranoid thinking that everyone who has come to my home has shuddered inwardly at the unsightly fungus as they crossed over my threshold. And just what is that stuff, anyway?
But he ripped my attention back to him by saying, “Just so you don’t think I’m bull-shitting you, here are the names of your neighbors whose houses I’m doing.”
Excuse me?! Did he just use profanity while trying to sell me his services? I don’t appreciate that kind of language! What the hell?!
Okay, fine, so maybe I do, but not from some stranger who randomly shows up on my doorstep and starts taking walks down memory lane through my neighborhood.
He whipped out his iPad and touched the screen to wake it up. It came to life and there was a webpage with a video on it. It wasn’t playing, it was just the screen capture with that faint triangle on it that lets you know it is a video and you should play it. Creepy Solicitor pointed to the video and asked, “Oh, have you seen this?”
I was not sure what it was a video of, and even more not sure of what it might have to do with his convincing me he wasn’t a bull-shitter. He continued without waiting for a response from me, however, by saying, “The Russians blew up a pirate ship -- with the pirates still on it! They captured the boat, chained the pirates to the deck and blew the shit up!”
Inside my head, I was screaming, “What in the name of all that is holy is going on here?! Am I being punked or something?”
Outwardly, I said, “Um...what?”
He said, “Yeah, you’ll never hear about stuff like that on the news, but it happens. Today everyone is so politically correct, you know? Everyone is always looking at us and blaming us for doing things, but the Russians, they do that kind of thing all the time!”
Ah, to be so free from world public opinion like the Russians. Wouldn’t that be swell?
He went back to his iPad, closed the deadly-Russian-pirate-killing video, and pulled up another screen. He then turned it so I could read it better. It was a list of about five or six people who were supposedly hiring Creepy Solicitor to clean their homes -- complete with names, addresses, telephone numbers and how much money they were being charged.
He asked, “Do you know any of these people?”
I didn’t, but then, again, my next-door neighbor is apparently dying of cancer and I had no idea about that either.
“See that house over that way -- you gotta lean over -- see it? The one with the grey chimney? I’m cleaning her house today. What’s her name? Karen? Carol? Something like that.”
“I don’t know her either.” Boy, I really need to get out and meet my neighbors.
Creepy Solicitor went back into his sales pitch and talked about cleaning the windows and how everything would look like new. Then he started telling me about how he could clean the driveway, walkway and the back deck. He appeared to be winding down his spiel, for which I was grateful.
But then he upped the creep factor on me again by saying, “If I remember correctly, you have a really huge back deck, right? Do you mind if I walk back there and take a look to make sure it’s what I remember?”
“Well, um, there are dogs back there.” I realized I wasn't being very articulate, but this guy was throwing me off my game with his whack-a-dooness.
“That’s okay, I’ll just look over the fence. I’ll be right back.”
As I stood alone in my doorway, I began to think it wasn’t so wise to allow some stranger to wander around my backyard. But, then again, he was no stranger -- he knew more people in my neighborhood than I did. Plus, he had handed me a really nice, laminated doorhanger with his company name and number on it. If he was a rapist, he sure did spend a lot of money on his printed props.
He returned from his recon mission and announced that, yep, the back deck was just like he remembered and he could clean the deck, around the pool, the driveway, the walkway and the sidewalk in front of the house all for the low-low price of $175. The house and windows would be $275. And, here’s the best part, he could do it as early as tomorrow. Oh, hosanna!
I really hated to turn him down right then and there, especially since he had been so enthusiastic in his pitch. Oh, and warned me about the free-wheeling Russians who so brazenly practice their own sense of vigilante justice. But, I really wasn’t in the mood to spend nearly 400 of my Christmas-shopping dollars on cleaning the outside of my house -- which I hardly ever see anyway.
So, I used the standard “I’m just a girl and I don’t make decisions about money and I’ll have to check with my big, strong husband who has a much better handle on such confusing things.” Yeah, I can be really anti-feminist movement when it suits me.
I told him we would discuss it and give him a call if we decided we were in need of his services. He then thanked me and went on his way.
He’s probably just up the street right now asking that person if they know the lady with the huge back deck and warning them about the Russians.
See? Now wasn’t that worth the wait?
My doorbell rang and I wasn’t expecting anybody. In this day and age, with cell phones, texts, email, Facebook, etc., it is rare that someone will simply show-up on your doorstep unless they want to sell you something or kill you. Since I was pretty sure I hadn’t ticked anybody off badly enough to warrant a killing, I assumed the rather normal-looking man was a solicitor. (Though, it should be pointed out, that there is a nice, little wooden sign posted at the entrance to the neighborhood that says, “No Soliciting.” Unless, of course, you are soliciting cookies or candy. Then I’ll let you get away with it.)
I opened the door and the man looked at me quizzically and asked, “Do you remember me? Have you lived here for more than six years or so? Because I have cleaned this house before. So, if you have lived here for more than six years, then you’ve met me before.”
“Um...what?”
He then pointed to my next-door neighbor’s house and asked, “Didn’t that lady have cancer? Or she has cancer or something?”
“Uh...not that I am aware of.”
To further prove that he had, indeed, cleaned my house before, he then pointed to a house down the street and said, “And that guy had a big boat, didn’t he? Were you living here when he parked his big boat on the right-hand side of the house?”
“Er...I have never seen a boat there.” Then thinking perhaps the poor man was either lost or loony, I asked, “Are you sure you are in the right neighborhood?”
He laughed at that, but then proceeded to tell me that he was an exterior house cleaner and could pressure wash my entire house, from the gutter to the ground, and make it look like new. He started pointing out the black, moldy stuff on the door jamb and other areas where foreign matter was growing on my stucco. Quite frankly, I had never even noticed any of that. So then I got all paranoid thinking that everyone who has come to my home has shuddered inwardly at the unsightly fungus as they crossed over my threshold. And just what is that stuff, anyway?
But he ripped my attention back to him by saying, “Just so you don’t think I’m bull-shitting you, here are the names of your neighbors whose houses I’m doing.”
Excuse me?! Did he just use profanity while trying to sell me his services? I don’t appreciate that kind of language! What the hell?!
Okay, fine, so maybe I do, but not from some stranger who randomly shows up on my doorstep and starts taking walks down memory lane through my neighborhood.
He whipped out his iPad and touched the screen to wake it up. It came to life and there was a webpage with a video on it. It wasn’t playing, it was just the screen capture with that faint triangle on it that lets you know it is a video and you should play it. Creepy Solicitor pointed to the video and asked, “Oh, have you seen this?”
I was not sure what it was a video of, and even more not sure of what it might have to do with his convincing me he wasn’t a bull-shitter. He continued without waiting for a response from me, however, by saying, “The Russians blew up a pirate ship -- with the pirates still on it! They captured the boat, chained the pirates to the deck and blew the shit up!”
Inside my head, I was screaming, “What in the name of all that is holy is going on here?! Am I being punked or something?”
Outwardly, I said, “Um...what?”
He said, “Yeah, you’ll never hear about stuff like that on the news, but it happens. Today everyone is so politically correct, you know? Everyone is always looking at us and blaming us for doing things, but the Russians, they do that kind of thing all the time!”
Ah, to be so free from world public opinion like the Russians. Wouldn’t that be swell?
He went back to his iPad, closed the deadly-Russian-pirate-killing video, and pulled up another screen. He then turned it so I could read it better. It was a list of about five or six people who were supposedly hiring Creepy Solicitor to clean their homes -- complete with names, addresses, telephone numbers and how much money they were being charged.
He asked, “Do you know any of these people?”
I didn’t, but then, again, my next-door neighbor is apparently dying of cancer and I had no idea about that either.
“See that house over that way -- you gotta lean over -- see it? The one with the grey chimney? I’m cleaning her house today. What’s her name? Karen? Carol? Something like that.”
“I don’t know her either.” Boy, I really need to get out and meet my neighbors.
Creepy Solicitor went back into his sales pitch and talked about cleaning the windows and how everything would look like new. Then he started telling me about how he could clean the driveway, walkway and the back deck. He appeared to be winding down his spiel, for which I was grateful.
But then he upped the creep factor on me again by saying, “If I remember correctly, you have a really huge back deck, right? Do you mind if I walk back there and take a look to make sure it’s what I remember?”
“Well, um, there are dogs back there.” I realized I wasn't being very articulate, but this guy was throwing me off my game with his whack-a-dooness.
“That’s okay, I’ll just look over the fence. I’ll be right back.”
As I stood alone in my doorway, I began to think it wasn’t so wise to allow some stranger to wander around my backyard. But, then again, he was no stranger -- he knew more people in my neighborhood than I did. Plus, he had handed me a really nice, laminated doorhanger with his company name and number on it. If he was a rapist, he sure did spend a lot of money on his printed props.
He returned from his recon mission and announced that, yep, the back deck was just like he remembered and he could clean the deck, around the pool, the driveway, the walkway and the sidewalk in front of the house all for the low-low price of $175. The house and windows would be $275. And, here’s the best part, he could do it as early as tomorrow. Oh, hosanna!
I really hated to turn him down right then and there, especially since he had been so enthusiastic in his pitch. Oh, and warned me about the free-wheeling Russians who so brazenly practice their own sense of vigilante justice. But, I really wasn’t in the mood to spend nearly 400 of my Christmas-shopping dollars on cleaning the outside of my house -- which I hardly ever see anyway.
So, I used the standard “I’m just a girl and I don’t make decisions about money and I’ll have to check with my big, strong husband who has a much better handle on such confusing things.” Yeah, I can be really anti-feminist movement when it suits me.
I told him we would discuss it and give him a call if we decided we were in need of his services. He then thanked me and went on his way.
He’s probably just up the street right now asking that person if they know the lady with the huge back deck and warning them about the Russians.
See? Now wasn’t that worth the wait?
Friday, September 10, 2010
Little L Moments
L has started kindergarten, which means I am now old enough to have a child in school. Okay, fine, so I was old enough for that a decade ago, but that’s not the point. I have been making fun of all the moms I know who boo-hooed over their kid’s first day of school and mocked their sentimentality over something so silly. And to answer your next question, no, I did not cry on L’s first day of school. JAO, however...
But I would be remiss if I didn’t take a few moments to reflect on this momentous occasion in L’s life. Our nearly six years together has been interesting, to say the least. So, in honor of my daughter's new role as a matriculator, I thought I’d share some of my favorite Little L Moments from the past. I hope you enjoy reading them more than I enjoyed living them.
Our first tale takes place in May of 2007 just two weeks after the birth of Z. L was two-and-a-half. Thus the stage was set for misery.
With a newborn Z to look after, I hadn't been getting as much sleep as I needed and so I really, really wanted a nap. I got the baby boy to sleep and read some books to L. She was acting pretty tired so I hoped she'd go down without a fight. Schyeah, right.
I put her in her bed and threatened her life if she got up and then I went to my room to collapse. Sure enough, a few minutes later, I heard her get out of bed. I marched back down the hall, made her get back in bed and wearily trudged back to my room. This time, I fell asleep myself as soon as my head hit the pillow.
Fifteen minutes later, I awoke from a dead sleep to find L standing next to my bed with her hands covered in blood.
Blood!
Inwardly, I freaked out -- but she was so calm that I quickly realized she was not in danger of bleeding out. Nor did she appear to be feeling pain. I rushed her into her bathroom where I washed her hands and discovered a small cut on her thumb. I put a bandage on it and decided that she would live.
Then, I walked into L’s room to discover the source of the cut -- broken glass was littering her bed and floor and there was blood all over her sheets. The child had stood on her bed and wielding a plastic, yellow maraca, shattered the globe covering the light on her ceiling fan! And this was no accident. While she was tall for her age, she still had to jump up in the air in order to make contact with the light! This was a deliberate Mariachi attack on her light fixture.
I had to treat her sheets (which were brand-new Pottery Barn sheets, by the way) with stain remover and throw them in the wash. Then I had to do a super-duper vacuuming job on her carpet to remove the tiny shards of glass. Then, I had to follow and remove the trail of bloody hand prints that led from her door, down the hall and into my room.
Needless to say, I never got that nap.
Our next tale takes place the following New Year's Day. JAO, the kids and I ventured out to the mall to exchange some Christmas gifts. L was tired and irritable and basically being quite difficult. Baby Z was still in his sweet, agreeable baby phase and was content to ride in the stroller. (It would be another year or so before Z would fully embrace his Spawn of Satan persona.)
In an extremely crowded Macy’s, we split up -- I went with Z to one side of the store and L and JAO stood in line at the Men’s department to exchange a sweater. I finished first and returned to my husband and daughter. As Z and I were approaching, I could tell that JAO was irritated with L for continuously having to tell her to stop messing with all the things around the register.
When the exchange was complete, L turned to walk away. From my vantage point, a gentleman and his young son were between me and her. The next thing I saw, a little hand reached out from nowhere and punched the little boy square in the face. For the tiniest second I thought, “Oh, please don’t let that have been L.” But, the very next second, sure enough, here comes L sauntering around the man and the now-screaming boy, looking as though she hadn’t a care in the world.
The father was on his cell phone and didn’t even see what happened, but his mother, who was standing a few feet away, did. We both ran up at the same time -- she trying to comfort her child who was the victim of this random act of violence and me apologizing profusely for mine, the random act.
Even worse, the little boy and his parents were obviously of Indian descent. L could have been charged with a hate crime!
Fortunately, the assaulted boy’s parents could not have been more gracious. She assured me that her son was fine and she was not going to call the ACLU. I drug my demon child out of the store by the arm, fuming and ready to ship her off to Russia.
(It should be pointed out that this was not the first time L has randomly assaulted some other child. I couldn’t even relax at a playground because I never knew when she was going to haul off and smack the preschooler next to her.)
Outside the store, JAO asked a now contrite L why she hit that boy. Through her remorseful (whatever) tears, she replied, “Because I’m mean.”
She got no arguments from me.
But now Little L is a kindergartener and I am pleased to announce that she has not smacked anyone in the face (except for her little brother) since that day. And as crazy as she has made me, I can honestly say that being her mom has been a lot of fun. I am very proud of my girl and I’m looking forward to seeing the amazing young woman she will become.
Though I hope she doesn’t become that woman any time soon. Because I am way too young to be the mother of a woman.
But I would be remiss if I didn’t take a few moments to reflect on this momentous occasion in L’s life. Our nearly six years together has been interesting, to say the least. So, in honor of my daughter's new role as a matriculator, I thought I’d share some of my favorite Little L Moments from the past. I hope you enjoy reading them more than I enjoyed living them.
Our first tale takes place in May of 2007 just two weeks after the birth of Z. L was two-and-a-half. Thus the stage was set for misery.
With a newborn Z to look after, I hadn't been getting as much sleep as I needed and so I really, really wanted a nap. I got the baby boy to sleep and read some books to L. She was acting pretty tired so I hoped she'd go down without a fight. Schyeah, right.
I put her in her bed and threatened her life if she got up and then I went to my room to collapse. Sure enough, a few minutes later, I heard her get out of bed. I marched back down the hall, made her get back in bed and wearily trudged back to my room. This time, I fell asleep myself as soon as my head hit the pillow.
Fifteen minutes later, I awoke from a dead sleep to find L standing next to my bed with her hands covered in blood.
Blood!
Inwardly, I freaked out -- but she was so calm that I quickly realized she was not in danger of bleeding out. Nor did she appear to be feeling pain. I rushed her into her bathroom where I washed her hands and discovered a small cut on her thumb. I put a bandage on it and decided that she would live.
Then, I walked into L’s room to discover the source of the cut -- broken glass was littering her bed and floor and there was blood all over her sheets. The child had stood on her bed and wielding a plastic, yellow maraca, shattered the globe covering the light on her ceiling fan! And this was no accident. While she was tall for her age, she still had to jump up in the air in order to make contact with the light! This was a deliberate Mariachi attack on her light fixture.
I had to treat her sheets (which were brand-new Pottery Barn sheets, by the way) with stain remover and throw them in the wash. Then I had to do a super-duper vacuuming job on her carpet to remove the tiny shards of glass. Then, I had to follow and remove the trail of bloody hand prints that led from her door, down the hall and into my room.
Needless to say, I never got that nap.
Our next tale takes place the following New Year's Day. JAO, the kids and I ventured out to the mall to exchange some Christmas gifts. L was tired and irritable and basically being quite difficult. Baby Z was still in his sweet, agreeable baby phase and was content to ride in the stroller. (It would be another year or so before Z would fully embrace his Spawn of Satan persona.)
In an extremely crowded Macy’s, we split up -- I went with Z to one side of the store and L and JAO stood in line at the Men’s department to exchange a sweater. I finished first and returned to my husband and daughter. As Z and I were approaching, I could tell that JAO was irritated with L for continuously having to tell her to stop messing with all the things around the register.
When the exchange was complete, L turned to walk away. From my vantage point, a gentleman and his young son were between me and her. The next thing I saw, a little hand reached out from nowhere and punched the little boy square in the face. For the tiniest second I thought, “Oh, please don’t let that have been L.” But, the very next second, sure enough, here comes L sauntering around the man and the now-screaming boy, looking as though she hadn’t a care in the world.
The father was on his cell phone and didn’t even see what happened, but his mother, who was standing a few feet away, did. We both ran up at the same time -- she trying to comfort her child who was the victim of this random act of violence and me apologizing profusely for mine, the random act.
Even worse, the little boy and his parents were obviously of Indian descent. L could have been charged with a hate crime!
Fortunately, the assaulted boy’s parents could not have been more gracious. She assured me that her son was fine and she was not going to call the ACLU. I drug my demon child out of the store by the arm, fuming and ready to ship her off to Russia.
(It should be pointed out that this was not the first time L has randomly assaulted some other child. I couldn’t even relax at a playground because I never knew when she was going to haul off and smack the preschooler next to her.)
Outside the store, JAO asked a now contrite L why she hit that boy. Through her remorseful (whatever) tears, she replied, “Because I’m mean.”
She got no arguments from me.
But now Little L is a kindergartener and I am pleased to announce that she has not smacked anyone in the face (except for her little brother) since that day. And as crazy as she has made me, I can honestly say that being her mom has been a lot of fun. I am very proud of my girl and I’m looking forward to seeing the amazing young woman she will become.
Though I hope she doesn’t become that woman any time soon. Because I am way too young to be the mother of a woman.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Paying for a Summer of Sin
Hey, Jenny, it’s me, Regina.
Yeah, it has been a while.
I’m fine. Well, sorta.
My summer? It was good. Too good, I guess. That’s kinda why I’m calling. You know how last Spring I was looking all hot and feeling good about myself? Well, I’m still looking hot -- but it’s really more of an over-weight, sweaty-hot. Perhaps it would have behooved me to be a bit more vigilant over the summer.
My activity level? Well, how many calories do you think you burn carrying a cooler of beer down to the beach?
Not that much, huh?
It was a case, you know, not just some dinky six-pack.
Oh.
Did I make good choices? Sure! When the choice was between fried shrimp or fried scallops.
Yeah, I know. I use humor to mask my shame. So, um, I was thinking...can I come back in?
That’s swell. Wait...you won’t have to weigh me, will you?
You will? Crap. Can I at least weigh in the nude?
No? Man, you guys are really sticklers for that rule, aren’t you?
Fine. I’ll see you at 11:00.
Yeah, I’m really looking forward to it, too. And afterward I’m thinking about going for a PAP smear and a mammogram just to round out the day of fun.
Yes. That was my humor.
Bye.
And here we go again.
Can someone please explain to me how it can take four months to lose the same amount of weight you can gain in only one month? And don’t go saying it was the laying around and eating fried foods and drinking fruity drinks all summer that did it. If I wanted brutal honesty I would have called my mom.
I guess I feel like it just happened so fast. One minute I was buying the first two-piece swim-suit I’d bought in nearly seven years, and the next minute I was searching my drawer for the pants I wore home from the delivery room. It’s so frustrating.
I simply got too comfortable with myself. Sure, that’s supposed to be the touchy-feely, everyone’s a winner, we accept all kinds attitude. But, let’s be honest -- it’s that type of mentality that allows a 200-pound woman to wear a thong bikini and a 300-pound man to wear a Speedo. I don’t care how at-one with yourself you are, Oprah --suck it in or cover it up!
Wah, wah, wah. I'm too fat. Blah, blah, blah.
I suppose I can continue to bitch and complain or I can throw away the Chex Mix, pour out the wine, take the wrapper off the “Dancing With the Stars Workout DVD” and get back at it.
Yes. That was my humor again.
Because I don’t care how much weigh, it is NEVER okay to pour out wine.
Yeah, it has been a while.
I’m fine. Well, sorta.
My summer? It was good. Too good, I guess. That’s kinda why I’m calling. You know how last Spring I was looking all hot and feeling good about myself? Well, I’m still looking hot -- but it’s really more of an over-weight, sweaty-hot. Perhaps it would have behooved me to be a bit more vigilant over the summer.
My activity level? Well, how many calories do you think you burn carrying a cooler of beer down to the beach?
Not that much, huh?
It was a case, you know, not just some dinky six-pack.
Oh.
Did I make good choices? Sure! When the choice was between fried shrimp or fried scallops.
Yeah, I know. I use humor to mask my shame. So, um, I was thinking...can I come back in?
That’s swell. Wait...you won’t have to weigh me, will you?
You will? Crap. Can I at least weigh in the nude?
No? Man, you guys are really sticklers for that rule, aren’t you?
Fine. I’ll see you at 11:00.
Yeah, I’m really looking forward to it, too. And afterward I’m thinking about going for a PAP smear and a mammogram just to round out the day of fun.
Yes. That was my humor.
Bye.
And here we go again.
Can someone please explain to me how it can take four months to lose the same amount of weight you can gain in only one month? And don’t go saying it was the laying around and eating fried foods and drinking fruity drinks all summer that did it. If I wanted brutal honesty I would have called my mom.
I guess I feel like it just happened so fast. One minute I was buying the first two-piece swim-suit I’d bought in nearly seven years, and the next minute I was searching my drawer for the pants I wore home from the delivery room. It’s so frustrating.
I simply got too comfortable with myself. Sure, that’s supposed to be the touchy-feely, everyone’s a winner, we accept all kinds attitude. But, let’s be honest -- it’s that type of mentality that allows a 200-pound woman to wear a thong bikini and a 300-pound man to wear a Speedo. I don’t care how at-one with yourself you are, Oprah --suck it in or cover it up!
Wah, wah, wah. I'm too fat. Blah, blah, blah.
I suppose I can continue to bitch and complain or I can throw away the Chex Mix, pour out the wine, take the wrapper off the “Dancing With the Stars Workout DVD” and get back at it.
Yes. That was my humor again.
Because I don’t care how much weigh, it is NEVER okay to pour out wine.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
The Manson Family Summer
For the love of all that is Mark Harmon, I wish my kids were in summer school.
Now I understand why my mother was never as excited about summer vacation as I was -- and why her mood seemed to suddenly lift on the first day of school. If I have to spend any more time alone with these two people who insist on calling me “Mom,” I truly don’t think we’ll emerge from this summer vacation with any semblance of a healthy mother/child relationship.
I resent how being a stay-at-home mom in the summer is essentially like having another part-time job. During the school year, I have my normal mom duties -- laundry, meals, applying the occasional SpongeBob band-aid, maybe reading a book or two if I’m in the mood. But that is when I have a limited number of hours alone with the children each day. Over the summer, however, they are always here! I wake up in the morning, and they are here. I turn around at lunch time, and they are still here. I go to cook dinner and they are still, freakin’ here! All day! Every day! They never go anywhere else! Why didn’t anyone ever tell me about this?
So, my summer job has become entertaining these children. And, I don’t mind admitting -- I should be fired from this job.
Sure, I could pack us up and head out to the park, but guess what? The park is boring. At least it is for me. Like I want to sit on a hard bench and sweat in the blistering sun just so they can run around on playground equipment that has been touched by every snot-nosed, germy, virus-carrying kid in the county? At home, they may fight with each other, but at least I have my computer. And my air-conditioning.
And yes, I could arrange for play dates, but that requires me to take a shower and put on makeup and try and look presentable to the other moms.
Museums require everyone acting civilized and mannerly -- and that simply ain’t gonna happen. The Aquarium costs a bazillion dollars, the movies cost even more and all those bouncy, jumpy places are loud and smell like dirty socks.
So, my laziness and my -- okay fine, it’s just my laziness -- has left us stuck at home for the majority of the summer with nothing to do but get on each other’s nerves.
As a result, we have all slipped into behavior that is almost feral with regards to how we treat one another. There has been screaming, hitting, biting, crying, name-calling and mocking. And that’s just from me. The kids have been much worse. Nothing I do seems to evoke a positive response, so I have sunk deep into the negative just to exact my revenge.
Our house is plenty big enough to allow two smallish children to coexist without having to ever come into contact with each other. However, they will not stay away from each other! There is a constant display of acrobatics and professional wrestling that inevitably leaves one of them crying. I have heard myself say more times than I care to admit, that grand old Cosby line, “No one in this house is allowed to touch anyone else in this house ever again!!”
But it never works.
If one of them turns on the Wii, the gaming console sends out a high-frequency vibration that only another child can hear and causes that child to come screaming into the room crying, “I want to play! I get the white remote! No, I don’t want to play bowling!!”
I know we’ll never be the Von Trapp family, but we could at least stop resembling the Manson family.
Last night, I decided we needed to have an emergency family meeting to deal with this growing problem.
Before the kids were to go upstairs and get ready for bed, I sat them down on the sofa, summoned all of my years of parenting website research and attempted to reach their little hearts and minds. I began all Dr. Spock-like by telling them that I, too, was guilty of bad behavior. I apologized for yelling and being short-tempered and using an ugly voice with them. I then asked them if they thought they could help by being better listeners and being kind to each other and showing JAO and I more respect.
L was the first to nod and respond. “Right,” L agreed. “We need better manner. New ones.”
“That’s right, L, we do.”
“Because mine are old.”
“Oh. Well, then we definitely should get you some new ones.”
I turned to Z, “Z, are you going to use your manners?”
L answered my question instead by saying seriously, “I’ve never seen any manners in Z’s room.”
Well, that explains a lot.
“Then we’ll have to get him some.”
“Good idea, Mom.”
After we all agreed that we would start over anew, fresh-family-faced and full of love and mutual respect, L jumped up from the couch and announced, “Okay, now I have something to say.”
“That’s wonderful, L, we would be happy to listen.” See what a great, loving, supportive mom I am already becoming? After only one, good, After School Special chat, the kids have fallen in line and jumped whole-heartedly on the Ozzy and Harriet bandwagon.
L ran across the room saying, “Give me one second;” followed closely by her parrot who intoned, “Gib me un second!” They ducked behind the recliner to prepare for their speech. I took a seat next to JAO on the sofa. We exchanged loving smiles that seemed to say, “Aren’t our children wonderful, Darling?” “Yes, Love of My Life, we are truly blessed.”
After a few moments of whispers between the two, L walked proudly out from behind the chair to take her position right in front of her father and me. She stood tall and began what I was sure was going to be a mature, respectful message full of promises of obedience and deference toward her loving parental units.
This is what she said:
“Mom, Dad, I love you. And you love me. And...” She whipped herself around, flung her tutu up in the air, and stuck out her back end to reveal her bare butt.
I am not kidding.
Next came Z with his Toy Story Pull-Up down around his ankles, saying, “I lub you!” and he, too, bent at the waist and mooned us.
JAO and I did the only thing we could do -- laugh. We laughed until tears came. We laughed until the kids were rolling on the floor with their shiney hineys flashing also laughing hysterically.
In the end (pun intended) I guess I would prefer a house full of zany laughter than one of strict, rigid obedience.
How better to say, “I love you” than with a good, old-fashioned mooning?
Now I understand why my mother was never as excited about summer vacation as I was -- and why her mood seemed to suddenly lift on the first day of school. If I have to spend any more time alone with these two people who insist on calling me “Mom,” I truly don’t think we’ll emerge from this summer vacation with any semblance of a healthy mother/child relationship.
I resent how being a stay-at-home mom in the summer is essentially like having another part-time job. During the school year, I have my normal mom duties -- laundry, meals, applying the occasional SpongeBob band-aid, maybe reading a book or two if I’m in the mood. But that is when I have a limited number of hours alone with the children each day. Over the summer, however, they are always here! I wake up in the morning, and they are here. I turn around at lunch time, and they are still here. I go to cook dinner and they are still, freakin’ here! All day! Every day! They never go anywhere else! Why didn’t anyone ever tell me about this?
So, my summer job has become entertaining these children. And, I don’t mind admitting -- I should be fired from this job.
Sure, I could pack us up and head out to the park, but guess what? The park is boring. At least it is for me. Like I want to sit on a hard bench and sweat in the blistering sun just so they can run around on playground equipment that has been touched by every snot-nosed, germy, virus-carrying kid in the county? At home, they may fight with each other, but at least I have my computer. And my air-conditioning.
And yes, I could arrange for play dates, but that requires me to take a shower and put on makeup and try and look presentable to the other moms.
Museums require everyone acting civilized and mannerly -- and that simply ain’t gonna happen. The Aquarium costs a bazillion dollars, the movies cost even more and all those bouncy, jumpy places are loud and smell like dirty socks.
So, my laziness and my -- okay fine, it’s just my laziness -- has left us stuck at home for the majority of the summer with nothing to do but get on each other’s nerves.
As a result, we have all slipped into behavior that is almost feral with regards to how we treat one another. There has been screaming, hitting, biting, crying, name-calling and mocking. And that’s just from me. The kids have been much worse. Nothing I do seems to evoke a positive response, so I have sunk deep into the negative just to exact my revenge.
Our house is plenty big enough to allow two smallish children to coexist without having to ever come into contact with each other. However, they will not stay away from each other! There is a constant display of acrobatics and professional wrestling that inevitably leaves one of them crying. I have heard myself say more times than I care to admit, that grand old Cosby line, “No one in this house is allowed to touch anyone else in this house ever again!!”
But it never works.
If one of them turns on the Wii, the gaming console sends out a high-frequency vibration that only another child can hear and causes that child to come screaming into the room crying, “I want to play! I get the white remote! No, I don’t want to play bowling!!”
I know we’ll never be the Von Trapp family, but we could at least stop resembling the Manson family.
Last night, I decided we needed to have an emergency family meeting to deal with this growing problem.
Before the kids were to go upstairs and get ready for bed, I sat them down on the sofa, summoned all of my years of parenting website research and attempted to reach their little hearts and minds. I began all Dr. Spock-like by telling them that I, too, was guilty of bad behavior. I apologized for yelling and being short-tempered and using an ugly voice with them. I then asked them if they thought they could help by being better listeners and being kind to each other and showing JAO and I more respect.
L was the first to nod and respond. “Right,” L agreed. “We need better manner. New ones.”
“That’s right, L, we do.”
“Because mine are old.”
“Oh. Well, then we definitely should get you some new ones.”
I turned to Z, “Z, are you going to use your manners?”
L answered my question instead by saying seriously, “I’ve never seen any manners in Z’s room.”
Well, that explains a lot.
“Then we’ll have to get him some.”
“Good idea, Mom.”
After we all agreed that we would start over anew, fresh-family-faced and full of love and mutual respect, L jumped up from the couch and announced, “Okay, now I have something to say.”
“That’s wonderful, L, we would be happy to listen.” See what a great, loving, supportive mom I am already becoming? After only one, good, After School Special chat, the kids have fallen in line and jumped whole-heartedly on the Ozzy and Harriet bandwagon.
L ran across the room saying, “Give me one second;” followed closely by her parrot who intoned, “Gib me un second!” They ducked behind the recliner to prepare for their speech. I took a seat next to JAO on the sofa. We exchanged loving smiles that seemed to say, “Aren’t our children wonderful, Darling?” “Yes, Love of My Life, we are truly blessed.”
After a few moments of whispers between the two, L walked proudly out from behind the chair to take her position right in front of her father and me. She stood tall and began what I was sure was going to be a mature, respectful message full of promises of obedience and deference toward her loving parental units.
This is what she said:
“Mom, Dad, I love you. And you love me. And...” She whipped herself around, flung her tutu up in the air, and stuck out her back end to reveal her bare butt.
I am not kidding.
Next came Z with his Toy Story Pull-Up down around his ankles, saying, “I lub you!” and he, too, bent at the waist and mooned us.
JAO and I did the only thing we could do -- laugh. We laughed until tears came. We laughed until the kids were rolling on the floor with their shiney hineys flashing also laughing hysterically.
In the end (pun intended) I guess I would prefer a house full of zany laughter than one of strict, rigid obedience.
How better to say, “I love you” than with a good, old-fashioned mooning?
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Papa, Can You Hear Me?
It’s funny how differently two people can view the exact same situation. Take into account that one of those people is a female and the other a male, and the view of the experience becomes even greater.
This past weekend, JAO, L and I attended a retirement party for some friends. Z was relegated to my brother and sister-in-law’s house because, well, I wanted to enjoy my evening. I wasn’t concerned about L, however, because she has now reached the age where she can occupy her time and basically take care of herself. I knew that our friends’ 8-year-old and 13-year-old daughters would be there and that L would enjoy spending time with them.
As I expected, L hung out with the big girls and seemed to be having a great time. I didn’t feel the need to hover or to constantly inquire as to her well-being. I trusted the two girls she was with and I trusted her. I knew she wasn’t going to head down to the street and hitch a ride to Alabama. (Like anyone would voluntarily choose to go to Alabama, right?)
Oh, I’m kidding. Don’t go all Midnight in Montgomery on me.
I noticed, however, that JAO seemed more concerned with her whereabouts and went in search of her several times. He would say, “Where’s L?” And I would respond, “Um, out there somewhere.” Then he would look disgusted at my lack of maternal concern and then go look for her. Of course, she was always just around the front of the house or up near the tree line in the back yard. Only once was she found hanging with the crack heads on the street corner.
When it came time to fix our plates for dinner, I attempted to assist her in this effort. I was quickly rebuffed with the proclamation, “Mom! If you’ll just leave me alone, I will make my own choices.”
I backed off and said, “Okay, Ms. Thing, go to it.” She then proceeded to fill her plate with one hotdog bun, a scoop of pasta salad and a pile of sliced watermelon. I dared to call out from the other side of the room, “L, you know there are hot dogs there, too, right?” I was shot down with a withering look and a roll of the eyes. I was like, “Whatever, Diva, go all vegetarian if you want.” I then fixed my own plate and sat down to enjoy a nice dinner complete with adult conversation. And I didn’t have to cut up anyone’s hot dog into non-choking-sized bites.
I did take a few moments to reflect on how grown-up she seemed sitting around chatting with the Big Girls. She’s really tall for her age and I will forever be jealous of her willowy figure and curly, blond hair. She had her Dora purse on her arm and a ton of Silly Bandz on her wrist and I was struck with a sense of pride at how beautifully mature she was acting.
Yes, she pouted when I told her it was time to go, but that was to be expected. That’s how I respond when JAO tells me it is time to leave the mall. So, I didn’t hold that reaction against her.
On the ride home, however, JAO seemed distracted and slightly upset. I finally got him to admit that his feelings were hurt by L’s behavior. Apparently, he didn’t appreciate her new-found maturity like I did. I didn’t laugh at him (at least not out loud) because I could tell he was really upset by this. I tried to tell him that it was all a part of her growing up. That it was natural for her to establish her independence and begin to do things on her own.
There is a difference in how fathers view their daughters and how they view their sons. The same holds true with mothers. I will go to my grave insisting that Z needs to be cuddled and loved-up. And JAO will forever see L as his baby girl. Maybe that’s the way it is supposed to be. I don’t see L as my little girl. I see her as the other woman in my house whose mood swings and dramatic flair rival my own. I’m also not the touchy-feely, sentimental mommy who laments the passing of each stage of her kid’s life. Instead I celebrate each graduation as a step closer to their independence and my freedom.
I don’t need to be needed. I need to be left alone.
I told JAO that I know for a fact that little girls will always need their daddies, even when they insist they don’t. They don’t call us “Daddy’s Little Girl” for nothing. A father’s place in his daughter’s heart will never be replaced. There may be rivals, but never any that pose a serious threat. JAO secures his place in L’s heart every time he reads her a bedtime story or let’s her stand on his feet while they dance. Or every time he pushes her on a swing or plays Duck, Duck, Goose in the living room or wears a tiara while enjoying some imaginary tea. Every hug, every smile, every soothing whisper tells her how much he loves her.
Yes, JAO, L will always need her Daddy. Well, at least she will always need her Daddy’s wallet.
HAHAHAHAA! You thought I was going to go completely Hallmarky on you, didn’t you?
Whatever.
This past weekend, JAO, L and I attended a retirement party for some friends. Z was relegated to my brother and sister-in-law’s house because, well, I wanted to enjoy my evening. I wasn’t concerned about L, however, because she has now reached the age where she can occupy her time and basically take care of herself. I knew that our friends’ 8-year-old and 13-year-old daughters would be there and that L would enjoy spending time with them.
As I expected, L hung out with the big girls and seemed to be having a great time. I didn’t feel the need to hover or to constantly inquire as to her well-being. I trusted the two girls she was with and I trusted her. I knew she wasn’t going to head down to the street and hitch a ride to Alabama. (Like anyone would voluntarily choose to go to Alabama, right?)
Oh, I’m kidding. Don’t go all Midnight in Montgomery on me.
I noticed, however, that JAO seemed more concerned with her whereabouts and went in search of her several times. He would say, “Where’s L?” And I would respond, “Um, out there somewhere.” Then he would look disgusted at my lack of maternal concern and then go look for her. Of course, she was always just around the front of the house or up near the tree line in the back yard. Only once was she found hanging with the crack heads on the street corner.
When it came time to fix our plates for dinner, I attempted to assist her in this effort. I was quickly rebuffed with the proclamation, “Mom! If you’ll just leave me alone, I will make my own choices.”
I backed off and said, “Okay, Ms. Thing, go to it.” She then proceeded to fill her plate with one hotdog bun, a scoop of pasta salad and a pile of sliced watermelon. I dared to call out from the other side of the room, “L, you know there are hot dogs there, too, right?” I was shot down with a withering look and a roll of the eyes. I was like, “Whatever, Diva, go all vegetarian if you want.” I then fixed my own plate and sat down to enjoy a nice dinner complete with adult conversation. And I didn’t have to cut up anyone’s hot dog into non-choking-sized bites.
I did take a few moments to reflect on how grown-up she seemed sitting around chatting with the Big Girls. She’s really tall for her age and I will forever be jealous of her willowy figure and curly, blond hair. She had her Dora purse on her arm and a ton of Silly Bandz on her wrist and I was struck with a sense of pride at how beautifully mature she was acting.
Yes, she pouted when I told her it was time to go, but that was to be expected. That’s how I respond when JAO tells me it is time to leave the mall. So, I didn’t hold that reaction against her.
On the ride home, however, JAO seemed distracted and slightly upset. I finally got him to admit that his feelings were hurt by L’s behavior. Apparently, he didn’t appreciate her new-found maturity like I did. I didn’t laugh at him (at least not out loud) because I could tell he was really upset by this. I tried to tell him that it was all a part of her growing up. That it was natural for her to establish her independence and begin to do things on her own.
There is a difference in how fathers view their daughters and how they view their sons. The same holds true with mothers. I will go to my grave insisting that Z needs to be cuddled and loved-up. And JAO will forever see L as his baby girl. Maybe that’s the way it is supposed to be. I don’t see L as my little girl. I see her as the other woman in my house whose mood swings and dramatic flair rival my own. I’m also not the touchy-feely, sentimental mommy who laments the passing of each stage of her kid’s life. Instead I celebrate each graduation as a step closer to their independence and my freedom.
I don’t need to be needed. I need to be left alone.
I told JAO that I know for a fact that little girls will always need their daddies, even when they insist they don’t. They don’t call us “Daddy’s Little Girl” for nothing. A father’s place in his daughter’s heart will never be replaced. There may be rivals, but never any that pose a serious threat. JAO secures his place in L’s heart every time he reads her a bedtime story or let’s her stand on his feet while they dance. Or every time he pushes her on a swing or plays Duck, Duck, Goose in the living room or wears a tiara while enjoying some imaginary tea. Every hug, every smile, every soothing whisper tells her how much he loves her.
Yes, JAO, L will always need her Daddy. Well, at least she will always need her Daddy’s wallet.
HAHAHAHAA! You thought I was going to go completely Hallmarky on you, didn’t you?
Whatever.
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