Yeah, I know I look rough. But I had to get up in the middle of the night to write this.
Sup? What, you didn’t know I could talk, let alone type? Well, I can. I can do a lot of things. But you wouldn’t know, would you? It’s always “my preschooler this,” and “my older daughter that.” Like the time she danced and people laughed. Woop-di-freakin-do! I could totally take her in a dance off. Anyways, it’s time you know the truth. I’m tired of living in the shadows. Tired of only being the subject of maybe 20% of my mom’s blog posts. That’s right. I exist. Maybe you didn’t even know that. Sure, my mom may have mentioned she has two daughters, but why doesn’t she ever talk about me? It’s always …
She struck this pose when they announced her name. WHERE did she learn that?
After five weeks of not paying much attention in dance class (and no practice at home), my daughter seemed rather nonchalant about her first public performance. We bought the outfit (ouch), styled the hair (not so bad) and skipped the makeup (I’m that mom who just won’t allow that yet). My expectations were low. After all, she’s only three, and if she made it out on stage at all it would be a small miracle. We stood behind the band shell in our hometown park, practicing and preparing to perform for a couple hundred friends and neighbors at our annual Fall Festival. She whined, “I don’t want to dance anymore. I’m tired of it!” Was this really how she felt or …
This weekend marks my little hometown’s annual Fall Festival. This year’s theme is “Hillbilly Heaven,” so naturally everyone dressed in their hillbilliest duds (think overalls, rope belts, pigtails, oversized boots, cutoff plaid shirts). I shouldn’t have told you the theme, so you would just think we’re really this redneck. I mean, we are, but we typically don’t dress this bad (or good, however you look at it). I snapped a few pics from my sister’s yard, our standard parade-watching seats. My older daughter actually got to ride on a float in the parade with her preschool class, while my younger daughter watched the parade rather unimpressed from her stroller. (We had to put her on “lockdown” since she kept running out into the road.) There are some strange and wonderful things at a small-town parade. …
The following is my external/internal dialogue while riding the tiny Ferris Wheel with my preschooler at our small town carnival.
Why am I smiling? Because it’s over.
Oh look, honey, our car is purple! You like purple.
Ohmygosh, that thing is tiny. I’m going to die in a tiny purple Ferris Wheel car!
Ok, sweetie, we put this seat belt over our laps. It will keep us safe. And this bar will, too.
No. It won’t keep us safe, we’re going to fall out and die!
Here we go. It’s going to be so fun. Are you excited?
I don’t want to go. It’s not fun. I’m terrified!
Whee! Look at all the lights!
Craaaaaap! Look at how flimsy this thing is!
Ok, we have to stop for a little bit up here so other people can get off …
Her hands have taken care of others for years. Now, she’s the one in need of care. (photo credit: jackchapman.info)
Today, I saw two helpless people, each unable to take care of themselves, each needing someone to nurture them, to love them. One was a preschool-aged girl, crumbled on the floor of her caretaker’s home, sobbing. Her parents had just divorced, and she just couldn’t understand why mommy left. The other, an elderly woman, delicate but healthy yesterday, suffered a massive stroke this morning, which stole most of what was left of her abilities.
Tonight, they’re both scared, both confused. Their worlds have been shattered. In different ways, but still shattered. The ask, “Why did this happen to me? Who will take care of me?”
They’re powerless over their situations. Both at the mercy of life’s caretakers. …