I have several friends who’ve had babies recently, and I’d like to help them a little by “educating” the general public about new mom etiquette. 🙂 (This was written shortly after I had my second daughter.)
I love this man. (Photo courtesy of CLG Photography.)
Sweat trickled down the middle of my back, and popped up in beads on my brow. The storm door smacked shut behind me as I traveled in and out of the house, arms stuffed with the day’s gathering. Cool. Hot! Cool. Hot! Cool. Hot! I lingered a bit in the air conditioned kitchen before heading out for the next haul. Unloading groceries in a 110 degree heat wave is a tiring chore, but hubs and I were making good time.Â
As he heaved in two five-gallon water jugs, one in each hand, I marveled at his brute strength. It’s one of our many differences that I appreciate. Some of our other differences, though, have made the already difficult road of marriage and child-rearing a bit …
Parenting is messy. But sometimes it’s more fun that way!
No, that’s not a typo in the headline. This is my toddler’s favorite new expression. One that she says all wrong, but I just can’t bring myself to correct. It’s the sparkle in her eyes, the delight on her face as dances around the kitchen and wiggles her limbs.Â
Parenting little ones, at times, is like a party. It’s fun, unpredictable, and there’s always a mess to clean up afterwards. Some appreciate your efforts, others just show up and judge. But it’s fun. Or at least the intention is to have fun, no matter how it actually plays out.Â
Before the guests arrive, your house is fairly quiet. You’ve spent time shopping, cleaning, fantasizing about all the fun to be had. Everything’s prepared, laid out in …
Don’t mess with this tough chick. (She’s practicing her wink, by the way.)
Today, while she was playing make-believe in the space between the open bathroom door and linen closet (Anna’s castle, of course) a spark I’d tried to ignite many times finally began to catch fire in her rapidly growing little brain.Â
Many times I’ve told her, “You’re brave. You’re strong. You can take care of things for yourself.” I’ve never outright told her, “You don’t need a man,” because frankly, I need my man. I want her to value her father, grandfathers and uncles. But I worry about the long-term effects of her princess obsession, and whether or not she’ll be hesitant to participate in sports or apply herself in class because she’s afraid of what some boy will think.Â
We’ve allowed her to …
She’s real. And she lives in West Wichita.
There she was, in real life, tall, bottle blonde, tan and wearing spandex as it was meant to be worn. She had pep in her step, pearls for teeth and a perkiness that indicated silicone (if you catch my drift). She emerged from the church carefree and unburdened as I was walking in with a baby slung up on one hip, and a toddler gripping my free hand. I was schlepping, she was practically bouncing. She had style, she had grace, I probably had graham cracker on my face. (No, seriously, Erica had been munching on them on the way in.)
So what was she doing here, at this mega-lo-church, where I was dropping off my kiddos for four hours of social interaction? I was already a bit …