Right now, my daughter is sleeping. Her blond hair is tousled from erratic tossing and turning, and she’s probably still clinging to her chosen cuddle object of the moment—a wiffle ball bat. Her Little Mermaid jammies are too snug, but she insists on wearing them, for fear that they’ll be handed down to her baby sister once she’s officially outgrown them. Right now, she is blissfully unfettered. Her imagination runs wild, never having been tamed by the four walls of education, until today.
In a few hours, my daughter will enter “the system.” Two years of preschool will be followed by twelve years of “big kid” school (as she calls it), and then….who knows? She’ll be out in the world. Will she attend traditional college? Will …
Soaking in some mommy-daughter time.
For every stay-at-home-mom who’s complaining on her blog about her lack of appreciation (ahem, like me), there’s another mom sitting in a cubicle, dreaming of spending time with her little ones. She glances over at their faces in the 5×7 frame, and counts the hours and minutes until she can ooze into her front door after a long day of work to a chorus of “Mommy! Mommy! We’re so glad you’re home!” She would give anything to be in my shoes, but she can’t. She’s the sole bread winner, or the insurance carrier, or the single parent.
For every hair I pull out of my head while my children are driving me crazy, there’s another mom thousands of miles away, with sand in her hair and her combat boots. It …
Forget a lump of coal. We need a bar of soap!
I often hear people say they just “make” their kids do things. This perplexes me. I mean, it’s fairly easy with my fifteen month old, but nearly impossible with my three year old. She’s strong when she’s mad. I mean, super strong. And besides, physically forcing my child to do something against their will is a bit traumatic (unless it’s taking necessary medicine, then I just sit on her). Oh yeah, I also threw out my lower back, and hubby was gone, so physical force really wasn’t an option.
So, when my eldest daughter refused to take a bath, I was beyond frustrated. Bath refusal is something new. Here’s how our little exchange went:
…………
Honey, it’s bath time. Please get in with your sister.
No, I …
She didn’t know all of the words. She couldn’t keep up with all of the choreography. Her sundress was stained down the front, and none of the other kids were wearing cowboy boots. But my daughter shined. In my eyes, there was nobody else on stage. It was her first time performing for a public audience, and I was mesmerized.
Afraid she would run to me if I caught her eye, I tried to hide in the large auditorium. But seeing her eyes frantically dart around the room for me, I stood up and waved. She beamed. Above the din of the crowd and kids, I heard her yell, “My mommy! My mommy came!” As much as I try to avoid cliches, I can’t this time. My heart swelled with pride. Filled my chest cavity and …
I’m positive that it’s negative. (Not my actual test, don’t worry.)
First of all, there’s something I’d like to say to pregnancy test manufacturers: WHY ARE YOUR PACKAGES SO DANG HARD TO OPEN?! I mean, really, can’t you give us a little tab to pull or perforation to tear? Why does that plastic have to be sealed so tightly without even the slightest bubble under which to slip our nail and tear the stupid thing open? Because when you take a pregnancy test, you’re a little on edge, no matter what you want the outcome to be. Is this some male packaging engineer’s idea of a sick joke? “Let’s make ’em scramble a bit before they find out if their life’s about to change…forever! Muahahaha…”
Ok, now that I’ve gotten that rant out of the way, …