I tell her she’s really fast on her bike. She’s not. But what am I, some kind of jerk?!
In our typical rush to get out the door in the morning, I got everyone ready before myself. (Which is a huge mistake, if you know the whole “air mask on a plane” theory. With both girls dressed, hair brushed, and teeth sanitized, I finally took off my own PJ’s. I threw open my closet door. No. Too dressy. I opened up my “pajama/workout clothes” drawer. Perfect. My “bigger” running shorts and matching lavender tank top. I quickly assembled my outfit and glanced at the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door.
Oh. My. Gosh. My stomach. At only 7 weeks pregnant, it’s already popping over the elastic on my shorts like a busted can …
Are there ever times when you hear your child calling you, and it takes awhile to respond? Not because you’re ignoring him/her, not because a baby is screaming in your ear, and not because you’re so tired that you’ve accidentally dozed off on the floor while playing blocks. But because you still can’t quite believe you’re a parent. “You talking to me kid?” That some great power above bestowed on you this much responsibility, this much authority. And unless your child came by way of adoption, you probably didn’t have to pass any kind of test.
It happens to me quite often. Moments that I not only shake my head and wonder why I of all people was trusted with these little creatures, but wonder how on earth I can manage to not totally screw them …
Okay, I know there are other parents out there who’ve been caught with their pants down…in the bathroom. Seriously, especially for us moms, I never knew what a luxury it was just to pee (and perform other bodily functions) alone. So today, I developed a plan. It’s called the “Lack of Privacy Payback Plan” to be exact. So here goes:
The number of minutes my preschooler stands in the doorway and talks to me while I’m using the restroom are equivalent to the number of minutes I’ll stand in her doorway and talk to her…while she’s trying to make out with her boyfriend someday.
But I’m not going to stop there. This next step is the pièce de résistance. I’ll not only stand in her doorway and talk to her, I’ll repeat word for word the questions, statements …
Seeing the ends of her golden hair gathered into a lavender ponytail holder, I had to choke back emotion. “It’s just hair, honey,” I assured her. “It will grow back.” My preschooler has been begging me to let her get her hair cut “just like mommy’s,” but I’ve been dragging my feet. Why? Well, I was worried she might change her mind. Or, more likely, that I would regret snipping off those sweet tendrils that used to brush up against my cheek when I was rocking her to sleep as a baby. These were her first curls, which had now grown into an unmanageable mane. Her hair had grown down to her shoulder blades, and she didn’t have the patience or desire to keep it maintained. Every morning was a struggle.
“Don’t brush my hair! No! It HURTS! Leave …
Look Ma! No seams!
Awhile back, I posted a desperate plea on my Facebook page. Nearly every morning, my preschooler was causing us to run late. Why? Her socks. She would agree to put them on, only to fling them off in a fit of rage screaming, “They’re goofy!” Her voice was desperate. I knew this wasn’t simply a tactic not to leave the house. She loves to go, anywhere, and this was legitimately bugging her. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised. She comes by it honest. My brother suffered from the same seam sensitivity. My daughter is also highly sensitive to other things at certain times (noise, light, textures, etc.).
It turns out she’s far from alone. Friend after friend online told me their stories of sock woes. Some of them even suffer from this same …
She doesn’t need a prince on a white horse to ride her off into the sunset. She’s got her own little red sports car.
She shrugged her shoulders, and set the box aside. Should I have been surprised? My girly-girl, wanna-be princess ballerina, got a belated Christmas gift from her great grandmother–remote control cars. Not pink ones. Not purple ones. Not sparkly ones. Just a red one, and a police car one.
“Can I keep looking at my dresses now?”
Along with her Christmas gift, she also got a black plastic trash bag full of hand-me-down clothes from an older cousin, filled with frilly dresses, fun slippers, and Disney-themed pajamas. Now that was more her style. While she disrobed and slipped the new-to-her Tinkerbell jammies over her head, I headed to the kitchen with my hubby to put …