1. Bowels
2. Slacks
3. Ecru
4. A-whole-nother
5. Soggy
6. Splat
7. Snot
8. Pumps (in reference to shoes)
9. Pantyhose
10. Migraine
11. Can’t
Forget your troubles; come read about mine
Archive for August, 2010
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EmailOne way I can be sure that summer is coming to its beautiful end is the addition of socks to the laundry.
My son has run around in Crocs since school let out. Actually, they’re the same pair of Crocs he wore last summer. He’s a slow grower. He wore a pair of 3T shorts the other day. He’s eight.
My daughter wore her black, hand-me-down sandals all summer. She most definitely did not wear the cute, brown-leather flip-flops, for which we went back and forth to the store because the size wasn’t quite right. You know, the ones that cost actual dollars.
I get used to laundry sans socks when the kids are out of school; other than softball and baseball socks, which are knee-high and black or knee-high and red. Meaning…the pair is easy to make.
My kids wear uniforms to school and their ankles have to be covered. So now, I will be carrying around a lot of socks until next June. I tote them up and down the stairs because I can’t find the mate and keep waiting for it to turn up. This is my laundry basket and the socks I carry around week to week.
If you’re wondering how I get my whites so white…oh, you’re not?
“But, there are a lot of socks in there with gray heels? Certainly, there are mates in there”, you protest.
No, there aren’t. Those are socks belonging to all four of us. Three are my husband’s…all with gray, but made by different sock people. Same for my daughter. I have one. The rest belong to my son.
White laundry is torture for the folder in my house. Ha! I say that almost as if there is more than one folder. That’s funny. Not at all.
The socks make me crazy. I won’t even mention what I do when they’re inside out. Last night, it took me 30 minutes to get through this basket and at the bottom, the pile still sat.
It’s a sure sign, people. Summer has come to an end.
My daughter starts middle school today, which makes perfect sense because about eight seconds ago she was a 2 lb. 9 oz. preemie who fit in the palm of her father’s hand.
Two seconds after that she was wearing pigtails and skipping and making me recite “The Three Little Pigs” over and over. Then she started reciting “The Three Little Pigs” and, somehow, even though it was only about five seconds ago, I have a 30 minute long video of her telling that story.
Oh my goodness, did that girl like to talk! One day, my left ear fell onto the floor and she just kept going…like she was waiting for the right one to do the same thing. Okay, I’m exaggerating. Slightly.
She was so smart. She still is. But, smart when you’re a toddler is different than smart when you’re eleven. She sang God Bless America in front of huge groups…hundreds of people…when she had just turned three. So, yeah, that kind of smart. Now, she knows geometry, which makes her smarter than I have ever been.
She has always had a big heart and a sensitive soul, but about one second ago she got kind of hormonal. That means that she’s SUPER sensitive, but doesn’t always show a sensitive side. So, she has no problem being mean to her brother and making him cry, but when I tell her to stop it? Her tears could fill a bucket.
I used to think we were so much alike, and we are in a lot of ways, but more and more I see her becoming her own person. Which scares me a lot. I knew what to expect when she acted like me. I even knew what to expect when she acted like her father. *cough* button-pusher *cough*
These days, she does her own thing a lot. It’s her music, her posters on the wall, her choices, her decisions. I hope she makes the right ones. Just saying that makes me want to lock her in a room forever.
Don’t get me wrong, she’s only eleven. She doesn’t have a cell phone, she still goes to bed at a decent hour, she can’t see PG-13 movies…except for Transformers because, duh, it’s Transformers.
She still needs her mommy sometimes, but I’m 39 and I still need mine, so that doesn’t make me feel much better. And, when I think about how dumb I acted when I started driving and then when I went to college…well, she’s just never driving or enrolling in higher education. That’s all there is to it.
Of course, that’s not true. She will grow up, despite my best efforts to keep her a child.
All I know, is that in a few more seconds my baby girl will still be my girl, but she won’t be my baby anymore. As much as I love seeing her grow, I really wish I could stop this clock.
On August 23, 1997, I woke early and roused my friend, Amy, from her deep slumber.
“I’m nervous”, I said to her. I could feel my hands beginning to tremble and fought the urge to let my teeth chatter.
“Do you want to get up and go downstairs for awhile?” Amy asked. I nodded.
In her living room, she lit some candles as I fell to her sofa. I pulled my knees to my chest and wrapped my hands around my ankles. This was the sitting fetal position. It was the closest I could get to a happy place.
Clearly, I looked like a wreck. So Amy did what any good friend would do. She got me a Pop-Tart.
I almost started crying. There I was, just hours from the most important moment of my life and I was stressed, nervous, losing sleep and eating sugary, frosted, toaster treats at 4:00am. This was not how I saw my wedding day getting started.
But, sometime after the Pop Tart and my up-do, which came to be dubbed, “Medusa”, I realized that things don’t always go as planned.
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Soon to be starring in the feature film Snakes on a Head.
I clearly recall, that a few hours later, we made the trip into the basement of the church. I sat down and made a declaration to everyone within earshot. “Things WILL go wrong today. If the ring bearer wants to break-dance down the aisle, fine. If someone passes out, we’ll deal with it. If my ex-boyfriend shows up and starts shooting people…well, that’s really going to suck.
And, you know what? Other than the snakes on my head, everything went beautifully. True perfection. I had the most wonderful time, had great conversations with old family and I spent the afternoon saying thanks to everyone who had helped deliver us our dream wedding.
I’m glad that our day started out a little strange, because it showed us what marriage would be like. Some days are dreamy and fun, but other days are Pop-Tarts and Medusa. Some days are both. You work with what you are given.
Happy Anniversary to the guy who has stayed by my side through all of these crazy years. Through sickness and health (mostly sickness), thick and thin (mostly thick), brown and blonde. I love you.
I wouldn’t want to share Pop-Tarts with anyone else.
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