You will be four years old in June, and you say the funniest things. Your vocabulary is growing in leaps and bounds (hell, you know what leaps & bounds means!) and you surprise me, all the time. It’s little things. Today while we were going potty you put your hand on my knee while getting your Pull-Up on. You said to me, “I’m holding your knee to keep me steady!”
For some reason, that sentence crushed me. You’re not a baby anymore. You use words like steady in context, instead of just saying “so I don’t fall down.”
You are currently obsessed with dresses. Not all dresses. In fact, half the time the “dress”you want to wear is a tunic with leggings. Your favorite, though, is this shirt and pant combo that Nana gave you. It’s light purple with little white flowers all over it. The shirt has a ruffle on the bottom and it’s a little bit long. You call it your purple dress. You would wear this every day if you could. You completely freak out when we tell you it is dirty and needs to be washed.
Last night you were extra cranky. You missed your nap, and I didn’t catch your tired signals in time. Nothing made you happy! You wanted more tv, but I shut it off AND made you put on pajamas. OH THE INJUSTICE OF IT ALL. You pouted and balled up your little fists and said “Mommy, you made me mad because you turned the tv off. You made me mad because you put these ‘jamas on me. I’m grumpy.”
I told you that I was proud of you for using your words instead of having a temper tantrum, and then I played peekaboo and tickled you into a good mood again.
You are so independent, my beautiful girl. I long to hold you and cuddle you all the time but you just want to run and play. I cherish our moments. I love you.
I’m calling this a “Green Post” because it’s been recycled from my old blog. One of the challenges of the Mominatrix #sexualrevolution was to do a little down-low landscaping, and I thought I’d share one of my experiences with waxing. This is supposed to be funny, so LAUGH DAMMIT.
————
I understand that there are some cultures where body hair is accepted, even admired. There are cultures also that demand that women or men remove all or parts of their body hair, either as a religious rite or simply because it is culturally unacceptable otherwise. I tried to do some research on this, but have you ever tried doing a Google search for pubic hair and cultural perspectives? Yeah, don’t. Or turn safe-search on.
Anyway, other cultures aside, my own personal preference is to be clean-shaven – pretty much anywhere that I can be. I love the hair on my head But I also keep that short. I don’t like long hair. Hubby had long hair before we met. If I had known him during his goth or subsequent quasi-goth stages, we would not have dated. When we did meet, he had a nice military haircut. Totally acceptable and attractive!
My reasons for wanting to be hairless “down there” are numerous, from simple to upkeep, to cleanliness, to the “eww gross” factor during oral… the list goes on. No landing strips for me, either. Not a fan. It looks funny, to me. And it’s more upkeep! I’d have to trim and shave. I think that’s asking a bit much from a girl who doesn’t even get to shower as often as she’s like. (Aren’t you glad that you only know me virtually? lol. )
So, with that oh-so-essential background information, my candid account of getting a Brazilian wax while 7 months pregnant last Saturday follows:
***
The spa room was very nice. There were nice fresh sheets and towels on the table in the center of the room. The walls were painted in calming earthy tones, and soothing music played in the background. There were some nice iron scrolls on the walls, a hook and hanger for my clothes, and a display of creams and lotions. I had just come from getting my hair cut and my maternity massage, so I was relaxed and feeling sexy and fun and flirty. The clinician, Rachel, offered me a drink of water or some tea. I politely declined – I think that peeing on the woman clearing out your bush is rude, right? I’ll be honest, I’m fuzzy on the proper protocol during a Brazilian wax.. but I think peeing on people is out unless you’re filming a crazy porn or something.
Rachel, by the way, is absolutely gorgeous. Long, dark, curly hair, big big eyes with long lashes, little cupid mouth. It was almost a little insulting how pretty she was. I mean c’mon. If I’m going to have someone staring at my vagina for an hour, I’d rather that she be less attractive than me. If she’s going to be more attractive than I am, and she’s looking at my vagina, she better not be down there to give me a Brazilian.
(Whoops, just outed myself. Bisexual, anyone?)
So, where was I? Oh yeah. Gorgeous girl, first Brazilian wax, 4 months of growth because I can’t reach my own hoo-hah and a huge pregnant belly.
She told me that I could hang my clothes on the hanger and get up on the table, she’d be right back. That’s right folks, she left while I undressed. She also left while I dressed, at the end. How weird is that? I mean, it’s not like she wasn’t going to see it anyway!
Then again, after I had stripped and gotten up on the table, I draped a towel over myself. Even as I arranged it to keep my bits from showing, I questioned why I was bothering. I mean, she was going to be getting up close and personal. And yet… it would have felt so weird to leave it all hanging out!
So when she comes back in, I’m lying on my back, wondering why they didn’t bother to drywall the ceiling because those dated ceiling tiles are really unattractive to look at, when she pulls my leg to the side and plops some sugar-lemon gel on the area with a little spatula. No “How do you do, let me grab your leg here for a sec.” No “How about dinner? A movie? Sex in the back of my conversion van?” Not even a warning “Let’s go!” Just flip the towel aside, grap the spatula, plop the wax and hello, pain. Let me tell you – that gel is hot. And when it catches on the little hairs, it hurts a little. But I thought to myself, so far, so good. This’ll be quick and dirty. It’l hurt, but then I’ll be able to go, and I’ll never have to look this beautiful woman in the face again. Then she grabbed one of those little waxing strips and laid it on the gel. No problem. Then she took her whole hand (gloved, thankyouverymuch) and rubbed the strip down with significant pressure. Let me just say this – not so much a problem on the bikini line area. Totally strange when you get to the “inner” area. I was really, really glad that I wasn’t going to have to see her outside of this context.
Then she started talking to me, asking when I was due, did I have any names picked? I thought it was a little weird, but figured that she was curious and maybe trying to get her mind off of the task at hand (literally….)
I was right in the middle of telling her that I was due on ((RIP)) ((internal scream of surprise and pain)) November 4th, but that my daughter was ((RIP)) ((oh good lord that burns)) about 10 days early, so ((RIP)) ((I bet I’m as red as a tomato down there right now)) this one might be an October baby. With every bit of gel applied, she would apply the wax strip several times and rip, rip, rip away.
I was horrified at the pain. It burned. It hurt. It ached. It was sharp, and tingly, and there was nothing good about it, no way. I had heard that some women like to get this done. I think that whoever told me that was mistaken. They probably said that they like it as much as they’d like an ice pick to the eye. Or they like it as much as they’d like to swallow burning coals. Or that they like it as much as a visit from their mother-in-law while potty-training their first child, who happens to have diarrhea.
But I had started. And I figured that as long as I could just sit there, deal with the pain, and get it over with, I’d be fine.
But no. Rachel was seriously chatty. She would ask me about how I liked living in B-town, and whether I liked it more than BL-town versus N-city, and how her boyfriend wanted to live in B-town but she wanted to live in N-city even though the commute would be worse, etc etc. Every so often, she’d pause, and squint at my lower half. I’m not sure if she was puzzled, or strategizing, or what. It was all very surreal and strange, and somewhat awkward.
It went on and on. This is not a quick process – it took 50 minutes to get everything.It was a pattern. Apply wax, ask a question, furiously rub on waxing strip, wait until I started my answer, RIP. I swear, she was doing it on purpose. She probably got some sort of sick thrill out of seeing whether she could get me to scream in the middle of my answer. (I’m proud to say that I did not! Though there was much wincing, pausing, and flinching)
I tried to rationalize the whole experience and say that it was good practice for childbirth. I mean, pain at intervals lasting for 30 seconds to a minute (oh, the burning!) while maintaining conversation with the people around you. Because that’s totally how we all imagine our birth experience. Discussion about politics and complex science while also bringing life into the world, without any pain medication. I mean, that’s what my childbirth plan reads…. yeah.
The worst part was the end, though. I had told her that I wanted everything – even the wayyy back – gone. She tells me that the last part is the least painful, don’t worry, and if I could get up on the table on my hands and knees and arch my back, that would be great. (Oh, how many times have I heard that? “This won’t hurt a bit, now bend over… ) So, with my big ass and my pregnant belly and my ridiculous stretch marks, I got up on that table and posed like I was asking Hubby to do it doggy style. My stomach rested on the table. My back was arched, my ass was in the air, and she says to me “That’s great.”
Oh goodness.
So she applies the gel and gets the strip, and right after she pulls the strip off, I start to giggle.
A word of advice: the next time that you’re in a table, ass proudly displayed in the air, while someone removes the hair from your body using a spatula, wax, and some cloth strips, do not giggle. It’s weird. It puts a strange mood in the room. No matter that you quickly, VERY quickly explain that you’re just thinking about how funny this will be to tell people later, and that you’re thinking of getting an at-home wax kit so that your husband can see how it feels to have the hair brutally ripped from his body, or that you know it’s totally inappropriate and you’re so sorry you don’t mean to giggle but you just can’t stop…
It’s weird. And for the last few minutes of that waxing session, there will be a silence in the room, like a thick, wet, flannel blanket, dampening everything. And you’ll still be stifling giggles.
Needless to say, I’ll be back in four weeks to get it done again. (That’s right, go back and read that sentence again. No typos, I promise.) (It lasts four weeks!) (And Hubby is paying!)
This is the token end-of-year post. I’m not usually one for the token-whatever post, I read too many other great Christmas, Thanksgiving, Birthday, New Year’s, etc posts.. but I wanted to talk about this year because it’s been a big year for me.
Firsts in 2009
Last year was a year of many firsts for me. I branched out and did things I’ve never done before. I had a lot of great experiences. I learned a lot. I fell in love with this community more than ever. I prayed more than I’ve prayed in my life. A few of the highlights:
I got off Blogger and decided to take blogging, and my internet community, seriously. I recognized and tried to accept that my friendships are scattered across the country, and that not having local friends doesn’t make me a loser behind a computer screen.
I flew in a plane, by myself, to Chicago, IL, adding one more state to my small, small list of travels. I attended BlogHer with some of my favorite people and realized that while I was never shy in high school, being around so many women that I admired and respected caused me to clam up and sit on the sidelines. Regardless, I had a blast and got more than a few thrills when people I loved and admired actually recognized my name.
I walked away from a company I loved because it was clear they were going under. They’re still hanging on, but barely. I’m glad I made the move – I found a stable job at a stable company that is growing, and I get to commute with and work alongside my husband every day. Our relationship has grown and deepened and strengthened as a result. I’ll be sad when this era ends.
I figured out how to handle a 2 year old just in time for my little Cupcake to turn 3. Then I realized I knew nothing about parenting and that I’d never keep up. Then I realized that seems to be the same thing everyone is doing, and that my mother holds me to unrealistic standards. She’s been doing this for over 25 years. I learned to give myself a break even if she won’t. Towards the end of the year I even learned to stand up for some of my parenting decisions. I told her that if she wanted the kids dressed in matching, adorable outfits every day, she would have to do it, because in the grand scheme of life? Cute clothes for the kids, or even outfits that match, are not my priority. If the kids are relatively clean, happy, and well fed I consider that a win, and you won’t change my mind.
I started, then stopped, then started college again, as a full-time online student taking condensed classes to get a little further along in that BA in Education. I’m struggling to find time and balance it all, but I’m trucking along, and not just because I don’t feel like making student loan payments.
I grieved, truly grieved, the death of several children that I’ve never met. I learned, again, that life is not fair. I realized how strongly social media and the internet community here affects my life. I cried for days. I still cry. I still grieve for those lost lives. I pray for their families. I’ve prayed more this year than I’ve prayed in my entire life.
I started my own small business, taking on new clients and old friends alike who are in need of blog design, help moving from Blogger or Wordpress.com to self-hosted Wordpress, and graphic design elements like headers and buttons. I learned how to value my work and respect myself. I created things that I am so damn proud of. I helped pay for our Christmas this year with that extra money, and nothing feels so good as doing something you love and knowing you’ve helped your family by doing it.
I went to therapy.
I stopped going to therapy.
I became addicted to Starbucks.
Regrets in 2009
It’s fashionable today to say that we have no regrets and I’ve been known to say it myself. I lied. I have regrets, I have loads of regrets. I wish I didn’t, because that would mean that I’ve lived my life perfectly. I’ve made mistakes and I wish I hadn’t, regardless of how I’ve grown or changed as a person as a result of them… if I hadn’t made them in the first place maybe it would mean I didn’t have a flaw or weakness to overcome in the first place. I don’t know. What I do know is that I have regrets, and rather than shrug them off, I want and need to acknowledge them and remind myself that I am fallible. I make mistakes. I hurt people. I need to own that.
I have made mistakes with my children. Every day. I yell too much. I use an angry tone. I don’t spend enough time just playing with them. I am not always fair. I am not always consistent. I expect too much. I have coddled the baby and expected too much of Big Sister. I forget that Big Sister is still a Little Girl and needs to be treated like a Little Girl not a Small Adult.
I have accidentally (and on purpose) ignored friends and family. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
I have lied to my mother. I have screamed at my husband for nothing in the middle of sleepless nights. I have been a bitch many times.
I have tried to make it all about ME. I have been selfish. I have been uncaring. I have said cruel things.
I have held grudges.
I didn’t even try to lose weight. I bitch about my body but I didn’t even try. I was a hypocrite.
It’s been a long hard year. I’m ready to put it aside. I’m ready to go forth into a new decade and say What’s UP bitches?! I’m HERE! I’m ready to make an impact. I’m ready to be the best mother I’ve ever been. I’m ready for, 2010. I’m ready.
Things had been unraveling for weeks. Honestly, I should have known from the beginning that it wasn’t going to work. He was too diffident. Too closed off. Too mysterious. Too punk rock. Too sophisticated. Too immature. He was the very embodiment of enigma but to my young mind it was that very fact that made him so alluring.
Oh! How I wanted him.
It all started innocently enough. We were both involved heavily in the music department. He had a band, mostly punk rock. He sang a cover of the Captain Planet theme song that made you admit that you did know the words to that song, and scream them at the top of your lungs, hoping he’d glance your way. He wasn’t attractive in the traditional sense. It was really more about his attitude, his aura – he was sexy. I recognized that despite the fact that I hardly knew what sexy was at that time. It didn’t matter. I’ll admit it: I was a little bit obsessed.
I can’t quite remember exactly when we became exclusive. Did we kiss first, and commit later? Did he ask me out? I’m fuzzy on the timeline. I was a Junior in High School – 17 years old, old for my grade, I fancied myself more mature. I was as foolish and as vulnerable as any other young girl in love. We were dating during the school musical, I spent rehearsals sitting in his lap in the darkened auditorium, or clinging to his side while he entertained us with his guitar. I think it was Fiddler on the Roof that year. During the first few rehearsals, we flirted. He and his best friend both courted me, flirted with me, vying for my attention and it made my head spin. I felt so powerful, and seductive, and powerful.
I chose him because it felt like electricity every time he touched me. I chose him because his breath on my ear, as he leaned in to whisper witty cynicisms I could hardly comprehend, made my spine shiver and sent my insides churning.
He wrote me poems, taping them to the inside of my locker, folded in perfect little football triangles. I don’t have them anymore. My favorite was about a caged bird who wanted to be set free to sing, a caged bird who had the power to leave her cage but didn’t because she thought she could do it tomorrow, but tomorrow would never come. He gave me that poem and a necklace, a little silver key. It was simple – cheap, even. I treasured it like nothing else I’d ever owned.
I gave him my memory books – blank notebooks that I wrote in throughout the day, jotting down anything that poppped into my head, be it doodle or words or song lyrics. It was a peek into my self. I let him have them, I let him have me, my essence.
Ultimately though, he gave me nothing. He wrote me poems about what was wrong with me in beautiful verse. He gave me symbolic gifts that urged me to change. He gave me nothing of himself. To this day I know very little about him and his life, but he knew everything about me. It was too much, I couldn’t sustain it. I couldn’t give everything and receive nothing in return. I loved him, I needed to know more of him than his favorite foods or his vocal range.
I can’t remember which of us broke it off. I remember walking down the hallway in that god-forsaken high school and passing him a note. I remember the crushing weight of my sadness on my chest making it hard to breathe. I remember him saying Goodbye. I remember the way he smelled. I remember the way he walked.
I remember riding home on the bus in a fog. I got off at my stop. I started to walk down our little dead end road. I took 10, maybe 15 steps before I broke down. I clutched the necklace he had given me, my key to happiness, and it seemed to burn my hand. I dug my fingers into my palm with this little key curled inside my angry fist and I wanted to draw blood. I stayed there, kneeling on the ground, broken, for a long while.
Finally, I rose. I took the necklace off and threw it into the woods. I went home. I did homework. I talked to a few friends. I went to sleep. I got up and I got through the next day, and the next day, and the next.
It was hard. I was heartbroken. I thought I had known love, and it was ripped away from me. I thought I might never love again.
Thankfully, I was wrong.
—————————
This post is part of Girl Talk Thursday, which is one of my favorite things ever Want to share a story about love or heartbreak? Join in on the fun! You don’t have to post on Thursday, just post before next Thursday! And don’t forget to visit the other participants!
I’ve had a rough week. I’ve been working on me – trying to deal with my feelings towards my family, myself, my life. And now? Well I like to think that I’m on my way to becoming that beautiful butterfly.
Let me back up.
I think that if we were able to meet earlier versions of ourselves, our earlier versions would, in nearly all cases, kick our present-self’s a**, scorn us, spread nasty rumors about us in school, or otherwise show their utter disdain for our lives.
OK, fine, maybe it’s just me.
But seriously – at seventeen, I was sure that I would lose my virginity to the man that I married. I was sure that I would probably never get really drunk, except maybe once on my honeymoon. I was sure that I would be in school for music right now, finishing my Master’s, and that I would be composing awesome music, and doing musical theatre, and generally putting myself out there and showing the world how freakin’ amazing I was. I was sure that I would have an amazing relationship with my family, that I would probably have my own apartment and an awesome side job that allowed me to retain my individuality and creativity, and that I would still be in touch with all my high school teachers. Especially Mr. L.
My 17-yr old self would definitely not have suspected that I’d have a small blue sedan gray almost-minivan with cheese puffs crushed into the carpet. She wouldn’t suspect that, at the tender age of 23, I would be ready to give birth to my second child. She would never have guessed that I’d marry a guy I’d know for 6 months, and she definitely would have laughed, heartily, at the idea that my husband would be a military man. (He’s finished his term now, by the way.)
At 23, I expected to be having a lot of fun, exploring my creativity, and living it up. I don’t think I figured that would include trips to the park to see the longest slide around, crayons, and staying up past 10pm (whoo-hoo!)
But you know what? It’s OK.
I love it. I love this. And while there are still a lot of dreams that I’m not wiling to give up – I would forfeit it all for this family of mine. I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect to have two children so early. I didn’t expect to have a husband that I love quite this much. I didn’t even think love like this really existed. I didn’t realize that there is nothing, NOTHING more fulfilling than teaching your daughter to say a new word and understand what it means. I don’t think I realized that there would be nothing more likely to bring a tear to my eye than that same little girl calling my best friend from middle school, Mike, “Unc” (uncle). I never knew that it would hurt so good to see her growing up.
A part of me misses Cat (my former self). The daring, pink-hair, outgoing, dramatic, don’t-care-what-you-think-ok-so-maybe-i-do-but-i’ll-never-show-it Cat. The girl who was popular, but only amongst the music geeks and band dorks. Cat, who spent all her spare time in the music theory room, trying to compose something meaningful. If I’d known how it would feel to be a parent, I wouldn’t have had an ounce of trouble creating a sonata. I wouldn’t have had any lack of inspiration for a base line. I could have created the most beautiful choruses.
Cat isn’t gone. She isn’t lost. She’s still here, but she is often smelly from lack of shower, and unmotivated and exhausted. She is often insecure about what other mothers may think, and weary of the day to day drama that comes with family. Cat wishes she had time for music lessons, and music composition, and community theatre.
But MommyGeek… MommyGeek knows that there is nothing better than spending time with my daughter while she counts to 10. There is nothing better than ducking as she tests out her throwing arm with a ball that is way too hard – who gave that to her? MommyGeek knows that the other day, when I made it to the grocery store and home within an hour, WITH a toddler, right before dinner time – that is true victory, and it is sweet. Oh so sweet.
MommyGeek knows that hugs and kisses from a little girl who wants to know “You ok?” are better than any medicine. iMommy knows that she has the best husband in the world (for me). MommyGeek knows that the next little one will be just as much of a wonder, even while Cat is recoiling at the thought of more diapers, spit up, and unglamorous outings to the park.
I believe that each day, we have the opportunity to redefine ourselves. Each hour. Each minute. We can change as we need. Cat is a part of my self, but she is a part that will be dormant for a little while. It’s MommyGeek’s turn to shine.
And let me just say this, because it’s important, and I wish that someone had said it to me when I was starting this MommyGeek journey: It might happen overnight for some people. But not everyone. Some women struggle with post-partum depression for 6 months before doing anything about it. Some women never fully recover from that depression. Some women finally realize that they are enjoying their daughter, fully, for the first time when she turns 2. Some women don’t really embrace Mommy until later. And I think that’s OK. As long as our children are happy, it’s OK. As long as we find that happiness, it’s OK.
So while this is all wonderful, and amazing, it wasn’t so amazing at first. It was terrifying. It was new. It was different. It was too much. And it took me a while to reinvent myself and become MommyGeek. And next? Next I need to figure out how to be both: Cat and MommyGeek. We all need balance. You know what the best thing for balance is? Beautiful [butterfly] wings.
Just you wait. Mine will be twinkling in the sunlight before long, alternately blending into the background or bursting with color and light.
Photo Credits: Top (originally uploaded by lappid.) Bottom (Neil Durden)
————————————————
This post originally posted on my previous blog, on August 13th, 2008. I was heavily pregnant with Geeklet at the time. I think that no matter where I am in my life, this post will be relevant to me. I hope you enjoy it. It could be considered part of ScaryMommy’s Flashback Friday series, though sadly, that’s merely coincidence. I suck at planning.
The new boss is out for a quick sandwich, and so I’m here for a quick update – determined to commit to my new blog and renewed determination that I can write what I want, damnit.
And so here I am.
I’m exhausted. I’m just about ready to drop, actually. I was up until past midnight last night, playing around with stock imges for the header here and worrying about how today would go. Geekgirl kept talking yelling in her sleep and startling me awake. I would be at the door to her room before I was even awake. Of course, she was always asleep by then. Once I realized what she had said (“I want a cookie!”) (“I want to go outside!”) (“Go away, doggie!”) I realized she was just dreaming. And yet, I was then up. Awake. Around 3:30am I was up every half our when one or the other kid woke up and fussed/talked/yelled/giggled/stirred/sighed/turned over. Such is the role of a mother, right? A coworker once told me that there is a phrase in German for a sleeping mother – and when translated, it actually means something to the effect of “wakeful sleep”. (Anyone know what the phrase is? I couldn’t figure out how to effectively Google it.) I have to remind myself: This too shall pass.
I’ve been spending the whole morning and afternoon viewing bo-ring and slightly out-of-date training materials on the system I am supposed to be administrating (is that a word?) as well as trying desperately to get this new work laptop to have all the same awesome settings as my previous work computer. See, I had nearly three years of customizations on that machine. Now I am starting all over! I have to remind myself: This too shall pass.
Considering that our family has moved nine times in the last 4 years (the entire time my husband and I have known each other), getting ready to move again in three weeks – you’d think I would adapt to change easily. And if you think about it, I probably do adapt better than most. I boxed up all my things from L, and moved right into my cube here. It almost feels like home. I brought my personal files, will be updating my background soon, installed all my Firefox Add-ons, etc. Soon, I have to do it with our home again. This morning, I had to program the GPS to bring me to a new office so I wouldn’t accidentally go back to L. It’s just odd.
I miss my same-old same-old route to work. I miss seeing the folks I’ve seen for years at the office. I miss my old boss. I miss my friends.
While I’m confessing, I miss everything. I miss high school. Yes, I know, I know… but on some level, the simplicity of it all (relative) and the friends and the fun and the startling lack of responsibility… I am envious of that younger self.
I went to the salon yesterday to get my hair done (pictures soon, I promise). The salon is in the mall, and while I was there, I noticed all the young women and girls, strutting around in their makeup and fancy shoes, no strollers, no diaper bags, no spit-up, no dark circles under their eyes, no desperate graps on a Starbucks cup as if it were thier only salvation.
And for a moment, I envy them.
Then I think of my girls. I think of my husband, our family, the memories we are creating, the life we are creating, that we share every day. As I was thinking of that, of the transition from young woman to mother, I saw an old couple sitting near the elevator, holding hands.
I realized that certain truths and progressions wil lnever change. We will all be irresponsible when we are young. We will all struggle with change. We will all transition, some painfully, to middle age. We will all get old. Our waist lines may get thicker and our pants ride a little higher… our hair may get shorter and our vision blurrier. We will be wiser, and no one will take us seriously, because the youths will be busy with fun! sun! adventure!
I guess what I’m saying is this:
Today is the first day of a new job. In a few weeks, it will be our first night in a new apartment (again). This scenario, this adapting to change will happen in our lifes over and over again, on scales large and small. It serves a purpose – to take us further down our life path.
If the end of my life path puts me sitting in the mall with my husband, our children grown and healthy, our vision blurry, our pants at our nipples, holding hands and watching the foolishness of the next generations… I’ll call that a win.
This too shall pass. But until it does, I’ll savor every moment. Because the fact is, it will pass. And when it doesn, that’s it. We can’t get these days back. So tonight, when my daughter talks in her sleep about cookies and Special Agent Oso, I’ll jump out of bed. When my other daughter stirs and sighs, I’ll leap up, ready to make a bottle or return a pacifier to it’s rightful place. Because soon they won’t need that from me. Too son. This too shall pass. Unfortunately.
I'm MommyGeek - married to DaddyGeek, with two soon-to-be-geek daughters, Cupcake (3.5 years old) and Geeklet (15 months). This blog chronicles the life and times of our GeekFam, in addition to serving as an outlet for our other geeky and techie loves. It's all part of the iGeneration profile. Oh, sorry - is our Geek showing?
But I also keep that short. I don’t like long hair. Hubby had long hair before we met. If I had known him during his goth or subsequent quasi-goth stages, we would not have dated. When we did meet, he had a nice military haircut. Totally acceptable and attractive!
