Sometimes I forget who I am. It sounds silly, but the older I get the easier it is to do. It’s not like being stricken with amnesia where everything goes away all at once. It’s more like a gradual ebbing of pieces of my self-awareness. When I finally realize it’s happened, I can generally pinpoint what part of me has faded. Then I start to wonder if it’s worth reviving.
I was not raised with a love of outdoor activity and the only time I’ll run is if I’m being chased. I certainly wasn’t planning on running through any of the four Disney World parks on our visit, but I’ve also seen the security lines in the Orlando airport, so I wasn’t ruling out having to run through the terminal to make our flight home. It’s bad enough traveling alone as an adult, but once you get a tired kid in tow, all bets are off. I also wasn’t sure just how tired the aforementioned child would be by the end of a 5-day Disney experience. That got me wondering if we were all going to make it through this trip at all.
“Why I haven’t met your Daddy, Mommy?”
I’m still not clear on what triggered that completely reasonable question from my almost 4-year –old. I’ve had to answer it before, but this time there was more behind it. Lately I’ve noticed Miss O becoming increasingly observant and I can see how this is going to be a problem for a lot of people. I know I was woefully unprepared to have this discussion even though I’ve been dreading it since I found out I was pregnant. I knew it would come someday, but I don’t think I was truly prepared for the weight of it or how soon it arrived.
Toddler girls have a special ability to take your heart in their tiny little hands, squeeze every last ounce of love out of it then hand it back to you expecting you to love them like your heart was whole again and you hadn’t lost a drop. My daughter is no exception. My greatest fear is that my mother’s curse has indeed come to life in the deep blue eyes of my greatest love.
“I hope you have one just like you.”
“I need a tissue for my feelings.” These are the words my almost two and half year-old daughter sniffed as she struggled to stop crying one night. Hubs and I can’t remember what the cause of her tears was, probably because our hearts were so busy melting our brains were focused on keeping us together enough to grant her simple request. My heart broke for my daughter, not only because of the words she used, but because of the weight of her acknowledgement that she has feelings and knows she must manage them. Somehow the depth of that statement coming from her little voice was more than I could handle.
High school me would have been horrified at the thought of being seen without a full face of makeup by anyone other than my parents to be a harbinger of the apocalypse. My mother always had “her face on” and I it never occurred to me not to be done up at every moment. Reading all those magazines did not help. How could all those issues of Seventeen be wrong? Why wouldn’t I want to know what was the BEST mascara of all time while only in 9th grade?
Ever since we began the search for a babysitter, this is how the few leads we’ve gotten are delivered. Hushed tones, eyes darting around like there’s some ninja babysitter network assassin hiding around every corner, waiting for you to share that name before you’re finished using them.
Suburban Jackpot 