So Not a MILF

I have come to the realization that I am not a cool, hip, with-it mom.  I'm just... not.

When my daughter is twelve, she is not going to raid my closet, looking for something fabulous to wear to the middle school dance.

My son isn't going to struggle with embarrassment as a teen because he has a MILF for a mom, because the only one on the planet who remotely considers me a MILF is his DILF.

My ears are only pierced once.  I have no other piercings.  I barely remember to change my earrings...

I don't have a tattoo.  Anywhere.  That little pink spot above my knee is a birthmark and it has been there since, well, birth.

If tattoos and piercings are your thing, go for it!  They're just not my thing.

And right now?   I've got a lovely allergies-turned-cold thang going on.  Which means that unless you think it's sexy for your woman to sleep with Vicks under her nose, I'm not your woman.

But yeah, maybe it's because I'm ancient to have a five-year-old and three-year-old, but I'm definitely NOT going to be the mom all the kids want to be.  I think I'm OK with that.  But shoot me now if I start watching CBS for any reason...

The Waterworks

Last night, my son's elementary school had an outdoor event for the whole family!  Fun, fun, fun!  And it was, at least the first 20 minutes of it.

And then I realized that I needed to use the bathroom.  Badly.  And Violet was sitting on my lap.  Perhaps sitting is inaccurate -- she was sitting, sliding, climbing, bouncing, wiggling, melting, squiggling, poking, prodding, and jostling on my lap. 

And I had to pee.

Since we were outside, my super power of Crazy Allergies kicked into high gear.  And I started sneezing.  Every 45-60 seconds, as regular as Old Faithful.  And I don't sneeze tiny, dainty girl sneezes.  Nope, I sneeze sneezes that sound like car accidents, metal crunching metal, splintering glass -- horrible, hideous man-sneezes.

With Violet "sitting" on my lap.  While I had to pee.

I have given birth to an 8lb boy with the head of a two-year-old and an 8.5lb girl with an appropriately sized head.  Bladder control?  What's that?  Haven't seen you in years.

So this is adding up to a NOT GOOD situation for me.  I excuse myself and assume that since there are 350 people gathered on the lawn of the school, at least one door would be open so that someone could use a restroom. 

I was wrong.  Painfully, waddling like a sick duck wrong. 

I weighed my options:

1.  Run to my office 4 blocks away.
2.  Go to the car, grab some wipes, and relieve myself behind something.
3.  Track down someone with keys in that sea of people, oh, did I mention the program was starting?
4.  Drive somewhere with a bathroom as fast as I can.

My only real option was #4.  So, if you happened to be at the public library last night around 7:55 and noticed a woman flying through the stacks to the bathroom and heard her practically cry with relief as she peed like an elephant, yep, that was me.

Bye-Bye Baby, Hello Big Girl

Last night I sang my two-year-old baby daughter to sleep for the last time.  Today, she wakes up a three-year-old big girl, her blonde curls wild from sleep, her cheeks warm and pink from her pillow.

I look into her eyes, deep pools of knowing, and see an old soul eager to plunge into the depths of childhood imagination.  She has an amazing fortitude, an aptitude for remarkable consistency, and an uncanny precision.  Most surprising is her innate ability to just know how things are done.  I always feel that when I give her directions, I am simply repeating back instructions she has given me a lifetime ago.

My now three-year-old has a tremendous grace -- physical, mental, and emotional.  Her sense of humor is spontaneous and timely.  Last night, she slipped on a blanket, landing with a plop on her rear.  Her face registered shock, then quickly dissolved into a fit of giggles as she sputtered, "I fell on my BUM!"  She wasn't annoyed, she knew that she wasn't hurt and wasn't looking for sympathy.  She simply knew that she landed on her rear and that it was funny.

I spent most of Violet's first two-and-a-half years thinking that all I knew of her was the top of her head because she was addicted to the mom pacifier.  And, honestly, I indulged her in the for as long as she wanted because Violet has never seemed to need anything from anyone.  Even as a tiny infant, she could self-soothe, self-entertain, and pretty much self-anything as long as she could reach it.  Sometimes I wonder if she only keeps us around so that we can drive the cars, use the stove, and reach things from tall shelves.

Oh, my independent little one, I hope that your burgeoning self continues to grow, that you will always explore with as much gusto as you do now.  I melt when your sweet little laugh peals when you are delighted, ringing through my heart like a chorus of bells.

I embrace you now, now before the world of, "Geez, mom!" and "Aw, c'mon!" creeps into your vocabulary.  Now, while you still call "Play with me!" as you skip to your dollies and princesses.  Now, while your big-girl-you is still small enough to cradle in my open arms.  Now, while I can press my cheek into your soft hair, still smelling like you.  Now, while your life is still perfect.