Y’all know I love making my terrible stick figure drawings.
Only writing a post in my car could keep me from adding stick figures to certain posts. Like yesterday’s, “Bullshit/No bullshit.“
In fifteen minutes, I have illustrated that post with my … crappiest … drawings to date.
It’s common to come across big ol’ piles of B.S. in day to day life. I do this often.
I have typically responded with great care and sensibility. Read more…
There’s a conversation that happens more than any other around my house.
“Mommy, can I have a bubble maker/new game/that toy I just saw on TV?” my four-year-old son, Li’l D, will ask.
“How about now?” he’ll usually ask about two minutes later.
“Asked and answered. You’re not going to get a different answer today.” Sometimes this deters him. Other times, it takes a few more rounds for him to understand there’s no way “no” is going to become “yes.”
Li’l D recently became a fan of Ghostbusters. He became such a fan, actually, that he decided he needed his own costume. My husband set out to make one for each of them.
When my four-year-old son does well, he earns a star.
When he does not so well, he earns a strike. One strike negates one star.
Stars don’t always have to be traded for goods, but when they are, they have a value of a quarter apiece.
Li’l D has been saving stars for a Captain America shield, which he was able to buy Saturday. I was initially excited, but already sick of the thing after an hour of its loud clicking.
He ignored every request to stop being noisy with it en route to Long Beach Comic Expo on Sunday. I fought a powerful urge to chuck it out the car window.
And yet, when Li’l D met one Captain America at the Expo and showed off his own special shield, its clicks ceased to bother me even a little.
The magic of that meeting was worth so much more than 72 stars.
Dear Li’l D,
Your face is inches from my own as I peck this out with one finger. Your snores are sweet and steady, music of unparalleled beauty to my mama ears.
Today I picked you up early from preschool. You were excited to see me, and even more excited to learn we’d be stopping for ice cream shakes. You saw my smiles, which were real, but didn’t see the also-real tears that preceded them.
I am so excited to meet your little sister or brother sometime in the next couple of weeks. Remembering my awe meeting you, I can’t believe I’ll get the chance to feel such wonder a second time. How can that be right? Even once seemed too precious and rare a thing to be true.
I know it will be wonderful, but I’m scared, too. For four and a half years, you have been my sunshine. You have lit up every part of my life with your compassion, mischievousness, curiosity and forgiveness.
Having known the joy of your particular light, it’s hard to wrap my mind around the idea of having two sunshines. Your auntie Emily says two suns worked for Tatooine, a sentiment that makes me smile. I think it will make you smile someday, too.
Even so, I have grown accustomed to my one beautiful lifelight: you. I know I’ll be overjoyed when that second sun hits my sky. I’ll learn to live with that extra light and not be blinded by it.
But now, right now, I listen to you snore and hopeprayentreat that you know my heart is turned equally toward you even when my eyes and hands are turned toward my second sun. Read more…
“You’ve got a few hairs going on there,” Anthony, my then-fiancee, pointed out while peering at my chin.
“Just a few? Well, that’s better than it could be, then!”
Our son joined in the conversation, asking, “Why does Mommy have hairs?”
“Well, son, when women have babies, their hormones change. So your mom had a baby and she started growing hair where she didn’t have it before . . .”
This statement caused me burst in to laughter then, and my shoulders are shaking again recalling it now.
“You’re so cute,” I told Anthony. “See, ’cause I’ve always had that hair. I just don’t have as much time to take care of it now that I’m a mom.”
This revelation seemed to surprise him, so I added that I’ve always been hairy. Even when I was a teen, my mom used to inspect my face, shaking her head and saying, “All that hair! It looks like you took after your dad’s side of the family.”
Based on my mom’s facial hair reflections, I find it eminently possible some of my forebears were gorillas. We’ve got the hair. We share prominent foreheads and chins. We are nothing if not sturdy.
Yes, my mom’s marital choices have left me with a legacy of hairiness. I’m more or less okay with it, and with people knowing about it, as long as they can’t actually see it with their own eyes. Or much of it, in any case. Read more…