Screaming first breaths and counting tiny toes
10 is my favorite number
“Line up on your number, children,” first day of school
10 is my favorite number
Toeing the line between tom-girl and heels
10 is my favorite number
“Ugh mom, no one else has a curfew on the weekends!”
10 is my favorite number
Tear of joy
Run, twirl
Stop and think
Rinse and repeat
From beginning to end
My little girl forever
But for now,
10 is my favorite number
Everywhere.
Baby et al. sees this sign and translates it as, “a mommy can have a purse, but daddy’s can have purses too.”
Um baby, the pc term is messenger bag, but whatevs.
Also I feel the need to mention that hubby et al. doesn’t carry a messenger bag…although there’s nothing wrong with them!
I think Mother Nature is trying to say something to President Trump
or to next President Pence.
I can say these things because I am a republican.
The innocence of childhood struck me this morning as my 4 year old invaded my potty time. This is what she saw:
And without hesitation, she declared, gasp…”MOMMY! A mouse lost its sock!”
Because her mind is free from stress and worry and fear. And she lives a life of imagination and wonder….as all children should.
I write about grief so much it annoys me….but here we go again!
I hit a milestone yesterday. It was the first time since the passing of my father, that my heart broke for someone else. You know, there is something about the bond between a daddy and a daughter and I was devastated when I lost my dad in my 30’s. But yesterday, a longtime friend of Sissey et al. lost her father and she’s 10.
I cannot fathom not having him there at my graduations, my wedding, the births of my children (in the waiting room). But this larger than life father now has the best seat in the house, but it’s not the same.
This isn’t the way it should be. There are two young, school aged children who have to begin a long, complicated, and confusing grieving process that no child should ever have to endure. And so my heart breaks for them.
Today I was shopping on the left. But two years ago I was shopping on the right.
I used our wedding china for the first time that Father’s Day. I don’t know what prompted me to do that but for some oddball reason I’m so glad I did. As if that Father’s Day meal served on wedding china was my closure I didn’t get.
I only had a month left with him that Father’s Day and no one knew. Not even him. I was so in consolable during his services that I think all people knew what to say to me was, “I guess you really just never know.” God I got sick of hearing it. Because, I lived my moment with that damn china.
You did this to her. This innocent (now) 10 year old who saw you as 9 foot tall and bullet proof sat out in the car while her mommy found your body.
The darkness that follows grief is scary and vast….so very vast. The very first thing that hit me was, “I can’t fix him. I’m a nurse and I’ve saved so many. But I can’t now.”
It is final. That’s what hurts. It can’t be changed no matter how bad I want to change it, no matter how hard I work, or beg, or cry, or pay. I can’t change it.
He’s gone. Almost 3 years now and it does get better. Believe me, this IS better.
😐 Look. I get it. Not a lot of women go into clay animation or cgi, but the guy rolling the small balls of dough for this chics boobs had to have seen enough sweater meat to know that God doesn’t grow perfectly round circles on any carbon based creature.
“Hey Roy, roll out a couple of tata’s for Robbie’s love interest.” (Full disclosure, I wasn’t watching the cartoon until I glanced up and saw this artistic catastrophe.)
“Are you sure we can’t just give her some eyelashes and maybe tint her lips a little more to give her a feminine hint?”
“Nope. She needs boobs. Full grown, lady boobs. Like fully engorged, breastfeeding boobs. And since you mentioned eyes, go ahead and make them as big as her already comically large eyes.”
Unpausing the show now, hoping to catch a peek of Robbie’s fully erect male genitalia….stay tuned.
If I slipped a Roomba onto my 10yo’s wish list? I mean, we like found a mouse and it’s a bitch to clean up after a toddler who self feeds like a blind spider monkey in a bouncy house.
Does a 3 year old get a time out for calling her sister despicable? Or does she get a round of applause…….
