The fallen angel?

The world we inhabit is gritty and that lovely light that makes all the flaws go away is usually conspicuously absent However, occasionally the light shifts and we get a break (the proverbial sunglasses, if you will). I stumbled upon this today, and it made me smile and instantly love the girl.



And for perspective...

She's asleep. That's not her house, though. And there was no ladder nearby. She's wearing a wedding dress, and under her head there was a teddy bear with a Tiffany's box inside, containing a ring. And the real details* of the story are nothing glamourous, just sad. But this girl seems almost magical. It's in the drape of the dress, the peaceful expression on her face...you can draw so many conclusions about what is going on here. And that the entire time all these people were staring, taking pictures, getting her down, she was completely oblivious. It was only when they tried to take her teddy bear that she began to cry out. But she calmed down again when they gave it back.

Maybe it's strange, but this picture (avec or sans back story, I haven't decided) just made my light a little softer.

*The real details: the cops contacted Tiffany's, who ran the serial number on the ring (yes, all diamonds from DeBeers have a serial number laser-cut into them - who knew?) and found the buyer. He said that yes, he had purchased the diamond and even proposed to the girl in question, but that he had broken the engagement due to the girl's refusal to take her medication for bipolar disorder.

Yeah, she's three now.

Me: Ok! We're running late, so why don't you go ahead and put on your orange sandals while Mommy looks for her other earring?


LPT: Um..how about NO, Mommy?

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Me: I'll see you later sweetheart, I have to go to work now.


LPT: Why?


Me: [some brilliant reason I cannot remember right now]


LPT: Why?

This conversation went on for SEVEN whys. I fear that eventually I'll get to something like "Because you're a girl," or something equally final and declarative, and will have zero response for the rapidly following "Why?"

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LPT: Mommy, I'm hungry. I want a popsicle. [time: 7:46 a.m.]


Me: I'll fix you a kiwi and some toast and them you can have a popsicle if you still want one.


LPT: [drama!] Don't say NO, Mama! I want a popsicle! Say you're sorry for saying no to me.

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You know, I thought I had her going on a fairly polite track before. Oy.

Aargh. Have you ever had one of those days where you would like to...ah, nevermind. Completely counter-productive (and possibly downright detrimental) to bitch about it here. I'll save it for some poor sap on the telephone.

In the meantime, I have subscribed to a blog* called Parent Hacks and there was a post by MeMo's Mama today that just struck a chord. I know the post is aimed at the ankle-biter set, but hey - we could all use some nutrition like this. I shall repost the recipe (did I mention it was a recipe? I didn't? Well, it's a recipe.) here, in the interest of being lazy.

The Hunger Strike Smoothie

Get out your blender and don’t even bother measuring.

[EMBRACE THE LAZINESS!!! -note from me]

Just toss in all things good for babies and kids, and set to whirl.

Here are a few suggestions (bearing in mind you’ve already tested these foods

with your kid and are sure they are not allergic to anything listed below):

Fresh or frozen organic blueberries, strawberries,

raspberries, schnozberries, etc : Antioxidants, fiber and Vitamin C

Fresh, organic spinach leaves

(Yes, spinach! The taste is so mild, they’ll never know it’s in there!): Fiber, calcium, folate and iron

An avocado: “Good fat” and Vitamins K and E

A banana (maybe just half): Vitamin C, potassium, and B6

Plain yogurt: Calcium and protein

Brown rice: Selenium, manganese and protein

Fresh or frozen peas: Protein, Vitamin A, niacin

Fresh or frozen peaches, pears and/or mangoes: Vitamin C

You may need to add a bit of water, breast milk, formula or whole milk (kids over one year), if your blender has a tough time cutting through all of this wholesome goodness. Also, when it comes to ingredients, organic is best to avoid harmful pesticides, particularly with spinach and berries, which grow close to the ground. All produce should be thoroughly washed for at least 30 seconds under cool water.

Sounds like a plan to me. And maybe, just maybe, when LPT is yelling that she doesn't want to eat anything but Popsicles and Cheezits (get your own damn box) I could entice her with a "milkshake" - wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

*Magazine subscriptions have just gotten too expensive, and I'm not just talking about moolah. So very wasteful to receive a hulking mass of bound paper in addition to all the other junk mail I get every day without fail. (honestly, how many coupons for Martinizing does one need? I think I'm set for life.) So I have decided to subscribe to blogs, using the wonderful Google Reader. Everything new arrives on my homepage as it is written, and there are no subscription cards falling in my lap. And really, there is some SPIFFY stuff out there. Look to the right and check it out.

apotheosis

apotheosis: n. the epitome, quintessence

A Day in the Life of D
When D left my office today, he took LPT to my mother's house because she had requested to take a nap there. As he is driving through the neighborhood, he pulls up to a three-way stop at the same time as a cop. He decides to let the cop go ahead, but the cop does nothing. So D continues, and the cop proceeds to follow him. All the way to my mother's house. When D pulls into the driveway, the cop turns on his lights and siren and blocks the driveway. At this very moment, my stepfather and a dear old friend visiting from out-of-town pull up. My stepfather is irritated, because he can't get into his driveway. He (pointedly) asks the cop what he hell is going on, and the cop responds that the tags on that silver car there are expired.
[Now, D had been pulled over and given a warning about 4 days ago for the exact same reason. The car is registered, but D lost the sticker. We're paid up, just not verifiable visually.]
The cop walks up to D (who is trying to calm my mother and get LPT out of the car) and says "Sir, your tags are expired." D is pretty pissed at this point, and lays out all the information. The cop says, "Well, sir, it's almost 2008, so you need to fix this." And my lovely husband responds, "No, it's July! 2008 is 6 months away! My birthday is this month, so I need to renew my registration anyway! It will get done." Then the cop starts looking in our car. "Was that child riding in the car seat?" D rolls his eyes. "Yes, of course she was." Then the cop looks at the house and says, "Sir, is this your house? Do you live here?" I think this was probably what put D over the edge (and ironically, what probably saved him a citation) and he says, "No, sir, I don't live here. This would be my mother-in-law's house. That's her, right there, and that's my wife's stepfather, that's his friend from Kansas City, and that's my daughter. Anything else?"
I guess the cop thought that D was in enough trouble already.

The solo shower: a distant memory?

Every morning I wake up to the soft light coming through my window and I look over to see (usually) LPT & D snuggled up together, both softly snoring. It's adorable. So I sneak out of the room, taking care to NOT MOVE ANYTHING on the bed, lest I wake the sleeping Midget. If I make it to the hallway with no creaking floorboards or door hinges, it's a miracle. I try my hardest every single day to take a shower BY MYSELF. And I don't mean that suddenly D is likely to pop around the corner and jump in with me (like he did right after we got ourselves hitched). That could be enjoyable. Well, no, not really. My morning shower is strictly for cleaning purposes, and frankly, I'm all about doing that alone. Anyway, without fail, as soon as I am in th ebuff and stepping into the shower, I can hear over my morning news and the running water the faint pitter patter of little feet. LPT bounds into the bathroom, and she usually strips down and tries to get into the shower with me. Now, I love my daughter, but I dislike this for two reasons: (1) she's short, and she's a punk about the shower head. It has to be at her level AT ALL TIMES and if I take it to do something completely outrageous (like rinsing my hair!?!?) she gets very upset with me. (2) She's almost three, and she's becoming...curious. I've been (almost painfully) modest for as long as I can remember, so I'm not the best at fielding questions (that come from a 3-year-old) pertaining to my nether-regions. In short, she turns my showers into little stress-fests during which soap and shampoo are in my eyes while she is squinting (and horror of horrors, poking) asking, "What's that, Mama?"
No me gusta.
All right. That is one intro to the incident I want to tell about. The other is that we are potty training something fierce. She's got Dora underpanties, Elmo underpanties, and Curious George underpanties. And one special underpanties-and-camisole set with a BIG Dora on the top. We're doing underpanties (and a thousand mini-loads of laundry) during the day, and [Dora] pull-ups at night. The reward system consists of glittery star stickers, after LPT was thoroughly unimpressed with a candy reward.
The other day I was in the shower, hair freshly lathered with my special feel-good (read: expensive-ish) shampoo, and (!) LPT comes in, claiming a desperate need to wash her sticky hands. I told her to go ahead. Then she said something that did not fit at all with the context of her request.
"Mama, I don't want to step in it!"
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and pulled back the curtain. I wasn't quite sure what to expect, exactly; I had not heard anything break, and I knew that since I had been in there by myself she had not had the opportunity to come in and squirt shower gel all over the floor. Standing there, with the Dora pull-up around her ankles, was Lil' Puddin' Tater. I immediately noticed the smear of what appeared to be poo on her knee. She pointed to the floor and repeated her desire not to step in whatever "it" was. I looked, and lo and behold: the contents of the poopy pull-up had exited the when she went to take it off, rolled across the floor, and landed somewhat between LPT and the shower. I was speechless. And soapy. So against all better judgement involving hygiene (and I just know that no one will ever want to come over to my house again) I told her to GENTLY take off the pull-up and get her little behind in the shower. Yes, I left the poo. And lordy, mercy: that child was filthy. I've never seen so much auxillary poo in my life, and the tub was streaked from where her little legs were too short to clear it completely. After the shower, I picked up the poo. For those of you rolling your eyes, I do not have a dog. I do not have a cat. I own no member of the rodent family. I am unaccustomed to cleaning up poo from any area besides a bottom, and the diapers usually make me gag a little. This was wretched work. LPT was fascinated. "Is that poopy, Mama? I shouldn't touch it?"
My only retribution is that I can save this post and show it to all her friends when she is about 12 or so (that's when the parent-behavior-mortification stuff sets in, right?).

the most self-obsessed post ever

In the interest of retaining my sanity, I have learned that it's just best (for me, anyway) to not look back too often. I find it difficult to look back on good times with more fondness than envy, even though I know that I would not trade the present for the past, and I am grateful and happy for where I am.
Ok. Too abstract and poetic? Fine.
My daughter is fascinated with her birth. She has become quite the diverse little individual, wearing my shoes and jewelry around the house (girly mode), playing "mommy" to any number of stuffed animals, inanimate objects, and of course, baby dolls (maternal mode), shunning all clothing for days on end (exhibitionist) and feeding cattle with an uncle, completely oblivious to the mud, flies, stink, and the hairy eyeball that only cows can give(tomboy mode). So lately, the maternal mode has been pulling double shifts and she wants to know all about how she got here. So I tell her about how she used to get hiccups in my tummy, and how she kicked and danced, and how she didn't want to come out but she was getting to big so she had to anyway. We talk about how she hated her first bath, liked having her hair washed, and then (her favorite part) how I held her and she looked up at me. As a result of all this talk, she obviously wants to see pictures of herself during that time. She's seen the ultrasound and the hospital pictures (so tiny! so red!) and all the pictures chronicling her evolution into this absolutely fantastic little person she is today. The thing is, I can't remember about half of it. Literally. She'll be three in about 12 days, and I can't remember approximately 18 months of her life.
I dislike looking back at my daughter's early days (months? years? whatever.) because I feel wretched that I was so miserable to have this beautiful girl. (due to PPD; she hadn't done anything to offend me, like vote republican or anything.) And as for looking back on my life before LPT, I just feel sad because I know I was so much different then, and I think maybe I liked myself a bit more.
Lastly, we have relationships. Looking back on silly, youthful (read: completely retarded) relationships is somewhat fun, because I can laugh about it (especially with a couple of friends and an adult beverage. or two.) but then there are those periods of time (or just those people) who will always make you pause. And I'm not talking about specific persons here, because I know for a fact that everyone has them. But it's somehow so much more bitter than sweet when I stumble upon that box when looking for something in the basement, the one with all the letters and photos associated with every boy (or girl, as the case may be) who really made your heart flutter and who didn't completely piss you off when it was over. Somehow, looking at all that stuff just makes me ache a little more. [Truthfully (since I know you won't tell anyone, right?) a part of me wants to be reassured that I'm somewhere in a box of stuff that will cause similar reaction(s). The negative part isn't necessary; I'd settle for the "look back with fondness..." blah blah blah.] It's the whole "What if?" path, a completely pointless trail that usually results in heavy drinking if you take it too far for too long.
And this is not to imply that I am unhappy, or that things totally suck at the house with the blue door. I just had an encounter that sent me, unarmed and unprepared, down memory lane. Tell me someone else has been there. And has wanted to leave upon arrival.