I won’t list them out for you (trying to keep some level of pride here) but lately? I’m not just off balance, I’m off kilter, off skilter and hilter. I’m a loose hinge. I’m a leaning Christmas Tree. I’m.. well, you get it.
My Grandfather’s sister, Marcella, lives in San Antonio. I grew up in Houston so we’d go there every so often and Uncle Charles would tell us about the pecan trees in his backyard and Aunt Marcy would make us pecan pie and we’d eat brisket and mash potatoes. It was always cooler in San Antonio than when we left Houston and the adults would talk about humidity while my sister and I did cartwheel and handstands in the yard. I have this memory etched in my brain from a variety of visits spanning years and years. It was always the same.
After we moved to the North West, Aunt Marcy still sent us birthday cards, promptly, starting in 1989. There are a few things you can count on in life. Death, Taxes, and your birthday card from Aunt Marcy. She is timely, she never ever forgets, and there is never any money or a gift card in it. It’s a card. That’s it. Every year. And I love it.
It’s really obvious that my daughter is her father’s kid. I knew it from the 20 week ultrasound where we got a profile shot and realized she had her daddy’s pug nose. (Incedentally, this did not keep me from having dreams that she was a black baby four feet long when I birthed her.) The first thing we noticed when we saw her, just minutes old, was her olive skin tone and perfectly shaped mouth, all thanks to Daddy. She was perfect. She was everything you’d see if you pictured Mr. Flinger as a little girl. With hair.
This bothered me somewhat as all I got to contribute was a large scar on my belly, some wicked post partum depression and butt dimples. Yes, I have two dimples above my ass and now, so does my only child. I’m so proud to pass that on.
I have a series of before and after photos I thought I’d share. You may want to sit down and start drinking. It could get ugly.
First, I’ll start with the easy one. Here we have the previous “toy storage solution” since we moved in to the new condo and delegated the toy chest for shoes. (don’t ask) Yes, we delegated the storage bin formerly known as “toy box” to dirty ol’ shoes. It’s how we roll.
When LB was three weeks old, I decided she would be a “go baby.” I’m not one to be happy at home for very long and the thought of staying in the house with this new person who cried and pooped and ate all the time made me roll my eyes constantly and weep in to piles of tissue. I needed out and she was going to go with me.
We purchased a garbage can today. [I’m sorry, did you just roll your eyes and mutter, “that is not blog worthy”? You are *obviously* not aware what this garbage can means to me. Or what it took to get it. Or why we went two and a half months without one at all.]
It’s all because of the mister. [And love squabbles are always blog worthy. :: eye roll :: ]*
Since the toddler turned two, life has been… Interesting? No… um.. Wild? Yes, but.. Hell? YES! Hell.
She is coming in to her own. She MUST be the one to put on her shoes. She WILL be the one to not drink out of her straw, but rather open the lid and dump the precious expensive gold that is “Organic Valley Milk” on to her lap/carseat/books. She will refuse to walk when you ask her to, she’ll slump, boneless, when prompted to get in to the car and she’ll scream for hours in her crib instead of relaxing like Mommy could do if she would only SHUT UP for an hour or two. I’m just sayin’.