Not even a little bit.
Which is why a part of me died inside today when a lady walked up to me at a work luncheon, rubbed my tummy & said, “Oh, you’re…!!” Mortified & beat red, I said, “Oh, no!! No, of course not!”
I expected her to pull back & shrink away in defeat.
Until she said, “No? Really??”
THEN A HOLE IN THE FLOOR OPENED UP & SWALLOWED ME.
(oh, wait. that didn’t happen. i just wish it had.)
Except I DO look knocked up today. Frickin’ 1950′s style dresses with twirl skirts. I quit you.
Without a doubt, you have heard the breaking news rocking America & possibly beyond – Casey Anthony, acquitted of murdering her little girl.
We could sit & argue for hours over whether or not Casey murdered her little girl. We could rip apart her life & choices & the jury & defending attorneys, wondering how they all sleep at night. If you follow me on Twitter, you’re aware of my personal opinion of the verdict, complete with my middle finger raised in the air.
What breaks my heart is not the lack of perceived ”justice,” but the little girl who lost her life. The stories of chloroform & partying & imaginary nannies. The little girl who’s momma did not report her missing for an entire month. Casey Anthony, where the fuck were you?
This is a crazy, insane world we live in & we are charged as safe havens to the children we bring into this world. Casey Anthony, it was YOUR JOB to protect that little girl, to be her stronghold against abuse. It was YOUR JOB to hold that little girl’s heart & faith. The child that I birthed into this world with pain & suffering, not so much younger than Caylee at the time of her murder - may I do everything in my power to protect him. May my little boy view me as someone who knows the answers, who catches him with sure arms when he takes his first leap into the pool, who rocks him to sleep after a hard day. May he always find comfort in both my arms & heart, knowing that with every fiber in my body, my purpose is to protect him.
I know there will come a day when Harrison grows apart & takes on the world by himself. I hope that with enough love & lessons from his parents, he will be brave & strong. But not today, when he is so little that his legs still curl up in my lap, his button nose burried into my shoulder. Today, I will rock my little boy, holding him close. Reminding him that in this storm of life, Momma is his safe haven.
Our local park put on a hunt this past Saturday & we bundled up against the 50 degree winds & set off. A few seconds late, we were just passing the baby over the rock wall when the siren blew for the “3 years & under” hunt to begin. I set Harry on the ground, handed Nate the camera, & scanned the grass for eggs.
They were gone.
All of them. Within moments of the siren blowing.
I looked over at Nate & he shrugged. Harrison, of course, had no idea what was going on or what he was supposed to do standing in that field, but I took visual inventory of the older ankle-biters to my left & right. One kid stood proudly over TWO full baskets of eggs. Two little girls shrieked with their parents over full baskets. One child was suspiciously tall & gangly to qualify as “three” & I’m pretty sure it was like 2008 when the Chinese tried to say that all of their gymnasts were over the age of 16.
But still, the parents looked on with beaming pride, paying no attention to the many children (not just my own) that sat with no eggs.
So is that it? Are parents just selfish pricks that think two over-flowing Easter baskets represents their precocious toddler offspring & thus, their superior parenting? Is it divide & conquer & take-no-prisoners when it comes to Easter Egg Domination? Survival of the fittest? Maybe we’re the ones doing our son a disservice by not taking egg hunts seriously. Nate jabbed that next year, we suit Harrison up in camo gear, arrive 2 hours early for the first spot in line, & go all Sue Sylvester with a bullhorn. Eye of the tiger, baby.
Or is it more of that deep-rooted laziness that our generation of parents is labeled with so often? In a few years, if Harry walked up to me proudly sporting a full basket while other children sadly had none, I hope I would look him in the eye & say, “Good job hunting eggs! Now pick out five & give the rest to the other children.” Yeah, it’s probably going to mean a meltdown at some point when he realizes he can’t keep the candy & toys. Which means public humiliation as I drag a screaming toddler back to the car. But there’s a powerful lesson to be taught & it’s my job to teach, no matter how inconvenient it may seem over something as trivial as an egg hunt.
In case you didn’t get the memo, Christmas is coming.
In six weeks, we will lie to our kids & tell them a fat man squeezes his ass into the house & leaves them toys for being “good,” but don’t worry, there’s totally nothing skeevy about it.
But on the plus side…IT’S CHRISTMAS. Stockings & twinkle lights & red cups at Starbucks & carols on the radio.
I am a huge dork for Christmas.
(yes, you can take out the “for Christmas” if you like.)
Every year, Nate & I decorate our tree in the candlelight with a glass of champagne & Christmas music playing softly. It’s one of my favorite traditions that we made on our own as a married couple. Since I came from a family full of traditions & he came from no traditions, it has really been fun to create our own magic.
But after a brief run-in with the mall yesterday, there is one holiday staple that I am officially giving the middle finger to – SHOPPING.
Yesterday, I watched five cars battle over one tiny space that was five feet away from the front door rather than whip around the back to the twenty open spaces available. & in this battle, they held up traffic for five minutes while horns blared & I was out of sweet tea & patience. I could go into AMERICA, THIS & THE BIG MAC ARE WHY YOU ARE FAT, but that’s honestly another post for another time & right now, I’m just still in disgusted awe that grown ass people were having a stand-off over the principal of the front parking space.
After I snagged a space in the back & walked the ten extra steps to the front door, I stopped inside Best Buy to see if I could actually buy a plain Beauty & the Beast DVD without shelling it out for the ultra-glittery Blue Ray + DVD combo pack that is so unnecessary. (edited: regular dvd available nov. 23rd!) The place was so jam-packed that I could barely breathe & I kept wondering why the hell the kids in there weren’t bent over 4th period English until I realized, duh, it was Veteran’s Day. & it was just a small taste of the insanity that would occur once kids were permanently out of school for the holidays & everyone & their mom has “pink cashmere scarf” on their shopping list.
So I ducked out of there & into Old Navy where, swear to God, a five year old was screaming demands that her mother buy her jeggings. JEGGINGS. & even though I know that’s going to be me in just 4 short years, I can’t stand screaming toddlers. Or jeggings. So standing in line to buy a onesie for Harrison, dripping with sweat from the pre-holiday heat & Christmas tunes blared over the loudspeakers, I swore that it would be the last time my ass saw the mall until the second week in January.
I will be filling Christmas lists from the safety of my computer & free shipping codes this year. Too bad Amazon effed up so royally this week.
photo credit.
Or, if you want to be specific, Texts from Wednesday Night.
On Wednesday night, Nate & I headed out to see Dave Matthews Band in concert. This, my friends, was an act of love on my part. I like Dave…I really do. But I don’t love Dave & I’ve put in four out of the past six years sweating in the ampitheatre to listen to music that I only just like while trying to get over the sticker shock of $13 beers. But Nate loves Dave Matthews, & considering that I went crazy & he didn’t leave me, I figured that sitting through 3 hours of blaring loud music was the very least I could do.
Even though it was 100+ degrees outside. & then it rained on us. & we were in front of menopausal women taking the night to “let loose” with a bunch of drunk squealing, whooping, & “TAKE IT OFF, BABY!” oh, & trying to track down their daughters on the lawn. Note: If your daughter is there cutting loose & having a good time, that means STAY HOME. No doubt she changed her attire once she got there so she would be incognito when her mom decided to play drunken Where’s Waldo? for her blonde in a blue shirt offspring.
While I tried desperately to ignore them during the opening act & the $13 beer soaking down my back, I was deep in text mode:
Blair: I just got a beer dumped down my back. oh, & it rained on us. Also, I cannot convey the sheer number of douchebags walking around without shirts. FML.
It’s true. The moment the heat index hit 101 F, the popped-collar polo shirts came off. Everywhere you looked, college boys with over-jelled hair were walking around shirtless. You’d think this would be the cause of barely-un-jailbait panty-quiverring on my part but in reality, I was just waiting for someone to holler out GTL & start fist-pumping. Even though we were hundreds of miles away from the Jersey Shore.
Blair: AND the official DMB Concert Uniform for 2010 is a sundress, gladiator sandals, & Bumpit ponytail. except the chick in front of me with the fanny pack.
Did I miss the memo on Bumpits becoming cool & not just a running joke over cheesy infomercials marketed to beauty queens?! At least these girls had sense to skip the cowboy boots with sundress as a nod to 2009. Although I must say, gladiator sandals look wicked uncomfortable. & y’all, I swear – the woman in front of me was rocking the greatest fanny pack ever created. You know those really wide fashionable belts to wear around your waist? Homegirl had one. With a wee fanny pack attached to the clasp. Why, oh why, did I not get a picture?!
But ever-the-friend, Mrs. Lusher reminded me that while my night was stocked with Bumpits & rippling co-ed muscles, hers took the win on creepy:
Lushers: There’s a creeper van outside our house & someone with a flashlight in the house next door.
Blair: ewww, weird. lock your door & don’t take candy if they offer it.
Lushers: They said they’re changing locks, since it’s officially foreclosed. They could stand to have a less creepy vehicle. I’m just sayin’
Blair: & this late at night? Screams serial killer, much like my handwriting
Lushers: We’ll deadbolt all the doors. Call the police if I’m not at work in the AM
Blair: Sleep with a crowbar!
I always give the best advice.
I’m also considerate of my friends, which is why I have entered our next text-friend into witness protection.
Blair: I swear, my ass fat is sweating.
Name Withheld: ZOMB. I really have sweat problems. Like, my butt gets hot when I’m just sitting. & it sweats. True story.
Blair: Me too!! & my thighs. I need some Gold Bond or my chub rub.
side note: chub rub is not a sexual act. it is when the insides of your thighs chafe each other because they touch, which is unacceptable.
Name Withheld: ME TOOOOOOOOO!! sometimes I literally dump baby powder. When I’m dying, [my husband] pokes fun. Jerk
Blair: Nate thinks it is hilarious but I am all MY THUNDER THIGHS ARE BLISTERING.
I currently have Gold Bond on my thighs to aide their healing from Wednesday night’s marathon of sweaty skin chafing. Yum.
Blair: I wish I could send you video of the guy dancing in front of me. It’s like watching a sick worm drown.
Kacia: Ahhh! I adore awkward dancers at concerts!!! ADORE!!!! we need to get you a flip!
Blair: He’s trying to dry-hump fanny pack girl!
Oh, the awkward worm dancer. & fanny pack girl. A match made in heaven! I can just see their DMB bump-n-grind turning into a plethora of fanny-pack wearing, hand-waving, gyrating nerds running around future Dave concerts.
Maybe Harrison will be privy to that experience a few years from now.
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