As She gets older
it gets easier in some ways, not so much in others. I’ve become an accomplice of sorts to her fashion whims and hair-do designs, book choices and preferred ipod playlists. There’s lots we disagree on but much more common ground to be found when I’m not stressing about the former. She’s still small enough to hug me in public, but much too mature-for-sure to hold my hand in parking lots. Fine child, have it your way. But don’t be rolling your eyeballs when I freak out and body-slam you out of harm’s way should a car start backing up towards you.
Just warning you.
She’s rapidly changing in ways that force my hand to let go of control, otherwise I should prepare to battle her and undoubtedly die on every hill. She’s stubborn like her Mutha, that one. She’s got the huffy exhale and upwards stare down-pact way earlier than I ever did. I’m starting to believe that curse my own mother put on my unborn children might have had some actual validity to it. And all this time I thought she was boiling wart of newt and toenail of toad for a stew….
I digress. Often.
She’s becoming her own person. A smaller, dirty-blonde, tan-skinned, muscularly-legged, green-eyed version of me. With a pink ipod in one hand and The Hobbit in the other.
If she doesn’t agree with it, want it or condone it, she’ll tell you in simple terms. And this year she’s wrapped up my summer in a beautifully shiny box with a big red ribbon on top by deciding that she doesn’t want any extended visits with her bio-dad ten hours away. She’s decided that a week in September will suffice.
Oh child.
I know he loves you in the ways he can and I know you’ll always need him present in one way or another. He is, after-all, half your story and you can thank him for those long bony toes of yours. But because Cool is very important to you these days, you have no idea how honored and happy I am that summers with Mama are where’s it’s at.
I’ll try not to disappoint you with too many dorky field trips to the science center and the library. Yo.
xoxo
Just warning you.
She’s rapidly changing in ways that force my hand to let go of control, otherwise I should prepare to battle her and undoubtedly die on every hill. She’s stubborn like her Mutha, that one. She’s got the huffy exhale and upwards stare down-pact way earlier than I ever did. I’m starting to believe that curse my own mother put on my unborn children might have had some actual validity to it. And all this time I thought she was boiling wart of newt and toenail of toad for a stew….
I digress. Often.
She’s becoming her own person. A smaller, dirty-blonde, tan-skinned, muscularly-legged, green-eyed version of me. With a pink ipod in one hand and The Hobbit in the other.
If she doesn’t agree with it, want it or condone it, she’ll tell you in simple terms. And this year she’s wrapped up my summer in a beautifully shiny box with a big red ribbon on top by deciding that she doesn’t want any extended visits with her bio-dad ten hours away. She’s decided that a week in September will suffice.
Oh child.
I know he loves you in the ways he can and I know you’ll always need him present in one way or another. He is, after-all, half your story and you can thank him for those long bony toes of yours. But because Cool is very important to you these days, you have no idea how honored and happy I am that summers with Mama are where’s it’s at.
I’ll try not to disappoint you with too many dorky field trips to the science center and the library. Yo.
xoxo
My Husband