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Kids Growing

Kids

The fear I see in my future

March 8, 2016

My new goddess crush Glennon says we have to face our pain. That’s tough talk for a gal who likes to push that ish all the way down under a box of Samoas and Bota box of moscato. We have to take that pain, she says, drink it in and let it transform us into wiser, stronger, better human beings. In that spirit, I’ll share my – not so surprising – fear here. I live in constant, paralyzing, gut-twisting horror of the year 2032. Why, you ask.

In the year 2032, my house will be empty. My chicks will be grownups starting to make their mark. The world will be bigger for them. They will be hitting their stride and scared out of their minds and settling into big loves that spark the biggest change in their lives.

In the year 2032 I’ll live with a deafening silence. The tiny heels I hear coming through the ceiling now, as they sail like superheroes off their bed will stop. There will be no more tip toes taking their 10 tiny steps down the hallway after a scary dream. The quarrels, the cries, the laughter, the make believe, will all be placed on a shelf, only to be brought down on holidays and Sunday dinners.

In the year 2032, each mess will be my own. New carpet will erase the purple nail polish stains. No one will steal my tape to decorate for their baby doll’s birthday party or spend hours cutting paper into tiny pieces, just because it’s pretty. My measuring cups and tupperware will stay compliantly in the drawers. The Nutella fingerprints along the countertop will just be yesterday’s sticky nuisance. No more smears from Sloppy Joan blowing raspberries on the chilled window pane, or splash marks around the garden tub.

Glitter

In the year 2032, my sinks will be clean. The globs and streaks of blue sparkly toothpaste will be wiped away. I’ll have plenty of hot water. I’ll fill my bathtub to the top with steaming suds and soak to my heart’s content with no little visitors.

In the year 2032, my schedule will clear. I will long for someone to corral or cuddle or correct. I’ll miss the rushed braids and ponytails on the way out the door and tricky double knots. I’ll think fondly of tiny whispering pleas for donuts in my sleepy face on a Sunday morning and imagine the feel of their soft tiny hands folded in mine as I lead them down the trail.

But while my fears and psychosomatic aches fill these walls and crowd me in my bed, a dear friend brought a sobering bright spot. My friend Jackie, being the coolest mom on the block like she is, got her oldest daughter tickets to Hoodie Allen for Christmas. This is the only woman I know who could both sacrifice and magnify her street cred in the same evening. Dubbed “Mama Bear” by some of the young concertgoers, Jackie found herself an active participant and voyeur as her teenager came alive under a constellation of stage lights in a sea of her peers. Crawling out of her best-parent-ever high, she sent this text and I felt a tiny light flicker inside me …

Jac

So Says Sloppy Joan

Sentimental for Sloppy Joan

November 5, 2015
I was sitting at work when the phone rang.
“OK, I need you to talk me down off the ledge,” my friend said. “Is it crazy that I’m  heartbroken about getting rid of my baby swing?”
“No, absolutely not,” I quickly answered.
“I just stood there and – I’m gonna cry again right now – I played the bird sounds on it, you know, and I sobbed.”
“Totally normal.” I assured her.

“OK, I’ll let you get back to work. I’m just … emotional I guess.”

Just a month ago, I literally sprinted out to the garage, not allowing enough time for thoughts to permeate, put the bent and battered oscillating chair down by the trash bin, wiped my nose and told Hank I didn’t want to talk about it … like ever. There’s no telling when it will strike and what seemingly meaningless object will trigger the catastrophic hormonal mommy meltdown, but we’ve all sat and played the birds at some point.

In the spirit of forbidding our children to grow up, I want to freeze a few memories in place here. On Monday, my baby was 17 months old. She’s popping new teeth two at a time and repeating words and being just generally awesome. Here, for no other reason other than to fill my digital baby book and personal posterity, is an incomplete list of reasons I can’t get enough of this freaking kid.
15 Reasons to Love Sloppy Joan 

1. She had 4 teeth, like, forever.

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2. Sometimes we play this fun little game where she pulls on my ponytail and as soon as I say, “No!” she plops her head down like she wasn’t there and has no clue what I’m referring to.  Then does it again. It really hurts, I’m not going to lie, but the fact that she plays it off makes her too cool for me to care. I can’t even be mad.

3. She picks up every bite of food with her thumb and forefinger, as if each morsel deserves her very judicious and meticulous scrutiny before being shoved into her mouth for consumption. (Even when she’s dozing off.)

4. She’s a body slammer, this kid. One of her favorite things is to start from across the room and run, arms outstretched, until she plows into you. This also ties up with the fact that she always thinks you’re chasing her. If you’re coming up within 5 feet from her back, you just opted in to her assumed game of chase. Prepare for her to trot and giggle away while peeking over her shoulder in your direction. Trust me, you’ll love it.

5. After a seemingly endless phase where everything was, “this,” she’s transformed into a petite little parrot, repeating the words that filter through her tiny ears and register enough to come tentatively from her budding voice. If we were awarding points for articulation, she’d earn the highest marks for, “Mama!” which she now shouts from her crib upon waking on Saturday mornings in a demanding, almost disgruntled tone that I just adore for some reason. (What does that say about me?)

6. Her whale spout is everything.
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7. She tootles around with her hands tucked behind her back. You know, like your teacher did while you were taking a test in grade school. It’s so cute, you guys, I just can’t describe it in a way that will do it justice. I also can’t seem to unholster my cell fast enough to capture it, so you’re gonna have to trust me on this one.

8. When I pull her out of the tub, I can’t get a towel around her before she dives into my lap to snuggle up, soaking wet. It always makes me feel like I peed my pants in the most endearing fashion possible.

9. She sits in her little hiking backpack so nicely and urges me to, “Go, go, go … Go, go, go …”
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10. She loves it when I gently tickle her skin, especially on her face. Homegirl drops from a dead sprint to a puddle when I graze her cheek. Mouth open. Drool. It’s beautiful.
11. She sniffs out GoGo Squeezes like a bloodhound. If the pantry door is cracked, she’s pulling out a tasty pouch and it makes her hangry mama so proud.
12. She learned to dance. Moves include: fast feet, spins and falls.

13. I’ve never seen anyone as flexible as this baby. It’s a Cirque du Soleil every day up in this house, and it equally impresses and terrifies me.

14. The tickle she gets from taking one arm out of her shirt.
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15. Her belly laughs. If a sound could be a cure for the hurt in the world, it would be this one.

Thank you for humoring me. Now let’s all go smell an old burp cloth soaked in Johnson’s baby wash and cry, k?