"...and though she be but little she is fierce."
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Finally donating all my pre-pregnancy size 0 and 00 pants because LET’S GET REAL
When I was a little girl, misbehavior was not tolerated. That meant no raising my voice. No fidgeting. No horseplay. To this day I remain ridiculously soft-spoken. I have to make a conscious effort to speak at a level where I can be heard.
This isn’t about blame or reproach. This is about cause and effect.
My child is a wild child. He likes to run. He likes to approach strangers and shout at them in gibberish. He is insanely fidgety. He likes to explore and ask questions and wants to touch everything.
And I find myself growing increasingly anxious in public.
Yesterday he approached a little girl and said, “Hi. How you doing.” They played together in the middle of the grocery aisle. They got down on the floor and tried to do splits. Apparently the little girl was in gymnastics, I don’t know.
The more they laughed and played, the more my anxiety level went through the roof. I had to stop and ask myself: is this misbehavior or is this just a kid being a kid? I had to stop and remind myself that no one is throwing my parenting skills into question just because my child isn’t a perfect little soldier who falls in line at the sound of my voice. There is nothing wrong with being seen and heard. There is nothing wrong with being a little wild.
Ken says I treat him like a time bomb in public. It’s maddening, the panic I feel. It’s impossible to remember, but I keep reminding myself:
He is not me. I am not them.
1. It’s been so long since I take care of my eyebrows. They’re like two caterpillars at this point. One day I’m going to wake up and find twin cocoons on my forehead. But not the good kind that help the old people feel young again and like to hang out in swimming pools. My eyebrows are going to turn into butterflies and fly away.
2. I dropped kiddo off for his very first day at school today. No tears. From any of the parties involved.
3. Kiddo’s school is awesome. They’re learning all about farm stuff this month. They’re MAKING BUTTER. They’re making graphs. They’re singing moo cow songs.
5. For real though, it’s Friday.
Me: Do you want to go get lunch?
Me: Do you want to go look at fish?
Me: Do you want to go see books?
Me: Okay where do you want to go?
B: Wanta go to Tahget.
Me: *wipes tear*
B: More pizza.
Me: There’s no more you ate it all.
B: I wanna a more pizza.
Me: You ate it all, babe.
B: I wanna more.
Me: Listen, you ate all the pizza. There is no more pizza. Zero pizza. It’s all gone.
B: More pizza.
I’ve been carrying myself like an apology lately, self-effacing and shy.
It exhausts me.
I’m dying to throw on a miniskirt. I’m dying to feel beautiful. I want to look people dead in the eye without feeling like I’m lessening them by doing so.
Got all psyched and set for kiddo’s first day only to get a message that school was canceled because the teacher slipped on ice while walking her dog and injured her leg.
Mark it. Go ahead, mark it. This is the moment I join in with everyone else who’s griping about winter.
The kiddo starts school tomorrow. I have no idea how I have enough room in my five foot frame for both crushing sorrow and ecstatic hand-clapping joy.
I’m dropping him off and then working for two hours and then picking him up again. But those two hours, man. Those two hours!!
Even if I do have to spend them writing an article about ultrasonic cleaners while wiping away sad and happy tears.